The Care and Feeding of Unmarried Men (2 page)

Let's talk about anything but that
. “Nothing's caught my fancy yet.” She cleared the lying little frog in her throat. Without the cash to rent a new condo, let alone put out a down payment to replace the one she'd been forced to sell, she hadn't bothered looking. “Lucky me to have the rooms at the spa in the meantime.”

Just something else she owed Bianca for, though she tried to pay her back by taking on odd shifts at the Kona Kai's bar. “What about you, Téa? In the last few days have you and Johnny found a place to start your lives of married bliss?”

Téa plucked the piece of paper in front of her and waved it in the air. “It's on the list. But it may have to wait until after the Superbowl.”

“Why?”

Joey piped up again in that loud, youngest-sibling voice of hers. “Because our brother-in-law-to-be's gambling syndicate is really busy during football season.”

“Shh!” Eve squeezed shut her eyes, keenly aware of Nash Cargill's looming—disapproving—presence in the back of the room. “Shh!”

“What?” Joey asked. “It's legal. Johnny pays taxes.”

“Just keep it down, Joe,” Eve said.

“Why?” their younger sister continued, without adjusting her volume. “You've never cared before that Johnny's a professional gambler.”

Eve responded from between clenched teeth. “Just humor me, okay?”

Though it was true, she'd never been a stickler for rules or other people's notions of morality. But The Preacher on the other side of the room was making her uneasy. Sighing, she stared out the window again at the stormy, dark sky. The Preacher—and that nasty little lesson in legalities that had come down on her
head a month ago. Besides, she'd started the morning feeling optimistic and didn't want the mood ruined by another episode of being looked upon as if she were a criminal. “Let's talk about what
you've
been up to, Joey.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Maybe the company had a new pasta sauce on the market. That would make a safe, banal topic.

“I've been visiting Uncle Benny in prison.”

At Eve's startled look, her younger sister's face broke into a mischievous grin, and her voice rose again. “You walked right into that one. But it's true. Once a week, I've been going to prison.”

“Shh!”

Téa was already shaking her head. “It's too late. We've really caught your big friend's attention this time.”

For just a second, Eve wanted to slide down in her seat and under the table. But then she steeled her spine, forcing herself straighter in her chair. Never in her life had she been ashamed of her family. She wasn't going to start being ashamed of them now. “So what? Who cares what he thinks?”

No one, no man, nothing was going to make Eve Caruso hide again.

Joey idly picked up the envelope she'd been playing with before and glanced down at it. “Ooops,” she said, sliding it across the table. “I found this on the front desk. It's addressed to you.”

“Strange.” Eve picked up the plain white envelope, her name handwritten on the front. Then she heard heavy bootsteps and felt a rustle of air that carried with it a fresh, masculine scent. Familiar, after last night. Her sisters' dark eyes widened, then flicked to her face.

“Mornin', ladies,” a man said.

That man.

“Morning,” Téa and Joey said together.

Eve said nothing as he walked behind her to position himself at the wall of windows to the left of their table. He stared through the glass as if fascinated by the overflowing pool and drenched patio furniture.

Her sisters stared at the man as if fascinated by him.

Eve took her own sidelong look. Dry, he wasn't any smaller than he'd been the night before. In faded jeans and a long-sleeved knit shirt, he appeared to be close to six-and-a-half-feet tall, with enough muscle for two men. Dark, shiny hair, with just a hint of a wave, needed to be cut. His profile was masculine. Arrogant. Annoying.

Her sisters were still staring.

Their reaction put Eve's nerves on edge. What was so very interesting about Nash Cargill? He'd obviously only repositioned himself nearby for improved eavesdropping.

Well, fine,
she decided. If he wanted to eavesdrop, she'd give him a front row seat. She'd make it clear he couldn't ruin her mood, her day, her sense of who she was. Summoning up years of seduction experience, she shifted on her chair to high-beam a brilliant smile in Nash Cargill's direction. “Say, would you care to join us?”

