The Care and Feeding of Unmarried Men (4 page)

N
ash felt like a stalker himself, lurking beside the driver's door of Jemima's toy SUV. By definition, a “utility vehicle” shouldn't come in colors like red or blue or—good God—pink, but here he was anyway, leaning against a Pepto bumper to make sure his little sister didn't skip out on their lunch date. At least the weather—clear skies and 80 degrees—was sunny, even if his outlook wasn't.

He'd put her manager and her agent in L.A. on the Ricky Becker–watch from their end, though the police had told them the same thing they'd told him. The crazy kid wasn't crazy enough to be locked up. He hadn't done anything scary enough…yet. It was that
yet
that was keeping Nash close to Jemima until someone got a bead on little Ricky's whereabouts.

Scowling, Nash checked his watch. She'd said five
minutes…fifteen minutes ago. Now, it could have been her usual lax notion of time, but she'd been squawking about his bodyguard stance since he'd told her about it yesterday—that is, when she hadn't been avoiding him altogether. Was she trying to ditch him again?

Five minutes later there was still no sign of her.

Damn it all,
he thought, his fingers curling into fists. This situation was going to make him nuts. He was used to confronting obstacles head-on and then crushing them. Circling problems was for those pretty NASCAR boys, not for a monster-truck man like himself.

From a row away in the spa parking lot came the unmistakable metallic
click-click-click
of a solenoid trying to engage the starter. It labored again without catching. And then again.

Nash's clenched hands eased. Smiling, he straightened away from the SUV. Now here was trouble he could do something about immediately. He'd feel more relaxed after some hands-on problem solving.

The solenoid clicked a few more times as he made his way around a classic Caddie and an onyx Navigator. He reached the hapless motorist just as she exited the driver's side of a battered blue Hyundai. His stride hitched and he stared, not sure which startled him most—swank Eve Caruso in a beater of a car, or sexy Eve Caruso buttoned up in a black business suit, her glorious blonde hair confined in a tight roll behind her head.

Her gaze landed on him and he could read her first thought in the expression on her face.
Damn,
she was thinking.
Just my luck.

For some reason, it made him grin. “Need any help?”

She slammed shut the door and stomped to the front of her car on businesslike black heels. “Believe it or not, I can change a tire and,” she said, reaching for the hood latch, “even locate a car engine.” She proved it by lifting the hood and propping it open.

He was quiet for a moment as she stared down at what was inside. Then he rubbed his chin with his hand. “Beyond that, uh, what can you do?”

He didn't need to see her eyes to feel the snap in them. “Nothing, double damn it.”

Grinning again, he ventured closer until he was near enough to sniff her naked-flesh-and-bath-bubbles scent. “Are you on your way to a social engagement?”

“Something like that,” she said, without looking at him.

“You're dressed like you're going to a funeral.”

Her laugh was short and bitter. “Something like that, too.”

Nash frowned. He'd been needling her some, sure, but he hadn't meant to hit a tender spot. “Are you all right?”

Her shoulders stiffened. Then she took a slow turn and leaned back against the car's grille in a pose that struck him as more practiced than provocative. Her voice purred. “Now what makes you think I'm not one-hundred percent peachy-keen?”

With his gaze on her plump mouth and her throaty words echoing in his ears, Nash's hormones jumped like Shaq on a thirty-point night. But he poured a metaphorical cooler of Gatorade over them and shoved his hands in his jean pockets. “Maybe because you're all dressed up with no way to get there. In case you don't know, that
eh-eh-eh
noise your engine is making can mean only one thing.”

A frown developed between her perfect blonde brows. “What's that?”

“That you need me, darlin'”—he was back to needling her, for some unknown reason—“whether you like it or not.”

“You mean, whether I like
you
or not.”

Since he figured they both hoped she didn't, Nash let it go. “Now, move aside,” he said and, without thinking, put his hands on her upper arms to shift her out of the way.

At the contact, they both froze. He remembered how she'd jumped when he'd touched her in the closet the morning before. Her gaze lifted to his, and he didn't know what the hell she was remembering.

