by Linda Morris
****
“I never took you for a latte kind of guy,” Joe observed, eyeing the giant coffee drink in Pock’s meaty fist. Pock had ordered a venti latte without batting an eye, much to Joe’s amazement. He could never figure out the sizes at these places. Venti, grande...why couldn’t they say small, medium, and large?
“You should try it.”
“No, thanks.” He took another sip of his black coffee and gazed out the window across the parking lot.
Daisy and Ivy had emerged from the shop a few minutes ago and disappeared promptly into a salon next door. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the front door for more than a couple of seconds. Something about this outing didn’t feel right. Rationally, he hadn’t been able to come up with a reason to oppose it. Cantor didn’t strike him as a quitter, though. A funny feeling hadn’t been enough of a reason to deny Ivy her outing, however, when he’d seen excitement gleaming in her eyes. He had a bit of a problem saying “no” to Ivy Smithson. That might get him in a lot of trouble some day.
“Now what do we do?” Pock asked.
“We wait for them to finish shopping.”
“Great,” Pock grumbled.
“Nobody made you come,” Joe reminded him.
“I know, I know. I just thought being a security consultant would be more...exciting.”
Joe shook his head. Pock acted like a big kid most of the time. “Ninety percent of security is watching and waiting.”
Pock wasn’t the brightest guy on the planet, for sure. Joe hated to admit it, but he saw Ivy’s point about him. Pock wasn’t exactly prime husband material, although hell, neither was he. Now that he’d blown his one shot at mixed martial arts fame, Joe wondered what the hell Pock would do for a living. Nothing that would support Daisy in the manner to which she’d been accustomed, that was for sure. But when you got right down to it, Joe might be smarter than Pock, but he couldn’t support a wealthy wife either.
Not that he’d ever have a wealthy wife, he reminded himself. Ivy had barely given him the time of day the last few days, barely meeting his eyes and skittering out of the room like a chipmunk every time they were alone together for even a moment.
He didn’t know why the realization troubled him. He and Ivy had shared no more than a few kisses, although they had seared him beyond anything he’d experienced before. He still couldn’t figure it out. He had been with more than his share of women, and had a hell of a good time doing it. He had no regrets, and had never expected to want to change that. He still didn’t want to change it. He just wanted Ivy, and he knew he couldn’t have her if he was still running out to bars and picking up anonymous bimbos.
But what did that mean? Sure, he could give up other women for six months, or a year. But forever? Did he really want to do that?
“Working security sounds boring.”
“It is sometimes. Security work is more interesting than traditional private detective stuff, although I do some of that too when my security caseload is light.”
Corporate and personal security was still nothing like the SWAT work he’d aspired to before he’d blown his career with CPD sky high, but it still beat following cheating husbands around with a 30X optical zoom lens.
“Security work?”
“Yeah, like what we’re doing now. Watching over somebody and protecting them.”
Pock’s brows furrowed. “I never thought of what we’re doing as protection. Do you think Ivy and Daisy really still need to be protected from Cantor and Ramirez?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
Pock shifted in his seat. His leather jacket didn’t completely cover his tattoos—a scroll protruded from his sleeve onto the back of his hand, and barbed wire interspersed with stars rose up his neck to below his ears. Good thing Pock was a nice guy. Otherwise, he’d be downright intimidating.
“So why do you like the security stuff more?”
“It’s more of a challenge than following around some cheating spouse. Somebody out there wants to hurt an innocent person, and I get to make sure that doesn’t happen. And it’s like a contest of wits, you know? If I make the right preparations, and have the right equipment, and am vigilant enough, my client stays safe and I outwit the bad guys.”
He paused and then confessed something he’d scarcely even admitted to himself. “Besides, I hate following cheaters around. I don’t like breaking up somebody’s marriage,” he admitted.
“But don’t you think the guys are breaking up their own marriages by cheating on their wives?”
Joe glanced at Pock, impressed by the unexpected insight. “I guess so. It still doesn’t feel good to be a part of it, though.”
