Kick It Up

by Carol Ericson

  “He did?” Gemma raised her eyebrows and slid a gaze over to Simon, chuckling by the door.

  “I’m sorry.” Jessica took a deep breath to slow down the rapid-fire questions. “You’re probably not even settled yet, and I’m giving you the third degree.”

  “Stop saying you’re sorry, and sit down and have some coffee. Gemma, get Jessica some coffee.”

  “We don’t have any coffee.”

  “Make some.” He shot a scowl at her. “My sister’s useless in the kitchen, but I think she can follow the instructions on the coffeemaker.”

  “Actually, it can be a little complicated.” She took Gemma’s arm and pulled her into the kitchen with her. “You have to grind the beans first.”

  Gemma rewarded her with the feminine version of Simon’s devilish grin. She’d have the American boys beating a deep path to her door with that grin, which promised everything for just the price of admission. Why hadn’t she seen the resemblance to Simon earlier?

  Probably because jealousy had clouded her vision like a green miasma.

  “In answer to your questions, I surprised Simon by arriving five days ago.” She hopped on the counter, while Simon grabbed a barstool. “I was here a few years ago with Simon, and I loved it. He’s been taking me around to some of the tourist spots.”

  “I had to take her to see all those bloody handprints at Grauman’s Chinese Theater.”

  “They’re not bloody.” Gemma giggled.

  “Which ones did you like the best?” Jessica scooped out some beans and dumped them into the grinder. The aroma filled the kitchen, giving it a homey atmosphere.

  “Marilyn Monroe’s and Jane Russell’s, of course.”

  “Don’t get any ideas.” Simon shook his finger, giving a great impression of a concerned older brother. “You’re not going to get discovered hanging around a soda fountain.”

  “That wasn’t Marilyn, you idiot. That was Lana Turner, and I’m pretty sure L.A. doesn’t have soda fountains anymore.” She scrunched up her face. “Does it, Jessica?”

  “Since we seem to have almost one of everything, I’m sure there are a few. The new and improved versions, of course—we don’t like to keep anything around that’s too old.” She poured a mug of milk to heat up in the microwave.

  “Are you an actress?”

  “I want to be, but nobody in my family takes me seriously.” She tilted her chin and shot her brother a quelling look.

  “You have to act serious to be taken seriously.” Simon’s finger stopped in mid-wag and pinned his sister.

  Ugh, this sounded like an all-too-familiar charge her own parents leveled against her. Guess Simon’s devil-maycare attitude didn’t extend to his angelic-looking little sister.

  “That’s one of the conditions of Gemma’s stay. She’s going to take some acting classes and find out if she has any talent.” Simon hopped off the stool, took three cups and saucers from the cupboard, and lined them up on the counter.

  Gemma snorted. “Acting doesn’t have anything to do with talent. It’s all about stage presence. Sort of like what you do, Simon.”

  “I have talent,” Simon snapped back.

  Jessica studied his face, all lines and angles. The English golden boy protesteth too mucheth. She tapped her fingers along the corded muscle in his forearm, and he whipped his head around, turning his stormy blue gaze on her.

  “Coffee?” She held up the pot of freshly brewed Colombian elixir and wished she had a Bloody Mary to offer instead. The storm receded, and Simon’s arm relaxed beneath her touch.

  He shoved his cup toward her. “Yeah, and a lot of that milk.”

  “Gemma?”

  “No, thanks.” She made a face. “I prefer my tea. What are we going to do today, Simon?”

  “That depends.” He tilted his head, angling a look at Jessica. “What did you rush over here to tell me?” She jerked her chin toward Gemma. “Has Simon taken you shopping yet? Clubbing? To the beach? To the English pubs in Santa Monica?”

  “No. We’ve been to the Getty, the Griffith Park Observatory, and the Museum of Tolerance.” Jessica choked on her sip of coffee and sprayed it all over the granite counter. No wonder the tabs couldn’t find Simon. They’d never dream of looking for Mr. Good-time Party Boy at a Holocaust museum.

