by Mel Curtis
“God, help me.” Jack walked away.
Frustration pounded at Trent’s temples. He couldn’t get rid of Archie. He couldn’t get rid of Randy. But Cora? She was troublesome temptation. The Reverend wanted nothing to do with trouble or temptation. But sometimes to clear out the troublesome road bumps, you had to plow temptation out of the way.
“We need to talk.” Grabbing Cora’s hand, Trent led her into the house, seeking privacy. He dodged the front office staff, avoided a lost-looking Randy, and finally found a bathroom. He closed them inside and locked the door. “What…was that?” Years of carefully controlling his words and now that he was free, he couldn’t bring himself to order a drink at the bar or say, “What the fuck?”
Anger pinged through his veins. Anger at himself. Anger at the Reverend. Anger at her.
Cora’s dog whined. She set him on the floor, giving Trent an inside view of her cleavage this time, packaged in black lace. Perhaps she’d unwittingly peek-a-boobed him. Perhaps not.
His dick did a happy dance.
Help me, baby Jesus.
The murmur of voices and laughter down the hall made it seem as if they were alone.
His dick would like to think so.
Cora straightened, a rebellious look in her eyes. “I spent years living in someone else’s shadow and being invisible. Jack may not like me, but I won’t be ignored.”
“You tricked me into becoming a client.” Nobody pulled Trent’s strings – an ironic statement given his dick felt the pull of her cleavage.
She washed her hands in the sink, filling the small room with the flowery scent of soap. “You’re not the kind of man who gets tricked.”
“Then what just happened?”
She wiped her hands on a guest towel, every movement delicate. “You stepped into the cross-fire.”
His body was on red alert. His muscles tense. His anger coiling to strike.
In a closed-off corner of his mind, the Reverend cautioned him to calm down. “I’d think, as a member of the Dooley Foundation, that you’d recognize this isn’t the time or place to make waves. All you had to do was stand there silently and be invisible.” God knew, Trent had years of experience doing just that. Minister Bishop regularly ignored Trent.
“And give Jack Gordon the satisfaction? No friggin’ way.”
And then she did the damndest thing. Her hands landed on either side of his face and she tugged his lips to hers.
~*~
Cora knew better than to kiss in anger. She always regretted it in spades.
In the history of Cora’s spades, kissing Trent Parker had to rank in the top three.
First was her loss of virginity to Robby Reevus in high school. She should have taken her mother’s advice and paid a professional. But Lucia just wouldn’t let up when Cora came home from a date with a hickey on her neck. Five seconds after Cora shut her bedroom door that night, she’d slipped out the window, tracked down Robby, and experienced the most disappointing thirty seconds of her life.
Second would have to be kissing Cy Maxwell when she was twenty-one. The talent agent had just asked Cora to be exclusive when she saw him at a bar with a pop star in his lap. She’d waited on shaky, angry legs in a dark corner until the blonde got up to use the restroom. Then Cora took her place – straddling Cy, locking lips, and dry humping him until they were both breathless and the pop princess left in disgust. Cora followed her out the door shortly thereafter, trying to convince herself she’d shown Cy who was boss. She should have gone with the classic drink in the face move.
And now she was kissing a man who didn’t need trouble any more than she did. A man who was wrapping his arms around Cora. A man who knew how to kiss with indecent intent.
This man was the Reverend?
Her fingertips teased the ruff of short, brown hair at his neck. His tongue stroked against hers, hot and urgent and demanding.
She’d been angry – at her father, at Jack, at the world.
Now she was turned on.
By a man who was one of her clients.
In name only.
It wasn’t like Trent wanted to be her client. What he wanted was clearly communicated by the hard-on pressed against her abdomen. What her body wanted was telegraphed to him by the arch of her back, and the seal of her hips against his.
I’m corrupting the Reverend.
Luck bicycled past, ringing its bell and laughing.
This had disaster written all over it.
“Whoa, big fella.” She pushed him back and tried to catch her breath, tried to remember that guys like Trent were only interested in women like her for one reason. “Clearly, I’ve had too much alcohol.”
