WhatLiesBeneath (7 page)

Sweaty from yet another marathon sex session at the tattoo
studio, Jericho groaned as Amanda pulled herself off his still-erect shaft.

“This is getting to be a habit,” he said.

Leaving him sprawled in his desk chair, she flopped down on
a nearby sofa. “Are you complaining?” She grabbed a towel to wipe her face and
neck but then made an “ugh” noise. “We already used that one.” She threw the
towel to the floor then pulled a clean one from the stack he had taken to
keeping on hand since the start of their affair—she refused to call it a
relationship—three weeks and five days ago.

“The accommodations are better at my place,” he said. “A
king-size bed. Hot and cold running water in a shower stall big enough for two.
With a detachable showerhead. And if that doesn’t tempt you, how about dirty
movies on my high-def, fifty-five-inch TV?”

“I assume you have surround sound?” She fought to keep the
banter going, desperate to deflect the serious conversation Jericho wanted to
initiate.

“Of course.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper. Usually
he let her distract him, but this time it seemed he wasn’t letting her off the
hook. “I have everything you need, Amanda.”

Except you won’t let me give it to you.
She heard
those words as clearly as if he’d spoken them out loud. Bone-numbing
apprehension replaced the languid afterglow that had been warming limbs
trembling with exhaustion from their passionate…lovemaking. There was no other
word for it. She could call it fornication or coitus or knocking boots or NSA
FWB—No Strings Attached, Friends With Benefits—or any of the other euphemisms
used to imply unemotional sexual relations, but she would be lying.

Each time they came together, no matter how hard she tried
to keep it purely physical, somehow, someway another piece of Jericho attached
itself to her heart. Which was ridiculous, considering they didn’t know each
other well, mostly as a result of her maneuvering to keep some distance between
them.

“My schedule is crazy right now,” she hedged. “Meeting here
is convenient for both of us. If I’m running late, you can still get some work
done.” She rose and sauntered over to him, sat on his lap and hooked an arm
around his neck. “Can I help it if we’re both so horny for each other that we
never make it out the front door?”

His cock pressed against her hip but the serious expression
on his face never wavered. “I want more.”

Out of nowhere, a white-hot bolt of rage blasted Amanda. She
shot up and whirled around. “Too damn bad.”

She gritted her teeth to keep from shouting and crossed her
arms to keep from slapping him. He had no right to make these kinds of demands
on her. She was already struggling to maintain the boundaries she’d erected
going into the relatio—
affair
. Someone had to acknowledge the realities
of their relatio—
association
. Clearly it wasn’t going to be him.

“Tell me why.” His words were as gentle as hers were harsh.

“It wouldn’t work,” she snapped. The disparities and
differences separating them loomed over her like a boulder tottering at the
edge of a cliff. One strong gust of wind and that rock would shatter whatever
lay beneath it.

“You haven’t tried.” An edge of frustration showed itself
behind his carefully modulated tone. He stood and pulled on his jeans without
bothering to zip the placket. They hung low on his hips, emphasizing the
definition of his abs and obliques. The narrow trail of dark hair that started
just below his navel arrowed into the open gap, tempting her to reach in and grab
a handful.

An involuntary step toward him jerked her back to awareness.
Her insatiable hunger for Jericho was the cause of this mess. A flash of
clarity hit and Amanda knew if she continued to see him, they were both
destined for heartache. Passion might carry them through a few months, maybe
even a year. But eventually their dissimilarities would drive them apart. The
university and literary community were her world—where did a Harley-riding,
leather-wearing, ponytailed, scruffy-bearded, make-your-panties-wet bad boy fit
in? She didn’t care what others thought, but she couldn’t bear the possibility
of exposing Jericho to the narrow-minded judgment of others.

“I have to go.” She scanned his office for her clothing. Her
skirt was draped over the edge of a wastebasket. Her sweater had caught on the
doorknob somehow.

“Calm down, babe. Let’s talk about this.” He pulled down the
bottom of her sweater, which had folded in on itself in her hurry to dress.

“There’s nothing to discuss.” She gave up looking for her panties
and sat on the sofa to pull on her knee-high boots. The blood was pounding in
her ears and tears burned the back of her eyes. How had everything gone
downhill so fast?