  “All the hot spots.” She wiped up her spill, brushing Simon’s warm hand in the process. Talk about your hot spots. Even the man’s most casual touch ignited a spark in her blood. And if those pajama bottoms dipped any lower, she’d have to call the fire department.

  “It was interesting.” His hands formed an arch above his head. “The Getty had an exhibit on triptychs from English Celtic churches.”

  Okay the jock knew Latin and had an interest in art history. What else would she find when she chipped at the shiny veneer? Unfortunately, Latin and art history didn’t play a role in her current plan.

  “Mmm, fascinating.” She rolled her eyes.

  Simon whacked her on the bottom with a dish towel.

  Maybe if she kept giving him a hard time, he’d keep spanking her.

  “Actually, I didn’t mind the observatory. That’s where they filmed a scene from Rebel Without a Cause.” Gemma lay back on the counter, dangling her legs over the side.

  Jessica yanked on the hem of Gemma’s nightgown. “If you get dressed, I’ll take you to some real hot spots.”

  “Brilliant!” Gemma rolled off the counter, landing on her feet, and dashed up the stairs.

  “All right, what is it?” Simon threw the dishtowel over his bare shoulder and sipped his coffee.

  She dragged a deep breath into her lungs, and expelled it slowly.

  “I’ve changed my mind. I’m coming back.” Chapter Eight

  Simon narrowed his eyes, studying the leggy brunette parked in his kitchen. Her mercurial moods gave him whiplash. She jumped his bones. Ran out on him. Quit her job. Shot daggers of jealousy at his sister.

  And now she wanted back in. Why? He tapped his fingernail against his coffee cup. Since he never fully understood her reasons for leaving—and didn’t for a minute believe the personal problems excuse—he didn’t have a clue as to why she wanted to return to the fold.

  But if she’d left because she found him a dead bore, he’d be damned if he’d make that mistake again. Of course, now he had to dig himself out of a hole because Gemma had yammered on about all the sedate attractions he’d dragged her to see, and he even admitted his interest in Celtic churches.

  Bloody idiot.

  He cleared his throat. “Did you tell Evan you wanted your job back?”

  “I never told him I quit.” She stared into her coffee as she swirled it around. It sloshed over the rim and pooled in the saucer.

  “Lucky for you. Did you resolve your, uh, personal issues?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.” She clinked her cup into the saucer and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “All right then, but if you think I’m going to make it easy on you again, you’re mistaken.”

  She tightened the grip on her upper-arms, bunching the fabric of her blouse. “Oh?”

  “You know, all that keep Simon under wraps rubbish.

  I’m bloody sick of it. Not The Boss’s style at all. It’s time to raise some hell.”

  That should do it. Put a cap on the bottle of her bubbling suspicions that he didn’t know how to have a good time. A woman like Jessica craved excitement, and he planned to deliver. The next time somebody walked out, he’d be the one slamming the door.

  Her face lit up brighter than the glow from the candles on an octogenarian’s birthday cake. He knew it. She didn’t care about her job with CSM. Why should she? She’d admitted her parents were loaded. For her it all came down to the rush.

  “Did you just issue a challenge, Boss?” She shook her silky hair back from her shoulders. “Ve have our vays.”

  “I’ve experienced your vays.” He captured her wrists with one hand and drew her toward him so she had to tilt her head back to
look in his face. “And vhile your vays are very tempting, we don’t have to be homebodies to enjoy a good romp in the sack every now and then.” He pressed his lips against hers, his tongue rippling along the seam. On a gasp, she opened her mouth, and he invaded her warm depths, enjoying the rich taste of coffee all over again.

  “I’m almost ready. Don’t leave without me.” Gemma called downstairs.

  Simon pulled back just in time. Gemma had saved him from sure drowning.

  Jessica blinked her eyes as if waking from a hypnotic state. “I-I thought you’d return to the high life once I left. I kept searching the tabloids for your picture.” She waved her hand toward the stairs. “I guess you kept busy another way.”

  “I took Gemma to all those museums because she could use a little culture. She dropped out of university to come here.”

  “Girls just wanna have fun.” She smoothed her hair back from her face and tipped the last drops of coffee from her cup into her mouth. “She can always go back to school.”