In a heartbeat, his gaze went from hot and needy to cool and contained. “Why is it I think two shots wouldn’t faze you?”
Normally, they didn’t. She realized her hands were resting on Trent’s shoulders, on that ill-fitting jacket, and withdrew them. “I’m not a tease. I have temper issues.”
“You control your temper by kissing men you just met? That’s hazardous to your reputation.” The condemnation in his voice contradicted the bulge in his zipper.
“Hey, I didn’t frisk you for a condom, did I?” She took a step back, her nether regions still protesting a halt to the proceedings. “I’m not a sex addict. It’s just that you’re attractive, it’s been a crap day, and…Wow, I’m not making this any better, am I?”
“No.” He put his hands behind his back and leaned against the door, still bulging.
Cora dragged her gaze away. Brutus sniffed Trent’s shoes, then licked the bargain-basement leather.
Cora snapped to get the little dog’s attention and save Trent’s loafers, although it might be more of a blessing if Brutus ruined them. Someone needed to take this man shopping. “Let me start again. I’m Cora Rule from the Dooley Foundation. I’m here to help you and the team develop a more confident attitude when competing.”
Trent’s mouth worked as if struggling not to say something.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Hit me with it. You know you want to.”
“Although I appreciate the time out, sugar, my confidence would be a helluva lot better if you could control your temper.”
“And mine would’ve been better if you hadn’t hauled me in here in the first place.” It wasn’t like he’d forced her. Beneath her anger, she’d been curious. Why would a man with his reputation want to drag her anywhere? She’d gotten her answer. He had needs, just like any other man. It was time to go. “Reverend, it’s been a pleasure.” Wrong choice of words. “But I need to leave.”
Trent looked as if he wanted to say more, but he stepped aside to let her pass.
After a moment’s hesitation, Cora reached for the handle. She turned the knob. She jiggled. She tugged. She started to feel the claustrophobic effect of Trent’s heat on her body.
This was like putting her in a room with chocolate. She had the worst will-power when it came to chocolate.
“Let me.” His large hand covered hers.
She stepped out of his way, suspecting the worst.
He turned the knob. He jiggled. He tugged. “Holy...”
Dance music blared from the living room. The bass pounded the walls, thumping in time to the hard beat of Cora’s pulse.
He pounded on the door with the flat of his hand. “Hey!” No matter how loud Trent yelled and pounded, no one heard him.
It would take more than muscle and noise to get them out of here. Cora sat on the floor, back to the wall. Brutus plopped on his belly in the corner less than a foot away, watching her.
Trent was watching her, too, but it was no longer with that let’s-get-it-on heat. He started to speak.
“Don’t say it.” Cora held up a hand, because him saying it would only add to her extremely bad day. “You’ll only make it worse if you say it.”
He ignored her and said it anyway. “We’re stuck.”
Chapter 5
“Guys like you are supposed to look on the bright side.�
�� On the floor, Cora slipped off her heels and stretched her legs, pointing her toes until they almost touched the door behind him. She wiggled those digits, as if they needed airing out.
The room was small, just a sink and a toilet. Trent didn’t want to look at her. With Cora’s taste still on his lips, looking at her only made him want her more. He leaned on the edge of the sink with both hands and stared at himself in the mirror. Cora incited lust.
Minister Bishop’s voice reverberated in his head: Whosoever looks on a woman with lust hath fornicated with her already in his heart.
He hadn’t lusted after a woman since he’d met Rachel in college. She’d been the sweetest thing Trent came across at BYU. Not only was she willing to obey the university’s strict standards of behavior between the sexes, but she also understood his dedication to the game of basketball. She didn’t complain about him spending extra hours in the weight room, on the treadmill, or on the gym floor practicing his shot. While he studied game film, she’d sat next to him studying the Bible. And after he’d proposed, during those rare weekends when he wasn’t busy, she’d happily accompanied him to a cheap motel.
