He wiggled his fingers and the brush of his fingertips against the downy curls at the apex of her thighs felt so good, she found herself parting them to allow him closer access. The instant she realized what she was doing she clamped her legs together again, but that simply trapped his hand right where he wanted it—and with a murmur of approval, he oscillated his fingertips to devastating results within the limited confines allowed him. Her voice was a little desperate and a lot breathy when she demanded, “What’s on the agenda for today?”
“Well, you might want to contact Benny, because we’ve got another gig tonight that requires dressing up.” He bent his head to plant a soft kiss on the vulnerable skin behind her ear. Then he moved his lips forward a fraction and whispered, “And we have appointments to go over the contact sheets with the Trevors and the Morrisons, so they can make their selections and place their orders.”
He was merely replying to her question, but he might as well have been whispering red-hot promises in her ear; the effect was the same. And that was before he caught her earlobe between his teeth. She was highly aware of his warm breath bathing the whorls of her ear and the goosebumps that trailed from that point down the entire left side of her body.
He shifted her around and she felt his erection nudging insistently against her bottom while his fingers continued their frontal assault. “But that’s not until this afternoon,” he said huskily. “And in the meantime, Ms. Parker…”
What the heck. She unclenched her knees and let her legs slide apart. “In the meantime, Coltrane, you’re wearing way too many clothes.” Twisting around on his lap, she kissed him with fierce intent and reached for the button on his waistband.
Less than an hour later, Daisy felt physically replete but emotionally tattered. Stepping from the shower, she cleared a circle in the steamy mirror above the sink and stared at her damp reflection. What on earth was she going to do about Nick? He persisted in saying he loved her.
Daisy brushed her teeth to within an inch of their life while stewing about such unfair tactics. Every time he said it, the words did something to her, stirred feelings that she had long believed safely harnessed. He had to quit making love with that slow-handed tenderness that nearly brought tears to her eyes, too.
She spit foamy toothpaste into the sink and turned on the water to rinse her mouth. Darn him, anyway! She wasn’t the weepy, clingy type, yet every time he’d gotten his hands on her since that first, treacherous “I love you” had slipped out of his mouth, she’d had this insane urge to cling and to beg and to make all sorts of unrealistic promises.
She ruthlessly slicked her wet hair away from her face, plying her comb until regimented tracks cut furrows from her forehead to her nape. Then she pulled on her panties, applied lotion in a slapdash manner, and climbed into her jeans. She took a deep breath and reached for her orange chenille sweater.
Okay, so he was being sweet. That didn’t mean she had to react like the gawky high school jock she once was. But truthfully, that’s how she felt—as if she were suddenly being rushed by the hippest, most popular guy in school.
She ought to simply enjoy the attention while she could. Heartbreak Avoidance 101: Enjoy it, but don’t get used to it. That seemed simple enough.
Except…
God, she liked the feeling she got when he turned the focus of all that attention on her—she liked it way too much. She loved feeling as if she were pretty and interesting and desirable, and knowing that Nick wanted her when he could have any woman in San Francisco.
But she’d be a fool to grow accustomed to it. That could land her in some big-time trouble indeed. She studied her reflection in the mirror, searching for whatever it was that seemed to draw him. It wasn’t an awful face, by any means. It was simply…ordinary. She sure didn’t see the interesting bones and shadows that she’d seen in Nick’s photograph of her. She didn’t see the mystery.
And that was all right. She straightened away from the mirror. She was who she was: a down-to-earth woman who was sometimes pretty, but mostly just kind of average. She didn’t apologize for it. Neither did she see the point in attempting to change it at this late date.
She drew in a deep breath. Darn it, she would enjoy Nick’s attention while it lasted. And the next time he said he loved her, she would continue to do exactly what she was doing right now: she’d bite her tongue against the words that crowded up her throat.
She would not say she loved him back.
19
DAISY jumped a foot when the doorbell rang shortly after lunch. She hadn’t heard anyone come up the exterior stairs, and that wasn’t good. The stairs were made of creaky wood; a person would have to work overtime to keep from making a lot of noise.