“I understand that.”
“Besides, it’s not always the guys. I’ve worked for my fair share of jealous husbands, too.”
“I would never do that to Daisy,” Pock said with unexpected fervor. “Hire a guy to follow her around. That’s awful.”
“Even if you thought she was sleeping with someone else?”
“No way. I’d just ask her.”
“What if she lied to you?”
“She wouldn’t.”
“But how do you know?”
“I just know,” Pock insisted.
Joe shook his head. He couldn’t tell whether Pock really trusted Daisy, or whether he was too dumb to realize how much cheating and lying really went on in the average marriage. Joe had seen it too often to have illusions.
“So would you hire a private investigator to follow your wife around if you thought she cheated on you?” Pock asked.
“Nope, because I’m not going to have a wife. I won’t have to worry about it.”
“Oh, yeah? What about Ivy?”
“What about her?”
“Well, you sorta seem to like her.”
“I do. Just because I ‘sorta like’ some girl doesn’t mean I have to marry her.” Not by a long shot.
“But she’s the kind of girl you have to marry if you want her to stick around for long,” Pock argued. “She and Daisy both. That’s why I’m going to marry Daisy.”
Joe’s head pivoted from where he’d been watching the storefront to pin Pock with a glare. “That’s great, Pock. But I barely know Ivy.”
“Only one way to get to know her.”
Pock didn’t seem intimidated. Maybe he needed to work on his glare. Joe ran a hand down his tired face. “Believe me, I’m trying.”
“I’m not talking about sex. At least, not just about sex.”
A wave of heat rose up Pock’s massive neck. Good God, the guy was actually blushing. Joe had never known a 250-pound he-man to blush. If he embarrassed that easily, Joe wondered how he coped with some of Daisy’s more...unscripted moments.
“I mean, you gotta talk to her,” he went on. “Find out what she’s into. Do you know anything about that?”
Joe couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. They sounded like a couple of teenage girls. Yet he found himself curiously interested in Pock’s advice. No matter how dumb Pock was about most things, he had to admit, he seemed to get along with Daisy pretty well. And they were almost nauseatingly in love—anyone who spent ten minutes with them could see that. The guy must be some kind of savant. Most of the time, he could barely tie his own shoes, but when it came to women and relationships, Pock had some weirdly unexpected insights.
“Sure. She likes medieval art.”
“What’s that?”
“Art from medieval times.” At Pock’s blank look, Joe explained, “You know, like knights and castles and stuff.”
“Oh.” Pock’s face cleared. “Castles. Yeah, a lot of girls like that stuff.”
“Yeah, well, I know jack shit about castles.”
“Nobody said you have to know anything about castles. Just listen when she talks about it.”
Joe remembered the engravings she’d shown him on her laptop on the flight to Vegas. They’d been interesting enough, and although he hadn’t been able to add a lot to
the conversation, he hadn’t made too much of an idiot of himself. He didn’t think so, anyway. But still.
“It could never work. I’m not good for anything except showing a girl a good time.” That he could do.
Pock shrugged. “So show her a good time. Seems like she could use it.”
Joe couldn’t argue with that. Between the heavy responsibilities her father had placed on her, her faltering effort to keep Daisy from an unwise marriage, and the danger from Ramirez and Cantor, she hadn’t exactly had a lot of fun lately.
He hadn’t helped by berating her at every opportunity for being a prude, a meddler, and a stick-in-the-mud, he had to admit. That wasn’t even fair. She was no stick-in-the-mud. The fire that seemed to heat her from within every time they got within a foot of each other proved that.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said, a light dawning in his brain. “Maybe I do need to show her a good time.”
He would put the plan into motion when they picked the girls up. First, they stopped at a men’s store across the street. God knows he didn’t care about fashion, but even he had to admit that his jeans and shirt were getting a little rank.