He didn't care. At the feel of her beneath his hands, his hormones were hopping around like pro ballplayers again—or maybe more like junior high schoolers—and he couldn't look away from that perfect face. Eyes of the deepest blue, high cheekbones, small straight nose, and that mouth, oh God, that mouth. Somewhere, some man had written sonnets to that mouth.

Nash was more of a limerick man himself, but her lips could drive even him to loftier heights.

His fingers tightened in possession, just as she sidestepped away.

He was left staring down at the grimy Hyundai engine instead of Eve Caruso's over-the-top beautiful face. Good. Thank you. Perfect.

“I'm in kind of a hurry,” she said.

He slid a glance at her. She arched an imperious eyebrow. No doubt men fell all over themselves to do her bidding. God knows he wanted to.

So he took his own sweet time reaching for his pocket tool.

“If you can't fix it, just say so, okay?” Her voice was twenty-four karat sweet. “It won't make you look any smaller in my eyes.”

Pausing, he turned his head her way. “If you were looking at all, you'd know there's not one part of me that's small, darlin'.”

She lifted that damn brow higher.

He bent over the dirty engine. To his surprise, she stepped close behind him to peer around his shoulder. The air should have only contained the familiar, heady smell of grease and gas and oil, but she messed it up by adding the distracting perfume of girl. Frowning, he glanced at her again.

“I want to know what's wrong,” she said. “So I can take care of it myself next time.”

Translation: I can take care of myself
all
the time.

“Your battery connections are corroded,” he said, scraping the white gunk away with the screwdriver he'd pried from his Leatherman. “You have to keep these clean. I'll tighten them down, and then we should wash them with a baking soda solution.”

“Do we have to? I really am pressed for time.”

“What?” he scoffed. “You can't be late for some charity lunch?”

“That would be rude, wouldn't it?”

Her snippy tone irritated the hell out of him again. “Like me, you mean?”

He didn't have to see the eyebrow to know it was arching once more. “You're the one who called me a gossip.”

“It's a silly job you have,” he muttered, bending further down.

“Oh, that's right. It's not something
meaningful
like playing Tonkatrucks with the other big boys.”

Oh, fine. He felt a smile tugging at his mouth. He might now own a multi-million-dollar business, but it
had
all started out with a passion for Tonka and Matchbox. “Why do you do what you do?” he asked.

She was quiet a moment. “Because it's fun.” She was quiet again. “Why do you do what you do?”

He straightened to look down at her. “Because it's fun.”

She smiled. So did he. No games, no pose, nothing but two people who at the moment had a meeting of the minds.

Maybe that thought occurred to her as well, and like him, made her uncomfortable, because then they both frowned. He wasn't supposed to be near her, let alone appreciate anything about her. Certainly she didn't appreciate
him
.

But his gaze wouldn't shift off her angel face. “Are you seeing someone?” he heard himself say, his voice abrupt.

He silently groaned as the question floated awkwardly in the air between them.

“Am I seeing someone?” she repeated slowly, giving him plenty more time to wish he could kick his own ass.

Why had he asked her that? Take-care-of-herself-or-not, this woman was trouble, she was trouble with a capital Too Effing Sexy. He didn't want a barracuda in his life any more than he wanted the babes with their bad credit and their bad exes.

“That's quite an interesting question.” She seemed to mull it over, then her fingers found his skin. To be precise, her fingernails lightly scratched along the bulge of muscle on his forearm, ruffling the hair. His scalp prickled. His cock stirred.

His only defense was to lift an eyebrow as coolly as she. “It's a simple question.”

“Well…” She drew out the word to the same length as her next stroke of nails, then gave a small shrug that could mean anything.

Frustration made him fist his fingers again. He'd walked over to find a relaxing “hands-on” experience, and instead he'd found Eve Caruso and all her grind-his-back-teeth beauty. His
“Are you seeing someone?”
gave her the upper hand, but he knew better than to let it show. He stared her down, freezing his muscles even as his blood heated.