The acting gene must run in the family, because he managed to look surprised instead of smug. A good ol' boy grin broke over his face. He'd be delighted.

Eve just bet. It took only moments for him to settle in the empty seat and for her to perform the introductions. She explained to Nash that Téa and Joey were
her half sisters. She told her sisters that Nash drove monster trucks. Then she leaned toward him conspiratorially, letting him get a good look at the cleavage revealed by her V-necked top.
See 'em and weep, Cargill
. “We were just talking about our uncle Benny. He's suffering from a few…legal difficulties.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, yes.” She toyed with the envelope in her hands, sliding a fingernail under the flap to loosen the seal. There was a single business card inside. “It's really no secret,” she said, leaning close to Nash to provide another eyeful. “Our family's mobbed up.”

“Huh?”

It
was
no secret, so if he wanted to know more about her, she might as well be the one to tell him. “Our grandfather is
il capo di tutti cappi
—the boss of bosses on the West Coast.”

His country boy grin faded by a tooth or two. “You're joking.”

“Oh, you don't joke about the California Mafia.”

“Eve…” Téa said, looking pained.

Eve ignored her. Her older sister held a lingering shame and anger about who the Carusos were and what they did, but not Eve. She'd come into the family by the back door, so to speak. Without them she'd be nothing, have no one. So she didn't cast stones.

But Nash Cargill now appeared to be made of them. Through narrowed eyes, he was just watching her, his face expressionless. After that first puzzled moment, he didn't seem any more affected by the information than he'd been by the glimpses of breast she'd been flashing him.

Arrogant, annoying man.

Didn't he realize she was warning him off? She was
telling him she didn't appreciate his suspicion. That she didn't care about his disapproval.

Under the cover of the table, she reached over with her fingertips to touch his hard thigh, right below the crease of his groin. Her nails scraped against the soft denim as she wet her lips with her tongue. “Be careful,” she teased. “Now that you know we're a dangerous family, Nash.”

Don't mess with me. I'm too much woman for you
. Her nails scratched him a second time.

His heavy hand slapped down, covering hers. Holding it still against his solid muscle.

Eve jerked back to escape his touch, but he was larger, stronger than she was, and he kept her captive. Through her palm, she felt his thigh flex. Panic closed in like darkness.

“What a pretty girl. I'd never hurt you.”

She tensed for that viselike pinch on her upper arm or that throbbing pain in her upper lip. Instead, a jolt of heat buzzed up her skin all the way to her breasts, tightening her nipples.

Startled by the sensation, she jerked her arm again. He let her go this time, and her elbow shot back toward the table, knocking the envelope and the business card inside it to the floor.

Nash Cargill bent to retrieve them and Eve let him, rubbing the top of her hand and avoiding her sisters' eyes, giving herself time to camouflage how much The Preacher's touch had rattled her.

She was breathing again when he straightened, the two pieces in his fingers. He handed them over separately. The envelope first. The business card second. She glanced down as she plucked it from his callused palm. White card. The official-looking bald eagle, the
words
SECURITIES AND EXCHANGE COMMISSION
, and the other words, “Call me,” scrawled beneath the investigator's embossed name. Her heart started thrumming again, as if Nash Cargill's flesh were still pressed to hers.

Calm down, calm down,
Eve scolded herself
.
It wasn't so dire. After that single, terrifying meeting, she'd managed to avoid further contact with the SEC. This peremptory command could be avoided too. And it wasn't a bad omen, just like the unusual rain wasn't a bad omen, just like Nash himself wasn't a bad omen either.

But why then, she wondered, did all three together make her suddenly feel so certain her life was never, ever going to be the same?

I
thought you'd sworn off rescuing women?”