Waving Nick back, she picked up her Glock and removed the safety. Holding it in a two-handed grip pointed at the ceiling, she sidled down the hallway, stopping short of the door to plaster herself against the wall. “Who is it?”
“Florist, ma’am. I’ve got a delivery.”
Sure he did. “Leave it on the landing.”
“I can’t, ma’am. I need a signature.”
Great—she was a sitting duck standing here. “Hang on a second.” She stealthily eased back the deadbolt, then stole silently back down the hallway and around the corner. Seeing Nick watching her from the couch, she whispered, “Get out of the line of fire.”
“Uh, Daise—”
Please, just this once, don’t argue with me.”
He shrugged and came to join her against the wall. She poked her head around the corner and raised her voice to say, “Okay, you can come in.” Then she ducked back out of sight.
The door opened with enough force to hit the wall, and Daisy waited for the sound of a shot-gun blasting through the solid panel. That’s what a professional would likely do: assume his quarry was hiding behind the open door and remove the threat in one economical move.
But there was only silence. Then the same voice said tentatively, “Ma’am?”
She pivoted away from the wall, landing in a semi-crouch in the hallway, her weapon extended in a two-handed shooting position. In her sights was a slightly built young man in a white T-shirt and khakis, holding a box containing an arrangement of coral-hued roses and little daisies.
He took one look at the gun pointed at his chest and turned as white as his shirt. The flowers fell to the floor as his hands shot up in the air. “Christ, lady, don’t shoot me!”
“You really do have flowers,” she said stupidly and lowered the gun to her side. “I’m sorry. I thought…” Watching his gaze, bug-eyed and glazed with fear, as it locked on the gun, she shook her head. “I guess you don’t give a rip what I thought. But I do apologize.” Then curiosity got the better of her. “Who are the flowers for, anyway? Are they okay?”
Nick gently moved her aside. He squatted to right the box, reaching into the now-damp florist paper to resettle the vase within its folds. It was a miracle it hadn’t broken. Then he rose to his feet and pulled his wallet from his hip pocket. He extracted a large bill and handed it to the delivery boy. “Major PMS,” he murmured. “Which is why she’s getting flowers in the first place.”
Daisy grimaced, but didn’t correct the outrageous falsehood. She simply watched as Nick signed the shaken young man’s clipboard and ushered him out.
“Well.” Shutting the door, he turned back to her with a crooked smile. “That was entertaining.”
Heat scorched Daisy’s cheeks. “I expected the goons. How was I supposed to know that one of your girlfriends would send you flowers?”
“They aren’t for me, doll face. The card says Daisy Parker.”
“What?” Her heartbeat picked up an extra throb. “Let me see that. There must be some mistake; no one sends me flowers.”
He was leaning over to pick up the box, but stopped midbend to stare at her. “You’re kidding. Surely someone’s sent you flowers in your lifetime.”
“Well, my mom sent me a real pretty spring bouquet when I gradu
ated from the academy. And Benny and the boys brought me a fistful of tulips and daffodils once when I had them over for a spaghetti feed. But that’s about it. I’ve never—you know—gotten flowers from a boyfriend, or anything. I’m not the type.”
“Huh. You must be more the type than you think, because this definitely has your name on it.” Stopping in front of her, he offered the arrangement.
Tempted to snatch the bouquet out of his hands, she forced an air of nonchalance when she reached out to accept it. That was about as far as her cool would stretch, however. The lush, rounded arrangement of plump coral roses, made lacy with clusters of miniature yellow-centered daisies, drew her like a siren song, and she carefully unseated it from its cushioning box. A moment later, she held the vase with its filmy, opalescent bow in her hand. She stared at the bouquet in awe.
“God, Nick, have you ever seen anything so pretty in your life? And they’re for me.” She buried her face in the flowers, inhaling the earthy scent of daisies and ferns, the richer, sweeter perfume of roses.