After his senior year, when the NBA didn’t come calling in need of his jump shot, he’d gone into coaching. Again, Rachel had been understanding. She’d worked with her father’s flock, while he established his coaching credentials. Sex went no farther than the basics, but it was regular and non-distracting – yes, he’d loved his wife (still did), but he didn’t think about making love to her all day long.
It was only after Trent won the ultimate title in basketball – the Final Four – that he’d realized their marriage had sunk to something like a business proposition. Their reputations fed off each other. After he’d brought home that trophy, Rachel and Minister Bishop wanted him to take a bigger role in their church. Rachel wanted him to give up drinking and watching UFC fights. She wanted him to reference the Bible when he spoke. She wanted him to deliver Sunday service. She wanted him to become the Reverend for real!
Trent stared at the woman locked in the bathroom with him. She was the kind of woman the Minister Bishop preached against. The kind of woman Trent had dreamed of flaunting in his ex-father-in-law’s face when he arrived in L.A.
What had he been thinking dragging Cora in here?
His heart pounded in his chest, daring him to admit there’d been more on his mind when he locked them in here than eliminating speed bumps. Shit and damn. With one strike against him for Randy’s injury and his credibility stretched to cover Archie, he’d fail if the Reverend’s façade was tarnished further.
“You jinxed us,” Cora said, no trace of doom in her voice.
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
She chuckled. “The Reverend cusses and gives out passionate kisses?”
Trent was too aware of Cora’s slender legs, of her dark, silky hair, and the tequila-fire of her kiss. The flowery scent of soap had long gone, leaving behind that hint of vanilla. “I have to get out of here. Pretty soon somebody’s going to wonder where I’ve gone and then…”
“Such a gentleman, Reverend. You can say it.” She sighed. “And then they’ll notice I’m gone or remember that you dragged me – quickly – through the crowd.” She sighed again, as if she knew she was no good at staying out of trouble. “My sister will be the first to jump to the conclusion and say I corrupted you. Don’t worry, since you’re my client and the Reverend, I’ll take the hit.” There was a forlorn note in her voice, as if she took the hit for people far too often. She glanced up hopefully. “Where’s your cell phone?”
“In my car. Charging. Yours?”
Hope fell from her delicate features. “In my purse in the foyer.”
“Somebody’s bound to come by soon. All those drinks. They’ll need a bathroom.”
“The real party just started. It’s going to be at least another thirty minutes of hard core dancing before they take a break.” She stretched her feet toward the bathroom door again. Point and flex. Her dog snuggled next to her hip and closed its eyes. “You may as well sit. Put your back against the door and shout out if you hear someone.”
He’d much rather put her back to the door and make her shout out.
Biting back another curse, he did as she suggested, stretching his legs alongside, but not touching, hers. The beat of the music shook the door. Sex may have been off the table, but he didn’t want to be the Reverend again just yet. “You’re calm. Have much experience being locked in a bathroom during a party?”
“Growing up around here, you learn not to panic when weird shit happens, because weird shit goes down all the time.” She wiggled her toes. Cute, tempting toes.
It was safer to watch the napping dog. “What about the anger?” Her anger had propelled her to kiss him. His anger still had a grip on his chest, crowding his lungs. He needed to get out of here before he did something stupid, like kiss her again.
“Massage works wonders on anger, whether you give or receive. Let me show you.” She tugged off his right loafer and claimed his foot, setting it in her lap.
Trent’s body tensed, mostly between his legs.
“Relax,” she murmured. And then she proceeded to massage the bottom of his foot with her thumbs.
Electricity shot from her touch to his dick. Trent forgot about anger. He forgot about his image and expectations and responsibilities. His vision funneled to this woman. He imagined her hands continuing their circular motion up his legs, to his thighs, to the part of him that ached to be touched. “Holy Hell Fire.”
Cora chuckled softly. “Men are such pussies.”
If she only knew how badly he wanted to thrust inside her pretty kitty. “Your comment warrants further explanation, sugar.” His voice sounded hoarse and strained, like a man holding onto his composure by an unraveling thread. He tried to pull his foot from her grip.