She got to her feet, arms clasped around her coat and
messenger bag. Jericho leaned against the door—forearms crossed, hair tangled,
eyes unreadable.

“I’ve been trying to figure this out from day one,” he said,
his tone conversational. “You show up, come on to me and proceed to ride me
like a rodeo cowboy. You accept my offer for dinner but the closest we’ve
gotten to an actual date is picking up a pizza.

“I keep coconut water in the refrigerator because I know
that’s your favorite drink, and I added Jennifer Lopez to my playlist because
you said you like to sing along when she comes on the radio. The only other
thing I know about you is that you never seem to take off those fucking
pearls.”

He pounded the door with a fist and stared at her. “Do you
realize you haven’t even told me where you live or what you do for a living?
Anytime I start a conversation remotely personal, you start taking off your
clothes until I’m so distracted I forget what I was saying.”

He stalked toward her and hauled her up to his chest, hands
banded around her arms. He stopped just short of shaking her as he demanded,
“What the hell is all of this?”

“A mistake. This was a huge mistake.” Amanda pushed away
from him, frantic to escape before she gave in to the tears blurring her
vision.

He didn’t try to stop her when she fled out of his office,
out of the studio and out of his life.

“Dammit, J. You’re killing me.” Al Jimson twisted away from
the tattoo gun. “We’re going on six straight hours. What the hell is wrong with
you?”

Jericho let the electric motor slow before setting the
device aside. “Sorry, man. I guess I got distracted.”

“Bullshit. You were like this when I came in last week.” The
football player stood and rolled his shoulders. “I’m still catching it from
Deborah because you bailed on her birthday party. She wanted to introduce you
to one of her sorority sisters who just moved here from Denver.”

Al’s wife was on a mission to fix Jericho up with every
single woman she knew until she had cured him of his wild ways and tamed him
into matrimonial submission. For the time being—and possibly a significant
chunk of the foreseeable future—Jericho had zero interest in playing the dating
game. The stakes had gotten out of hand the last time he played…and lost.

“Thanks, but tell Deb I’m off the market for a while.” He
felt more than saw his friend’s scrutiny. “When you’re ready, let’s finish
this. There’s only about an hour’s worth of work.” He pretended to check the
supplies laid out nearby.

“Some woman got you bad, didn’t she?” Al straddled his chair
so Jericho could resume detailing the magnificent dragon coiled across his
back. “When did this happen? I didn’t even know you were seeing someone.”

“I wasn’t.” The sarcasm slipped out. “I mean it wasn’t a big
deal. We got together a few times and when I wanted more, she took her ball and
went home. For all I know, she’s already playing on a new court.”

He latched on to the bitter anger aroused by his suspicion
that Amanda had moved directly from his lap onto someone else’s. A few days
after she walked out, unable to help himself, Jericho found her address in his
client file and cruised by late one night. The million-dollar mansion was no
surprise, but the sight of Amanda with the same guy she’d gone to dinner with
had knocked the air out of his lungs. He watched them through the huge bay window
until he couldn’t take it anymore. Her rejection stung, but what really hurt
was knowing this dude was allowed into her life but he wasn’t.

“Ow. Take it easy.” Al flinched. “It’s me, not the chick who
done you wrong.”

“Maybe this isn’t the best time for me to work on you.”
Jericho cast worried eyes over the tattoo but didn’t see any poorly completed
areas.

“If you haven’t screwed up yet, keep going.” After a minute,
Al said, “I’ve never seen you like this, J.”

“Yeah, well…” He’d never fallen for someone as fast and hard
as he had for Amanda.

He tried to concentrate on the needle and ink and image,
aimed for the contentment he usually found when he hit The Zone. When memories
flared—the whisper of her fingertip tracing the lines of his tattoo, the little
sounds she made when she came, the sassy look she gave him before dropping to
her knees and taking him in her mouth, the
rightness
he felt when she
was in his arms—he shoved them away.

The effort was exhausting. His days and nights were a series
of highs and lows. He was, by turn, energized by indignant anger and drained by
helpless heartache. He didn’t know if he wanted to confront her, charm her,
punish her or make love to her. The only thing he knew for sure was he wanted
her.

