by Susan Fox
“Maura,” Timothy said, “I’d like you to meet Professor Edward Mortimer. He’s a visiting lecturer and is considering joining our faculty next year.” Her father had semi-retired from teaching to do more research and article-writing, as well as keeping his longtime position on the board of the Wilton Academy where both he and Maura had attended secondary school. But he was still very much attached to his beloved history department, and rare was the day that he didn’t spend a few hours at the university.
With a sense of inevitability, Maura turned and assessed her parents’ latest offering. She was thirty. Maybe today’s awful luck would change and, for once, Agnes and Timothy would have chosen a man who actually appealed to her.
Edward Mortimer was a poster boy for the word “average.” He certainly wasn’t bad looking, but nor was he handsome. Roughly her age, he had regular features, medium brown hair, and a build that was neither lean nor heavy. She didn’t see a single distinguishing feature. He’d make a perfect spy. No one would ever remember seeing him. He’d be the George Smiley type of spy—the character created by John le Carré—not the flashy, unrealistic kind.
She thought of her favorite spies, especially the various 007s. No one had ever topped Sean Connery, in her considered opinion. Pierce Brosnan’s Bond was debonair, like Connery’s, but didn’t have that raw masculine edge, the edge that women went wild for in Daniel Craig. And, no doubt, in Jesse Blue.
She shook her head to clear it. Thank heavens her parents and, presumably, Professor Mortimer, weren’t mind readers or they’d be appalled.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, holding out his hand.
She put hers into it. “Likewise.” His grip was neither strong nor weak, just . . . average. His skin was neither hot nor cold, and definitely not sweaty. As they both let go, she saw that his hand was slim and pale. No calluses or blisters. Not a hand she could imagine on the handlebar of a motorcycle, or levering a garden tool into the resistant earth. Or tracing the outline of her lips . . .
As they all sat, Edward said, “May I wish you a happy birthday?”
What if I said “no,” she wondered mutinously. Instead, the soul of decorum, she murmured, “How kind of you.” In her head, she heard Eliza Doolittle dutifully repeating “How kind of you to let me come.”
Come? The double meaning resonated in her head. Not that she had any personal experience with the sexy connotation of that word. With Bill and Winston, she’d never achieved orgasm. But she’d just bet Jesse Blue’s women came, and thanked him for it—but by shrieking their lungs out, not mouthing platitudes.
Edward lifted his water glass and Maura closed her eyes briefly, remembering how Jesse’s muscles had flexed and shifted as he drank that glass of soda.
“. . . drink?”
Her eyes flew open as she realized her father was asking her a question. She made a guess. “I’d like a glass of red wine, please.”
“White might do better,” Timothy said, putting down the wine list. “The club has a number of excellent seafood specials tonight. Why don’t we get a bottle of the New Zealand chardonnay?”
Why could he never remember that she didn’t like chardonnay? She always hated to disagree with her adoptive parents—the only people who’d been willing to take her in when she was orphaned—and risk their disapproval, but tonight was her birthday and it had been a rough day. Despite the acid twinge of guilt tugging at her belly, she said, “White’s fine, but I’d rather not have chardonnay.”
Edward picked up the wine list and handed it to her. “It’s your birthday. You should choose, Maura.”
Pleasantly surprised, she beamed at him. Then, of course, she felt the overwhelming pressure of choosing a wine neither of her parents would criticize. Though Agnes and Timothy maintained that they lived frugally and weren’t pretentious, the fact was that he’d grown up comfortably well-off and she came from serious money. It showed in a thousand ways, from their choice of wine to their decision to send Maura to the exclusive Wilton Academy.
As the meal progressed, Maura learned that Edward was indeed considerate. He was also intelligent, articulate, and really quite boring as he chatted easily with her parents about the paper Agnes was writing on funerary pits. Her parents would consider him an excellent match for her. He was certainly a good match for them, she thought, suppressing a yawn. He’d fit into the family seamlessly.
So, really, that did make him a good match for her, too. As her parents had always said, A good marriage is a partnership of equals, based on a solid foundation of similar values and interests. If the woman was well-bred, well-educated, well-spoken, and not exactly exciting, then those were the qualities she must look for in a mate. Maura couldn’t fault their logic; the formula had served both of them well.
What was wrong with her, that she longed for a man who discussed movies rather than archival materials, one who tossed her suggestive winks rather than polite nods? Whose gaze made her pulse race, and sweat break out on her skin?
And why had it taken until today for her to realize this? Had the age of thirty brought this self-knowledge?
Or was it the coming of Jesse Blue?
The other three were still talking happily, and no doubt believed she was listening attentively. The subject wasn’t completely uninteresting, but right now she was in complete agreement with Eliza Doolittle, when she’d sung, Words, words, words, I’m so sick of words.