Coming up for air a few moments later, she delved within the blossoms for the little white envelope. After opening it up, she extracted the tagboard card inside. “‘To my darling Daisy,’” she read aloud, then skimmed ahead. “Oh!” Her gaze flew to Nick’s face, then back to the card in her hands, and her heart began to thunder.
“Read it out loud. All of it.”
Face hot, throat thick, she read, “‘I ran away from the truth once, but I’m—’” She choked into silence, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.
“‘But I’m running no longer,’” Nick continued. He gripped her shoulders and gazed down at her intently. “‘You own me, body and soul. All my love, Nick.’”
“Oh.” To her acute embarrassment, scalding tears rose in her eyes.
“You do, you know,” he said fiercely. “I was a chickenshit nine years ago, but I’m through running away from my feelings. I love you.”
“I love your flowers,” she whispered.
“You love more than my flowers.”
She swallowed hard. “Yes. I love the photograph you did of me, too.”
He gave her a little shake. “You love me.”
“No.” But she couldn’t quite look him in the eyes. She stared at the arrangement in her hands.
“Yes, you do.” Hands tightening on her shoulders, he bent to peer into her face. “You love me, Blondie. Admit it.”
That brought her head up. “I admit nothing.”
“You love me.” And he kissed her, softly, sweetly. She was limp and dazed by the time he lifted his head again. It was so unfair, this easy ability he had to muddle her. “You love me,” he insisted. “Say it.”
“Maybe I love you.” Her chin shot up even farther. “But don’t go getting a fat head over it, Coltrane—because if I do, it’s only just a little.”
“Just a little.” He nodded once and gave her a small, one-sided smile. “Gotcha. So, you want to put some water in that vase? Most of it wound up all over the floor.”
Daisy peered at him suspiciously. “That’s it? I tell you I might love you, at least a little, and you want me to water my flowers?”
“What can I say?” One big shoulder inched up toward his ear. “I have to settle for whatever you’ll give me, right? Or did I misunderstand? Do I get the option of picking what’s behind door number two, instead?”
“No.”
“Not much point in arguing about it, then, is there?” But Nick’s eyes narrowed, and the look that glinted at her from behind his thick lashes sent her heart into hyperdrive. “But don’t get too comfortable, Parker. Because it’s only for now.”
When Nick wasn’t cuddling, teasing, or otherwise messing with Daisy that afternoon, he was gazing upon her with a great deal of satisfaction. She loved him. And not just the miserly amount she’d owned up to, either—she loved him, period. He dwelled upon it, reveled in it, thought about it almost constantly. And it warmed him right down to his bones.
He found his own fatuousness amusing, and just the tiniest bit embarrassing. Yet he was filled with the excitement of emotions he couldn’t even fully identify…but which made him feel mighty good anyway.
He wanted to pin Blondie down and make her admit to more, to make her confess that she yearned for permanence in this cockeyed relationship…the same way he did.
And wasn’t that a giant kick in the pants?
Suddenly, though, a relationship didn’t seem so all-fired scary. And it wasn’t necessarily preordained to fail. He didn’t know why it had taken him so long to figure it out, but any idiot could see he wasn’t his father—and didn’t have to make the old man’s mistakes.
He suddenly understood that he had his own choices to make, and that he could do a much better job of marriage than dear old Dad ever had. Every time the thought crossed his mind, it brought what he was sure was an imbecilic grin to his face. Suddenly life was grand, and all he wanted was to see this thing with Daisy last.
Till the high noon of forever.
Who would have thought it? He could feel the dopey grin tugging at his mouth again. The very idea ought to scare the crap out of him, but instead he felt great.
Right up until the moment the reality of his situation started to sink in. Which, of course, it eventually did. And once it had—once it had sunk in good and deep—he came to an important realization.
He was screwed.
For he’d left one teeny, tiny detail out of the idyllic future he’d been building for them in his mind. He’d left out how fast and loose he’d been playing with the truth up to this point. Funny, how conveniently he’d managed to forget that.