He waved off help from the fluttering clerk and picked out three pairs of jeans, five shirts, and underwear. He bought them all without trying them on, and disappeared into the fitting room only so he wouldn’t have to wear his old jeans and grubby shirt out to dinner later. He didn’t expect to impress Ivy with high fashion, but even he knew wearing the same thing day after day was pushing his luck.
Ivy turned the tables on him, however, much to his surprise.
“What happened?” he asked a half-hour later, stunned by the woman who climbed into the backseat, gracefully managing her heels and skirt. Her bare legs and a wisp of a bright hemline peeked from under her coat.
“Nothing happened. We just did some shopping.”
“And she got her hair done. Makeup too,” Daisy offered. “Do you like it?”
Did he like it? Did he like seeing a woman whom he already found desirable shed her earth-toned uniform to put on a vibrant skirt and sexy heels, heels that made her legs seem to go on for a mile?
“Yeah. I like it.”
He heard a snicker from Daisy in the back seat but couldn’t see Ivy’s expression in the rearview mirror.
“Is anyone hungry yet?” Ivy asked, voice high and tight.
Joe grinned. Ivy might have turned into a butterfly, but she missed the safety of her cocoon. Little did she know he wasn’t about to let her go back to it.
****
Over everyone’s objections, Joe selected a hole-in-the-wall bar and grill for their dinner. He felt comfortable in this type of place, and it wouldn’t garner much attention. Trade the pickup trucks in the parking lot for muscle cars and swap the country and oldies on the jukebox for rock, and this was exactly the kind of place he called his second home in Chicago.
While they waited for their pizza, they decided to shoot a round of pool. When Joe suggested it, he expected to be shot down. Surprisingly, Ivy accepted.
“You probably hit too softly to break. Better let me,” Joe advised. He racked the balls and watched as Ivy chalked her cue.
He almost felt bad for suggesting a game of pool. This wasn’t Ivy’s scene. Then her crimson lips pursed to blow the excess chalk from the cue’s tip, and his compunction disappeared as a bolt of lust shot through him. The gesture turned up the heat on the slow burn he’d had going ever since Ivy got into the car with her lips gleaming red. Seeing her bare shoulders when she’d finally removed her coat made it even worse.
He forced his attention away from her and onto the pool table. He’d better focus or he’d find himself knocking balls out onto the tiny dance floor.
“No, thanks. I can break,” Ivy said, bracing her cue on the end rail and lining up her shot with surprising authority.
The move drew his attention to the backs of her thighs as her skirt rose, and the sight sparked a fleeting fantasy—easing her skirt up, bending her over with a hand to the small of her back, and taking her from behind. He desperately wished they were alone, somewhere he had a chance of making that fantasy come to life. With a jab of her wrist, the cue ball streaked across the felt and shattered the rack as it shattered his reverie, sending stripes and solids streaking in every direction.
Daisy smirked at his open-mouthed shock. “Did we forget to tell you we played a lot of pool with Dad when we were growing up? Too bad! Maybe you wouldn’t have insisted on guys versus girls if you’d known.” From her spot at a nearby table, Daisy nearly had to shout over the din of the bar.
“Eleven ball in the corner pocket.” Ivy pointed to the pocket in question, lined up her shot, and sank it cleanly.
“I take it we’re playing call shot?” a still-stunned Joe said as he watched the ball roll in, referring to the version of rules where each player had to name in advance what ball they intended to sink and where.
“Of course,” Ivy said matter-of-factly. She paused in the midst of lining up her next shot, peering at him over her shoulder with a raised brow. “You didn’t want to play slops, did you?”
“Of course not,” he assured her hastily. Only jokers played slops.
She called and sank her next four shots before finally missing an attempt on the 15-ball in the side pocket. Joe stifled his sigh of relief.
He’d gotten the uneasy feeling she might run the table, sinking every shot before he or Pock even got a turn. He’d once thought Ivy was a frail thing who would be out of place at a Blackhawks game or shooting pool.
Obviously he needed to rethink that.