A furious knocking interrupted the silence in the room,
after which the door slammed open, rebounding off the wall behind it.

“Hellfire and damnation, Creegan. What the fuck is the
matter with you? Are you trying to fuck up your fucking writing career before
it even fucking starts?” Hands on hips, stilettos planted, eyes narrowed, face
florid, Dolores D’Agnostino stood in the doorway. “I’m fucking going to—”

“Please don’t tell me this is the bewitching creature you’re
mooning over.” Al twisted in his seat and gave the infuriated redhead a
once-over.

“Who the fuck is this and what the fuck is he talking
about?”

“This is my client, it’s none of your business what he’s
talking about, and you’re intruding on a private session.”

Truth be told, Jericho had been expecting just such an
appearance from his friend and publicity manager. Her repetitious use of the
F-word warned him exactly how pissed she was. Once meant she had gotten laid
the night before and the coffee shop got her order right the first time. Half a
dozen indicated nuclear meltdown.

She traipsed over, heels snicking off the tile like
gunshots, and leaned in until she and Jericho were nose-to-nose. “Let me make
this abso-fucking-lutely crystal clear. You
will
not leave for that dig
in Peru before your book release. You
will
attend all scheduled media
events. That includes the signing at my store, three radio interviews, an
appearance on
Good Morning, San Fran!
, and the reception at the
university. Do you under-fucking-stand me?”

“What book?” Al sounded confused. “What dig?”

Rescheduling his airline ticket for an earlier departure had
been a knee-jerk reaction to the situation with Amanda. But as much as Jericho
wanted to escape the hurt and regret, he owed Dolores big time. Without her
bulldog tenacity and citywide contacts, the debut of
Inked: Mankind’s
Immortal Inscriptions
would have been little more than a blurb buried in
the newspaper.

“Who the hell are you? You look familiar.” Dolores squinted
at Al. “Goddam! You’re that Nickelback fellow. When are they putting you back
in the game? I’m tired of seeing the 49ers getting their asses handed to them.”

“Dolores, Al. Al, Dolores D’Agnostino. She owns a bookstore down
the block.”

“Maybe you’ve heard of it. Wicked Words. The ultimate source
of erotic literature for historians, collectors and masturbators.” She
underscored the tag line with a lecherous grin.

“I can’t say I have, but it sounds like a visit is in
order.”

“Make it next Friday. I’m hosting a fucking book-signing for
Jericho Creegan, author and photographer of
Inked
, a compelling analysis
of mankind and tattoos from prehistoric man to modern-day soccer moms.” She
winked. “Catchy, huh?”

Al eyeballed him. “You wrote a book? I didn’t even think you
could read, man.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Jericho muttered. Maybe he should
have told Amanda about the book. If it impressed a football player, maybe it
would have earned points with her.

“Does that have anything to do with this dig you mentioned?”

“It most certainly does.” Dolores was in marketing mode now
and continued with her advertising spiel. “For more than ten years, Creegan has
studied the tradition, culture and history of tattoos. His worldwide
explorations have taken him to thirty-seven countries on every continent, and
he has consulted on archaeological digs in Egypt, China, the Middle East and
Europe. Researchers credit Creegan with the theory that some tattoos were used
for curative purposes, which he formulated after the discovery of several
mummified infants and juveniles in Burma, all of whom were tattooed similarly on
their chests and were found to have died of lung infections. Creegan’s next
adventure will take him to—”

“Enough.” Jericho sighed. The book release would keep him
busy—maybe so busy he wouldn’t have time to obsess about Amanda. As soon as he
jumped through all of Dolores’ hoops, he could bury his head in the Peruvian
sand.

“I’ll email the damn schedule to Vix. Otherwise you won’t
know where the hell to be or when.” Her good humor restored, Dolores blew air
kisses to both men. “Don’t fucking make me come back here again, Creegan. Next
time I won’t be so nice about things.” She pranced out, pulling the door shut
behind her.

“I’d show up if I were you. She’s scary.” Al sniggered and
glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, while you’re back there, can I have your autograph?”