  “My point exactly.” Gemma swept into the kitchen, her knee-high boots clicking on the tile. She adjusted her felt cap on her blond curls, dipping it over one elaborately made-up eye.

  “Where’d you buy the outfit, Portobello Road?” Simon asked.

  “I may have picked up a few pieces there.” She tugged a curl onto her forehead and turned to Jessica. “Portobello has a lot of shops selling hippie chic. You’re not the only clotheshorse in the family, Simon.”

  “At least I don’t dress as if I’m in the circus.”

  “Oh really? What about that kilt you wore to one of those awards functions?”

  “For convenience only. Swimsuit models were ushering the honorees on and off the stage, and I didn’t have to wear any underpants under the kilt.” He winked at Jessica.

  Had to get a grip. Had to deliver on the bad-boy image that obviously lit Jessica’s wick. Her reaction to his kiss hadn’t escaped him. She’d felt like warm, pliant wax in his hands. His reaction didn’t escape him either, and there was nothing warm or pliant about it. Hot and hard just about covered it.

  “I don’t really want to know the gory details.” Gemma held out her hands, palms forward. “Where to first, Jessica?”

  Jessica stacked the cups and saucers in the sink. “If you’re into funky hippie chic, let’s check out Venice Beach.

  It’s not too far from Santa Monica and all those English pubs. We can have a pint and then head over to Montana, where we might run into a celebrity or two. You are twentyone, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, just, and I’d love that.” Gemma clapped her hands, her eyes shining.

  A knot tightened in Simon’s gut. He had no problem walking on the wild side to get Jessica back in his bed, but Gemma’s presence complicated matters. He didn’t want his sister involved in any of his escapades.

  Once he’d gotten Gemma’s letter, the old man called and ripped into him for not sending her straight back home.

  Simon didn’t see much point in that. His sister had a stubborn streak as long as those hair extensions she sometimes wore, and if she was determined to free her inner wild child, better here with him where he could keep an eye on her.

  He’d become immune to Dad’s criticism anyway. He never could do anything right in the old man’s eyes and never would.

  Maybe once Gemma started those acting classes, she’d be too busy to accompany him on his exploits.

  Maybe she’d hook up with some of those serious actortypes who sat around coffee houses and discussed acting methods. Or did that only happen in New York?

  “The two of you can discuss strategy while I have a wash and get dressed.” He gestured to the dishes in the sink. “And could you clean up a little?” Jessica ran some water in the sink and rinsed out one of the cups. “Don’t you have a housekeeper?” He grimaced. “Yeah, Milla, and she gets mad when I don’t straighten up before she gets here.”

  “You have to clean before your housekeeper gets here? What kind of housekeeper did we hire for you?” Simon turned before he vaulted upstairs. “A pit bull.”

  ***

  The warm spray of water cascaded down Jessica’s back as she lathered her hair. The day had gone well—a fitting prelude for the night ahead. Gemma loved Venice Beach, but the pub bored her. Too many English soccer fans there who mobbed Simon while Gemma gloomily munched, what she insisted were inferior fish and chips.

  Simon liked it though, and Jessica enjoyed watching him with his football fans. She doubted that those loud-mouthed, beer-swilling, macho guys gave a shit about Simon’s hair, clothes, or dates...okay, maybe they cared about the dates.

  They revered him for the way he played soccer.

  Did Simon really believe the Waves wanted him for shilling purposes only? That didn’t sound like Dad. When he bought an athlete, he wanted to wring him dry. Once Dad came out of the closet with his partnership in the Waves, he and Simon would definitely go a few rounds.

  Dad liked complete control, but Simon had his own ideas.

  The fact that Simon had decided to embrace his badboy image made her task a lot easier...and eased her conscience. She wouldn’t be leading him anywhere he didn’t want to go.

  She finished her shower and slipped into a slinky black number with a plunging neckline and an abbreviated hemline—her coat of armor. Dad and Evan had declared war on her, and she’d picked up the gauntlet and was ready to do battle.