Jesse Blue was too short on words. Edward Mortimer, like her parents, was too full of them. Somewhere, there must be a happy medium.
She forced herself to tune into the conversation, and after a few minutes had to struggle to hold back a yawn. She hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night; it had been a long day; it was warm in here. She should stop drinking wine. But it was her only pleasure at the moment, so she sipped again. Gazing into her glass, she noted how the pale gold of the wine reflected the glimmer of subdued lights. When she swirled the liquid, it swished in gentle curves, almost hypnotically . . .
It was her birthday and she should be having fun. If she had her choice, what would she like to be doing this very minute? She sipped, and ran her tongue over her lips to catch a stray drop as she stared into the golden liquid and held back another yawn.
An hour ago, she’d been staring, mesmerized, at something very different. When she’d almost bumped into Jesse, she had frozen in place, heat pulsing through her veins. Hypnotized . . .
She sipped again, remembering how she’d stared at his lips . . .
She’d been drawn toward him as if they were magnetic. . .
Maura’s tongue ran slowly across . . .
Jesse’s lips. They were full, sensual, swollen. Her own body felt swollen, too, ripe with feelings she’d never experienced before, a lush new territory just waiting to be explored. By his strong brown hands.
He cupped her breast through her silk blouse, and the roughness of his skin caught at the delicate fabric. Underneath, her own skin tightened, yearning for the touch of flesh against flesh.
His fingers went to the top button of her blouse, and he slipped it effortlessly through the hole. He parted the sides of the blouse and ran his finger down the flesh he had bared—the base of her neck, that little hollow between her collarbones. She knew he could feel the flutter of her pulse as her heart raced with pleasure.
He undid another button and leaned down to moisten her skin with his tongue. Her breasts strained against the confinement of her bra, longing for him to reach them. But he was drawing this out, tantalizing and torturing her. What would it feel like when his tongue finally touched—
“Maura?” her mother’s voice broke in.
She almost dropped the wineglass. What? Where was she? “Yes?” She gazed across the table, aware that color flamed in her cheeks. What was wrong with her? And, come to think of it, how was her mind coming up with sensual details she’d never personally experienced? Maybe she hadn’t been skimming those sex scenes as much as she’d thought.
“You were miles away.”
If Agnes only knew. “Sorry,” Maura said respectfully. “I’m a little tired tonight. It’s been a long day.”
Respectful. Yes, she’d learned respect in her first months at Agnes and Timothy’s house, and now it was a habit.
Not a habit of Jesse Blue’s, she’d noticed today. He wasn’t out-and-out rude or insolent, but he got his own way. There was a tone—a kind of taunting, teasing tone—she wasn’t used to. And the occasional expression in his eyes that she couldn’t read, as if maybe he was viewing her with interest. Male interest. When she’d swung around in her chair and found that he’d been watching her brush her hair, his eyes had been glittering, his mouth was slightly open, she’d almost have said his nostrils were flaring.
She shook her head and banished the image. What an idiot she was. He was a man, not a horse, and no doubt he’d been tired and anxious to get away. It was impatience she’d seen, not . . . something else she didn’t dare name. Something she wouldn’t allow herself to want, not from a man like him.
She looked at three sets of raised eyebrows. “I’m fine, honestly. Please go on with your conversation.”
“You’ve barely said a word,” Edward commented. “We’ve been talking about our work, and now it’s your turn. Timothy didn’t say what you do.”
No, he wouldn’t have, because he and Agnes weren’t happy about it. Her parents had strongly encouraged her to go into academia, but it was one of the few areas in her life where she couldn’t bring herself to respect their wishes. She loved numbers, and was intrigued by the way businesses worked. So, no doctorate for her, just a master’s in business admin.
“I’m an accountant at a seniors residential facility,” she told him.
“You enjoy it?”
“I do.” Her parents couldn’t seem to understand that the job at Cherry Lane was perfect for her, letting her indulge her passion for numbers and spend time with seniors she liked and respected. Or, rather, the job had been perfect until today.
“Her talents, and her education, are being wasted,” Agnes said. “Fortunately, she has a good chance of becoming the general manager.”
“Sounds impressive,” Edward commented.
Left to her own unambitious devices, she’d have been quite content in her current job. She only hoped that, if she won the promotion, Agnes and Timothy would finally get over being disappointed in her.
Edward started to say something else to her, but Timothy intervened with a question about some research Edward had been doing, and the three of them were off again.
Maura reflected on her chances at that promotion. If things worked out with Jesse, and a nice garden was created on a minimal budget, that would be a big point in her favor. If Jesse screwed up, though—especially if he did steal something, or drink or do drugs at Cherry Lane—she’d be in serious trouble. Tomorrow, surely she’d locate the file on him and find out exactly what kind of man she was dealing with.