Masculine pride at stake, he called the one ball and sank it on a bank shot. He muffed the shot, but it still rolled gently and fell in with a plop. Buckling down, he sank his next two shots with more authority, but he missed the fourth. Daisy stepped up to sink the rest of the stripes and the eight ball for the win.
Ivy hung her cue on the wall and returned to the table for a slice of the pizza their waitress had brought while they played.
“Good game, guys.”
Ivy’s innocent expression would have fooled him if he didn’t know her better. He knew a taunt when he heard one.
“If you think you’re getting away without a rematch, you’re crazy,” he advised her, pulling up a chair next to her and lifting three slices of pepperoni to his own plate.
Ivy eyed his plate, smiling as he tore into the deep-dish pie smothered with cheese. She spread napkins across her lap and chose a slice for herself.
Silence reigned as the four of them ate.
“Not as good as Gino’s pizza, back home, but not bad,” Joe judged.
“I agree,” Ivy said, carefully cutting off a small square of pizza and lifting it to her lips with her fork.
He stopped his assault on his own plate long enough to eye her in disbelief. “I can’t believe a Chicago girl is eating pizza with a knife and fork. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“I don’t like to eat with my hands,” she said with a dainty shrug.
“Oh, come on.”
“I don’t like it. Why do you care?”
“Because you’re a Chicago girl, and eating Chicago pizza with a knife and fork is an insult to the pizza culture you grew up with.”
Ivy rolled her eyes. “Sorry. I won’t tell the pizza police if you won’t.”
“I will tell the pizza police if you don’t change your evil ways, woman,” he scolded.
Ivy tilted her head, a smile playing around the edges of her mouth. “I can’t believe you’re making such a big deal of this.”
“It is pretty lame to eat pizza with a knife and fork, Ivy,” Daisy chimed in, lifting her own hefty wedge with her hands.
“Et tu, Daisy?” Ivy questioned.
“Tell you what,” Joe said. “After we eat, we’ll play another game. If you lose, you have to eat a piece of pizza with your hands.”
Before she could weigh in, Daisy scoffed. “Lame! What kind of a bet is
that? I’ve got an idea for you, sweetie,” she said, leaning into Pock and capturing his earlobe between her teeth. “Whoever wins gets to be on top later.” She spoke in a low growl, but loud enough for Joe and Ivy to hear.
Ivy’s gaze flew to Joe’s and then away. She sawed her next bite of pizza even more carefully, devoting all her attention to the task as if her life depended on it.
Next to them, Daisy and Pock were all over each other, apparently competing to see who could do the most public groping, but Joe only saw the flush rising up the column of Ivy’s neck to fan out over her face. Had Daisy’s words planted the same vision in Ivy’s brain as they had in his? The fantasy of Ivy atop him, moving in a sinuous rhythm, taking her pleasure, made his groin tighten. When he spoke, he wondered if his rough voice betrayed his thoughts.
“I have an idea,” Joe said. Her eyes flew to his, startled and aroused, and he knew she’d read his mind. He cleared his throat. “I say we play for a kiss.”
Ivy frowned. “If I win, I kiss you, and if you win, you kiss me? That doesn’t sound like much of a wager.”
“You don’t have to worry about what you get if you win, because it’s not going to happen.”
His reckless challenge narrowed Ivy’s eyes. “Oh, yeah? You’re very cocky for someone who lost to a girl. And not just any girl. What did you call me, ‘ice princess’?”
Joe winced at the reminder. He must have gotten under her skin for her to bring it up again. Interesting.
“No, just ‘princess,’” he corrected. “You may be a princess, but nothing about you is icy.” He didn’t bother trying to keep his gaze above the slim shoulder bared by her dress.
If the room had been hot with sexual tension before, it absolutely sizzled now.
“You’ve got a deal,” she said softly. “If you win, you get a kiss.”
“And in the extremely unlikely event that I don’t?”
“I’ll demand my forfeit, to be named later.”
He frowned. “You expect me to agree to a wager when I don’t know what the stakes are?”
“You seem to be pretty confident that you will win.”