Perhaps she sensed his strong will, because her touch altered as she stroked down his flesh. Instead of her nails it was a soft fingertip, tracing a circle on the top of his hand.

Witch. Tracing a heart.

His teeth ground again. Didn't she have all the moves down pat?

Her tongue touched the bow of her upper lip, leaving a wet spot in the matte pink perfection. He still couldn't look away.

“Nash?” Her voice was soft. Faint.

He had to lean closer. To hear, he told himself. “What?”

Only a breath separated them. “What is it you want?”

“Bonjour!”

At the sound of Jemima's cheerful voice, Nash nearly choked. He jerked back from the superbeauty, pulling free from her touch and the hypnotic net of attraction she cast out without a qualm. His head whipped toward his sister. “You're late.”

“Je suis désolée
.
”
Though she switched to English, her
French accent remained. “Ees so confusing, this passion for time you
Americains
feel.”

Nash rolled his eyes. “Can it, kid.”

Her grin was impish and unapologetic. “So sue me. I got held up on a call with my agent about the new script.” Nash wondered about that. The last he'd seen her, she'd been chatting up some guy swathed in bandages.

Jemima's gaze darted between Nash and Eve. “What have you guys been doing?”

“Fixing her car,” Nash said, turning away to return the hood to its closed position. “It should start fine now.”

“Actually,” Eve corrected, “we were sharing our romantic—”

“Mistakes,” he said without looking at her. Indulging in that last piece of conversation had been a definite mistake.

“Oh,
mon frère
has made tons of those,” Jem said blithely, waving her hand in a Gallic gesture. “He's the king of mistakes.”

Nash swung around to glare at his sister, while speaking to the other woman. “Eve, didn't you say you had to be going?”

Though he refused to look at her face again, he could feel the smile playing at her mouth. Hell, her touch was still ghosting over his flesh.

“Not when this is getting so…intriguing.”

“He's got a fat file folder of Farrahs,” Jemima informed Eve. “Though he's claimed to have sworn off of them.”

“Farrahs?”

Jemima looked so damn innocent. It was going to be a shame that he'd have to concoct some horrible
payback for this little stunt. He pinned her with his gaze. “If you know what's good for you—”

“It happens to be a popular name amongst the women who follow the monster-truck circuit,” Jemima said. “Nash has dated—what?—seven of them?”

“Two.” So this was how his sister was going to punish him for his big-brother protectiveness. Frustration was rising again, but there was no point in letting either woman guess they'd gotten to him. He leaned against the front fender of the Hyundai and gave a go-ahead gesture to Jemima. “Do your worst, brat.”

“It's a hobby. He's rescued a half dozen Farrahs from bad jobs, bad choices, or the bad boys they've hooked up with.”

“I'm sure they're suitably grateful,” Eve murmured.

“Not grateful enough, according to Nash. He claims he's climbed off his white steed for good, because he's tired of those women going off with his best CDs, his best T-shirts, and, ultimately, his best friends.” Drawing in a breath, she darted him a look. “But what
I
think is—”

They were all spared the brat's psychoanalysis by the ring of a cell phone. After pats all around, it was found to be coming from the device in Eve's suit jacket pocket. One look at the screen and her face leached color.

He found himself stepping forward. “Eve—”

“I'm late. I have to go.” She hurried to her car door.

Getting there first, he opened it for her. It wasn't that he was a gentleman, he was just damn glad that she was going on her way. Finally. Pale or not. Who cared?

She slid in. He slammed shut the door, his hand on the frame of the open window. “Have fun,” he said.

Her gaze met his. She didn't look like fun was on her horizon, but her lips curved in a quick smile. “Thanks,” she replied, her fingers brushing the top of his knuckles. Without his permission, his hand turned and captured hers.

Their palms met, and a hot spark jumped up his arm and sent a heated message to his groin. Oh, hell. That ol' black magic was damn sneaky, wasn't it? It didn't care if you wanted it or not. If the chemistry was there, then,
poof! sizzle! bang!
it had you under its spell. Her spell. Though the look in Eve's eyes told him it was a mutual misfortune.