“This isn't ‘women,' this is my sister,” Nash said into his cell phone, stretching his feet in front of him as he stared out the third-floor window of his room at Palm Springs's Kona Kai spa. It was still raining like hell, but by midmorning other guests were wandering the grounds, past hedges and pots of flowers made only more green and colorful by the low-lying gray clouds. Some people headed for one of the several pools, and others took the path he knew led to the buildings where the actual spa services were offered. “Jemima told me she's having an all-over salt scrub and then a paraffin treatment on her hands and feet. You have any idea what she's talking about?”

“Not really,” replied Bryan Matthews, Nash's VP of Finance. “But you could ask her—”

“This is my sister!”

“Okay, if you think that's too personal, then you could Google it, just like you could have Googled the Carusos, instead of asking me to do it.”

Nash crossed one booted ankle over the other. “I keep forgetting how to spell that. G-e-w-g-u-l or g-o-o-g-u-l-l?”

Bryan sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you? Your big, dumb Bubba act won't work with me. I happen to know you have an MBA.”

“Master's in Bad Ass, I keep telling
you,
” Nash replied. “Which is why I need a pencil-necked, calculator-brained, business wonk like yourself to do all the detail work.”

Not to mention the fact that he hadn't been sure he could see or think straight after a day and a half of transatlantic and transcontinental travel followed by too-few hours of jet-lagged sleep. But now that he'd seen for himself that Jemima was in good spirits despite the broken arm, Nash was inclined to believe that her stage-mother Allison
was
overreacting.

A little more assurance and he could report back to his former stepmother with good conscience that all was well in California. Then he would leave his baby sister in Palm Springs and get on with the rest of his life—which included returning to Europe, where he'd been traveling on a semi-vacation with the monster-truck exhibition circuit until the frantic faxes had caught up with him. “So, Bry, what'd you find out?”

“There really is a California Mafia.”

“No shit!” Flabbergasted, Nash jerked back his feet and sat straight in his chair. “I thought she was pulling my leg.” More like his chain. Party girl Eve Caruso was too damn beautiful for her own good and obviously
accustomed to getting her own way. It had taken every ounce of willpower to keep his drool inside his mouth and his gaze off those spectacular breasts she'd served up to him at the breakfast table with such cool aplomb. “Tell me more.”

“The Mafia moved out West during Prohibition days. In Palm Springs, it was a big operation that included gambling along with the hooch, but then games of chance were pushed out by the authorities and taken eastward to Vegas.”

Which reminded him. Hadn't the little sister, Joey, spilled that big sister Téa's husband-to-be was a professional gambler? Jesus, just another unsavory point in this family's dis-favor. “The Carusos stuck around Palm Springs, though.”

“Yep. And Cosimo Caruso, the grandfather of the Caruso girls, took over the local action in the 1950s, solidifying his power in all the years since.”

Nash scowled and swore under his breath. “Jemima sure knows how to pick 'em, doesn't she? First time on her own and she takes up with these kind of people. She's supposed to be on a relaxation break before reporting to her next movie.” He looked around the room, at the bed piled high with pillows and a thick white comforter, the tempting little minibar, the hedonistic whirlpool tub he could see through the bathroom doorway. “I suppose the spa is built with mob money then.”

“That's where you're wrong. The Kona Kai was bought a few years back by Bianca Caruso—wife of Salvatore, who was Cosimo's only son. Salvatore took over briefly as mob boss before going missing sixteen years ago. Seems his wife turned her back on her
husband's family after his disappearance and worked her way through the ranks to become the spa's owner.”

Slumping in his chair, Nash ran a hand through his hair. “So Salvatore disappeared, you said?”

“And was resurrected last October, in a manner of speaking. His remains were found in the crumbling walls of a lagoon built on a local property. An accidental death, finally confessed to by an old friend, who'd kept silent out of fear of mob retaliation.”

“So the daughters—”

“Just recently found out that dear old dad is definitely dead and gone.”

Nash thought of Eve's angel eyes and plump, heart-shaped mouth. How had she handled the news? Did her heart ache with the loss? Did she need—damn it! There he went again, falling right back into the old rut. Being someone's shoulder to cry on was highly overrated, and, he figured, strictly unnecessary when it came to that delectable little mantrap.