  She bent her knee to hook the strap of her black stiletto around her heel and positioned her hand against the mirror to steady her balance. She drew back from her reflection and the furrow between her brows. The dress may represent battle gear, but it also symbolized slithering back into the old skin she shed with such resolve several months ago. She’d renounced her party-girl persona, traded it in for a badge of maturity and responsibility.

  She pushed off the mirror and slapped it with her palm.

  That badge turned out to be aluminum foil and crumpled just as easily. She’d make new resolutions once she finished this job.

  A half hour later, she climbed into the limo and called Simon from her cell phone to let him know she was on her way. By the time her ride cruised up to the curb in front of Simon’s condo, he and Gemma were waiting under the blue and white striped awning accompanied by a tall man with disheveled, curly blond locks.

  Not waiting for the driver, Jessica clambered out of the car and teetered on the edge of the curb. “We picked up someone already?”

  “This is Ivo Ignatov. You know, the bloke who left his girl and his paperwork at my place last week.” Simon’s gaze trailed up and down her body, caressing every curve, but panic blotted out any burgeoning desire.

  Another soccer player for the Waves. If Ivo read the papers he carelessly left at Simon’s, he’d know that JB Enterprises owned half the team. Did he know who owned JB

  Enterprises? Did he know anything about Roger Brett’s daughter? She couldn’t take that chance. Not now.

  “Hi Ivo. I’m Jessica.” She thrust out her hand. “You can help us show Gemma around tonight.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” Ivo turned his shy smile on Gemma, who gave him a wink.

  Ivo didn’t stand a chance against all that blonde ambition, but at least Gemma engaged Ivo’s full attention so that he didn’t have any to spare for Jessica Jones Brett.

  The same couldn’t be said for Simon. He ran featherlight fingertips down her arm and cupped her elbow. He leaned in, stirring her hair with his minty breath.

  “You look ravishing,” he whispered into her ear.

  If she looked ravishing, then she’d choose him for her ravisher. Tonight he’d draped his lean muscular body and flaring thighs in all black, relieved by a skinny red tie. He’d brushed his longish, blond hair off his high forehead and tucked the ends behind his ears. He looked so ready for his close-up.

  A slice of longing lodged in her throat. She didn’t want to share this delectable piece of hard candy with anyone else, but keeping him hom
e and all to herself meant marching to the company tune. And she had no ear for that kind of music.

  She slid across the long seat of the limo, her bare thighs brushing the leather. After ushering Gemma and Ivo ahead of him, Simon ducked inside and inched down the seat next to her, as if there wasn’t a mile of seat left on his other side. He draped his arm across her shoulders, and she snuggled against his body. Whatever the consequences of her actions, she’d savor the sweetness for as long as she could.

  ***

  Gemma licked the sweet strawberry daiquiri from her lips and giggled at the joke Ivo whispered in her ear.

  “Do you want another?” He tapped her glass, and she nodded.

  She hadn’t had so much fun since...well, since this afternoon at Venice Beach where she bought cheap, rhinestone sunglasses, volunteered for a magician’s show, and watched the pumped-up gods in the pit lifting weights.

  Jessica seemed to know exactly what Gemma wanted from her visit to L.A. But did Jessica know what she wanted?

  Gemma’s gaze slid to Jessica wedged between two hot studs, both vying for her attention, but Jessica’s attention lay elsewhere. Jessica nodded and laughed while her eyes tracked Simon’s every move as he chatted up a red-haired, B-list actress, Lexi Barone, across the room.

  Gemma couldn’t figure out the relationship between Simon and Jessica. Her appearance, or reappearance, had catapulted Simon from a gloomy funk to a fizzy high.

  Gemma almost threw herself at Jessica’s feet in gratitude for that alone. She couldn’t take one more miserable museum.

  Simon introduced Jessica as his personal assistant, but unless that title had a completely different meaning here in the States, he treated her more like a date than an employee...at least at the beginning of the evening.

  He had his hands all over her in the limo, not in an overtly sexual way, which would’ve been less troubling, but in a tender, almost unconscious way of intimacy. She didn’t want to see her big brother get hurt again. That bitch Fiona did a number on him. Left him when he’d injured his knee, and then sailed back into his life when he’d recovered. At least he had the good sense to send that ship right back out onto the water.