Because Daisy was big on honesty. And he had a feeling that she wasn’t going to be nearly as insouciant as he was about his ability to lapse in and out of it.
Especially if the worst case scenario came to pass, and they ran across J. Fitzgerald Douglass tonight.
Knowing that this evening’s gala was being held to honor Douglass, Nick had thought a lot, the last couple of days, about what he should do about it. A bright person probably would have begged off, considering the man was trying to kill him. But until the other night, he had pretty much forgotten that J. Fitzpatrick was even the featured guest.
In his own defense, he hadn’t had a personal connection with Douglass when he’d accepted tonight’s commission. So he’d simply marked the assignment in his day planner and allowed it to drift to the back of his mind. And while the smart thing—once he had remembered—would have been to plead an illness, it was too late now to tell Mrs. Whitcomb and the committee who had worked so hard to organize the evening’s event that they had to find someone else.
He did have a standard or two.
Besides, he was damned if he’d allow Douglass to send him scurrying for cover. Nick was a fan of old spaghetti westerns, and he knew what Clint Eastwood would do in this situation. He’d shift his cigar to the other side of his mouth, tuck his duster behind his six-shooter, and make his presence known. Which was pretty much what Nick planned to do tonight. He might not get in Douglass’ face, but he wasn’t about to hide in the shadows, either. He was the good guy in this scenario.
The drawback to doing that was its potential to screw him up with Daisy, since he hadn’t set the record straight with her yet.
Watching her talk on the phone, he debated telling her now, before they made their rounds with the contact sheets. He blinked when she suddenly covered the mouthpiece with her palm and turned to him.
“Do we have time to stop by Benny’s workplace so he can do my hair and makeup? It’s pretty much now or never, he says. After the next hour or so, he’s going to be tied up.”
“Helena Morrison can’t be changed because of her chemo appointment, but we’re not scheduled to be there until two-thirty. Let me call the Trevors. If I can push them back to three-thirty or four, it should be fine.”
“Benny,” Daisy said into the receiver. “I’ll call you back in five minutes
.” She disconnected and handed him the phone.
Ten minutes later he was backing the rental car out of the carriage house. He looked over at Daisy as they pulled up to the gate. “Where to?”
“Post Avenue. It’s a place called the Motherlode.”
Nick stood on the brakes and stared at her. “Are you kidding me?”
“Of course not. It’s where Benny works. Why, have you heard of it?”
Hell, yes, he’d heard of it. The Motherlode was fairly notorious—the only club in San Francisco that featured not only drag queens, but transvestites and transsexuals as well. And Benny worked there? “I don’t suppose he’s the bartender?”
“No, he’s part of the act on Friday nights. The gate’s open, Nick.” She flashed him a grin, reaching across the console to pat his thigh. “Relax. You’ve got me to protect you, remember? As long as I’m guarding your body, I’ll make sure your virtue’s safe as well. I won’t even charge extra.”
“That’s exceedingly kind of you.” He wasn’t homophobic, but the thought of being surrounded by the type of men who were often vocal about thinking he was just cuter ’n a bug’s butt didn’t exactly thrill him, either. He never knew quite how to respond to that kind of thing, and it gave him empathy for women who had to deal with unasked-for attention.
On the other hand, he supposed he’d better get used to it, since most of Daisy’s buddies seemed to be more in touch with their feminine sides than she was. And if that’s what blew their bubble, they could tuck and tape to their hearts’ content. He didn’t pretend to get it, but neither did it make him want to hunch protectively in his seat. The idea of willingly seeking castration in order to cross over to the Venus side, however—now, that made him long for an iron cup.
As it turned out, the Motherlode was locked when they got there, so his concerns were unfounded. Daisy watched the streets for trouble as he knocked on the bar’s front door. No one answered at first, but a few moments later he heard footsteps cross the floor. Then the tumblers clicked into place and Benny opened the door.
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