The woman's eyes were ice-blue, and the only thing he should be thinking about her mouth was how it was perfectly shaped to be wrapped around his cock. But even that was trouble, because
trap
was the operative word. He wasn't interested in being caught—he was too smart to mess with a superbeauty like Eve Caruso—and she was the kind who wanted every dude in the vicinity to be at her feet. Most men would think her heavenly face and luscious body were worth the grovel or two.

But Nash wasn't one of them, so he was going to keep his distance from that hot little honey. “If the spa's Mafia connection is that remote, then I suppose
I'm not worried for Jemima.” He was already thinking of how quickly he could get back to Germany. There were still some days left of the tour.

“You haven't asked me the other question,” Bryan said.

Nash opened his mouth…and couldn't recall what he'd been about to say. Through the window, Eve Caruso, mantrap, superbeauty, hot little honey, came into view. She had her hair pulled back in a cheerleader ponytail, and she was wearing stretchy calf-length pants and a matching sleeveless sports-type top. There were running shoes on her feet, and she seemed oblivious to the rain that splattered darker drops on her already black clothes. Nash thought of her dead father again, then his gaze dropped to the twitch of her round ass and he remembered instead that provocative scrape of her fingernails against his thigh. His dick shifted in his pants.

“Nash?”

“Huh?” Thank God he was getting on a plane today, because she was like an arsonist when it came to his sexual fire. The woman was a walking crime.

“I said, Ricky Becker has disappeared.”

“What? When? I thought that when they released him from the mental health place, his mother promised the judge she'd keep a close eye on him.”

“He went out for a burger and never came back. Ten days ago.”

Nash pushed to his feet and paced the floor, moving away from the window. Ten days ago. About the time the notice of Jemima's presence in Palm Springs had shown up as a Hollywood tidbit thanks to Eve Caruso's society column, “Party Girl.” Ten days ago. Just shortly before a swerve-and-run driver had caused
Jemima to trip and break her arm. Ricky Becker or simple accident?

Turning back, Nash looked through the glass. There was the mob boss's daughter, taking a path that a sign proclaimed led the way to the fitness center. He spun again and headed for his duffel bag, hoping he'd find his running shoes and workout gear inside.

It might not be the wisest of personal moves, but now he had no choice but to confront the so-sexy wise-girl once again. He couldn't leave Palm Springs until he found out more from Eve Caruso.

 

The fitness center was expansive, with three mirrored walls and a fourth made of windows that looked out over more lush hedges and an Olympic-sized pool. A variety of exercise machines, free weights, and black padded benches were scattered about the room, as well as half a dozen people using them. None of the half dozen was Eve Caruso.

Frowning, Nash let his gaze roam the area until he caught a glimpse of some movement through a doorway at the back of the room. Had to be her. He strode forward.

It was a large supply closet, and she was standing inside, facing shelves filled with stacks of white towels. Nash gripped the sides of the doorjamb. “Do you have a minute?”

Her blonde ponytail bobbed as her head jerked up. Whirling, she pressed her back against the wooden shelving. A hand flew to her throat. “You.” She swallowed. “It's you.”

“Hey, sorry.” Her looks struck him like a punch in the gut. He felt the blow to his bones. From California to the Carolinas and all the little towns and large cities
in between, big trucks and the men who drove them were undeniable magnets to hot-blooded beauties. Some of the guys thought they liked the vibrations of the 575-cubic-inch engines under their sweet, perky butts. Nash figured they believed a man who crushed cars for a living could also crush whatever looming problems they had in their lives—overdue bills, annoying ex-boyfriends, delinquent kids, you name it.

Consequently, he'd had his share of pretty women in his passenger seat. But those big blue eyes and that valentine of a mouth put Eve Caruso in a class by herself. “I didn't mean to startle you,” he said.

Her hand fell back to her side, taking only some of the defensiveness out of her pose. “I'm not afraid.”