She held on, a challenge in those dark eyes. Her fingernail scraped against his arch.
Trent suppressed a groan.
She laughed. “We’re not going to have sex. Didn’t you ever sit in a girl’s dorm room and get a massage during finals week?”
He shook his head. “I went to BYU on a scholarship. We had to sign a code of conduct – no girls in the dorm, no pre-marital sex. I couldn’t afford to lose my full-ride.” Not when the alternative was to play college football for his cussing, beer guzzling, co-ed dating dad.
“That explains it,” she said.
“What?”
“You assumed my kiss meant we were going to shed some clothes and make a connection.” She placed his right foot on the floor and took his other shoe off. “You know, you can return the favor.” She wiggled her toes.
He didn’t think he could touch her. He was holding onto his erection for dear life. If he touched her and relaxed his hold…
“Chicken.”
A challenge. He was a sucker for a challenge. The music was blaring and vibrating through his chest as if he was sitting on a cheap motel bed and had inserted a couple of quarters. Shades of high school and lost virginity.
He placed her foot in his lap, resting her heel next to his balls. This was going to hurt later.
Hell, it hurt now.
The arch of her foot was smooth and soft. He hadn’t been with a woman since he left Rachel in March. Five months of celibacy made a man bat-smack crazy, crazy enough to nearly orgasm at a woman’s touch on his feet. His wife hadn’t appreciated foreplay. It didn’t fit into her prim, over-scheduled life. Holy Mama, he’d forgotten what he was missing.
He mimicked Cora’s technique – small circles, firm pressure.
“Are you sure you never did this before? You’re a natural.” She closed her eyes, tilting her head back against the wall. Her legs fell slightly apart, sliding her short, black skirt higher up her thighs, revealing red lace.
Trent tensed again.
Her eyes flew open. “What’s wrong?”
His heart pounded. His head pounded. His package pounded with wanti
ng her.
Not her. Sex, he chastised himself.
Her, his dick contradicted. Now.
“The bathroom is down here.” A muffled woman’s voice in the hallway.
Trent couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Vivian Gordon. He scrambled to his feet and started hammering the door with his fists.
“Who’s in there?” A familiar, male voice with a gravelly grumble. Archie.
Of all the people who had to pee, it had to be Dad.
“We’re locked in,” Trent yelled.
“What’s wrong?” Vivian’s voice again. “Is someone stuck in there?”
“Not hardly,” Cora murmured behind him.
Someone fiddled with the door knob. Finally, the door swung open.
“Oh,” Vivian said. And then as she saw Cora behind him and added, “Oh.” Her smile widened. She laughed and walked away.
Cora shoved Trent’s shoes at his chest, darted around him and stepped into the hallway, her little dog at her heels.
Archie’s grin stretched from one ear to the other. “It’s about time.”
“It’s not what you think.” Trent slipped on his shoes and hurried after Cora.
“Don’t waste your breath,” Cora said over her shoulder. “Denial doesn’t work. This is L.A., the home of hot rumors.” Cora was almost to the living room. “Hurry up, Brutus.”
“My name isn’t...Dang.” The dog’s name was Brutus. “I thought you were calling me.” With some kind of boy-toy nickname.
“I won’t be calling you.” Her conviction needled what little dignity he had left. “And you won’t be calling me, Reverend.”
“You can bet on that,” he mumbled, much to his dick’s dismay.
~*~
“What are you doing?” Gemma accosted Cora in one corner of Jack’s large living room. “I saw you coming out of the bathroom with Coach Parker. Do you think Coach Parker and his reputation are some kind of challenge?”
Cora wasn’t even going to ask the Dooley Foundation receptionist what she was doing at Jack Gordon’s party. Gemma was a jack-of-all trades – errand girl, support staff, pitch-in-wherever-needed, pain in Cora’s ass. Gemma had decided months ago that Cora was an insubstantial fashion plate wired for cheap sex. She’d been Cora’s nemesis ever since.