And speaking of a class by itself, then there was her body—no!
Don't think about her body
. He wasn't here to wallow in her attractiveness, remember? Nash willed his gaze to stay trained on her face. “We need to talk.”

She gestured toward the room behind him. “Outside—”

“No. Here's good.” He glanced over his shoulder. For all he knew, a tabloid reporter was lurking on the treadmill, just waiting to overhear some dirt. The idea made him step inside the closet and reach for the door to shut it behind him.

“Don't.”

He looked back at Eve. Her hand was up by her throat again, and she was plastered once more to the shelving. “I
am
scaring you,” he said.

“Of course not,” she replied. That hand dropped again, and she cleared her throat. “I'm fine.”

Yeah, right
. Nash stepped back to give her more breathing room and wondered just exactly what he'd done to earn her distrust. He'd given her no real reason to be
so wary. For years he'd managed to keep the Mr. Hyde inside of him well-hidden.

“I'm
fine,
” Eve repeated and reached around him to grab the doorknob herself. She shut it with a decisive
thunk,
then went back to her position by the shelving. “So, what else is it you want to know about me and my family?”

In the enclosed space, he could smell her. It wasn't an expensive perfume, as he might have expected. Instead she smelled…soapy. Yeah. She smelled like suds in a bathtub, one naked leg gleaming wetly—

“Mr. Cargill?”

“Mr.”
Cargill. Why did that one little word suddenly change the scene in his head? Now he was the headmaster and she was the naughty student sent to his office for a well-deserved spanking.

A smile suddenly played around that sweetheart mouth of hers.

Damn it! Damn woman could probably read the fantasy growing in his mind. Damn woman had likely
planted
it there. Aware he'd lose power points by showing the least reaction to her, he wiped any expression off his face and crossed his arms over his chest. “I want to talk about my sister. About the day that car nearly ran her down.”

“I thought Jemima told you already.”

“She's pretty hazy on the details. Her memory mainly consists of you tugging her to the side of the road and then her falling on her arm. Was there really a car?”

“What do you mean?” She frowned at him, and even that looked more like a sexy pout than anything else. “Of course there was a car. Or do you think I make a practice of pushing down famous starlets just for the fun of it?”

Pissing her off wasn't what he wanted either. He needed her cooperation. He needed
information
. “That's not what I think. I said that wrong, okay? Look…”

There was a flush on her cheekbones. “Look, what?”

He still hesitated. But damn it, he had to go forward or else he wouldn't be able to leave Palm Springs and the proximity of this tempting, too-hot-for-his-own-good woman. She was the kind of female that could make a fool of a man. “Is there some sort of confidentiality agreement we could come to so this won't end up as part of your gossip column?”

Her dark blonde eyebrows slammed together. “I write society news. I don't gossip.”

“There's a difference?” He couldn't help himself, and then instantly regretted it when he saw sparks flare in her eyes. There was no need to add extra heat to the air around them. “I'm sorry. But this is about Jemima, and I need to be careful.”

Eve turned her back to fuss with the stacks of towels on the shelves. “Believe it or not, people, your sister included, are
pleased
to be mentioned in my column. If celebrities didn't want to be famous, they'd find different lines of work.”

Hell, he knew that, not that he felt like admitting it at the moment. Monster trucks were an entertainment industry too, and he'd appeared in magazine articles and on sports pages and been delighted every damn time by the publicity. “Chalk it up to my overprotective instincts.”

“Not every woman needs a protector.” From the steely look of her spine, it was obvious Eve Caruso didn't. She was probably thinking she could make a phone call and get good ol' Nash wacked if she wanted
to. Being a California Mafia Caruso no doubt gave a woman a certain brand of confidence.

“Well, I hope you're right about Jemima,” he said. “Because here's the part I would like to keep between ourselves. There's a young man—a nineteen-year-old—who's been following her. He was living at home with his mother, but he disappeared right before Jem broke her arm.”