What kind of man . . . She glanced across at nice, average Edward, nodding as he listened to her father. She’d just bet Jesse Blue was having a much more exciting evening than she was. And so was whichever curvy, sexy, vivacious woman he was spending it with.
In bed, Edward would probably be average, and nice. As for Jesse, with that hot body and loads and loads of experience, he’d probably be blow-your-mind good.
Did he make love the way he gardened: slowly and thoroughly, with attention to every detail? What would it feel like to have a man devote his single-minded attention to her body, the way Jesse had tended to that neglected garden?
“Dessert?” a soft voice asked.
“Oh, yes, please,” Maura murmured. Whipped cream and Jesse Blue and—
“. . . cake and a pear tart.”
She came back to reality with a thud. The waiter was looking at her expectantly. What had he said?
Embarrassed, realizing she’d again become the center of attention and Agnes was frowning, she muttered, “The pear tart.”
“An excellent choice, madam.”
She felt like snapping, I’m not a madam! Then she realized how it would sound. What an odd word, with two such different meanings. No one on earth would take uptight Maura for the madam of a, uh, brothel, to use the most polite word she could think of. She remembered Jesse’s odd expression the first time she put her glasses on. Maybe it was time to consider getting contact lenses.
She’d bet, whoever Jesse was spending the evening with, the woman didn’t wear glasses.
Jesse tested the burgers by pressing the spatula against them gently. “I figure they’re done. Whadda ya say, dude?” he asked the eight-year-old boy who watched his every move.
“I say so, too, dude.”
“Okay, go tell your ma.”
Jesse flipped the burgers onto a plate and turned off the barbecue. He stepped off the balcony and followed Juanito into the tiny apartment, feeling abused muscles protest. It’d been a hell of a long day out there in the blazing sun, and he was beat.
Consuela emerged from the kitchen, looking tousled and pretty in hot-pink shorts and a white crop top. “Juanito, go wash your hands.” As her son ran off, she thrust a family-size jar of mayonnaise at Jesse. “I can’t get the lid off.”
“Con, I gave you one of those thingamajigs.”
“I can’t find it. ’Sides, it’s easier to ask you.” She flashed him a dazzling smile and handed him the jar.
“Glad I’m good for something.” He twisted the lid off, his blisters making him wince, and handed the jar back. “Mayo doesn’t belong on hamburgers.”
“I like it.”
“Just don’t make me eat it.”
She went back into the kitchen, and Jesse sat down at the red-top table they’d picked up at the Salvation Army thrift shop. Though he’d had a burger for lunch, these would be better. She’d spread out all the fixings. Ketchup and mustard, tomatoes, lettuce, raw onions. He looked at the onions. Hell, why not? It wasn’t like he had a hot date.
Hot. He sure as hell had been hot today, and not just from the sun and exertion . . .
He closed his eyes for a moment . . .
Remembered slugging down that cold soda, then looking at Maura Mahoney’s face and heating up all over again ...
Tiny beads of sweat had pearled on her forehead. Before now, he’d have bet she was too cool a cucumber to ever break a sweat . . .
Was it that hot in the courtyard or did it have something to do with him?
He reached out a finger and swiped it across her forehead, then put it in his mouth, sucking her sweat, tasting the salty tang of her.
Those stunning eyes widened and she gave a tiny gasp.
When he took his finger from his mouth, she reached for his hand. She brought it to her own lush, ripe mouth. Her eyes never leaving his, she took his finger into that sexy mouth, a little bit at a time. Her lips were soft, but they circled him firmly. The inside of her mouth was a hot, warm sheath, enveloping him. She sucked gently, swirling her tongue around his finger. Then she increased the pressure, moving up his finger then down again.
Fucking his finger.
His hard-on craved the touch of her lips and tongue. Wanted her to fuck his dick rather than his finger.
He groaned and felt her lips smile against his finger. She knew she was torturing him. Maura Mahoney, a seductress who could make him come just from sucking on his finger.
She scraped her teeth gently against his sensitive flesh, he groaned again, and she said . . .
“Jesse, what’s wrong?”
No, what the fuck? That was Consuela’s voice. His eyes flew open and he gaped up at his friend. “Huh?”
“You groaned and had this weird expression on your face. Have you got a stomachache?”
Hurriedly, he shoved his chair farther under the table. If Con glanced at his lap, she’d have no trouble figuring out his problem. “Sore muscles. I worked hard today, over at that seniors place.”
“Then you’ll be ready for a good meal, hon.” She
bent and kissed the top of his head. Her breasts—gorgeous, voluptuous ones—were about two inches from his face, but he had no desire to touch them. Con was his buddy. Even though she was most definitely a babe, there’d never been an attraction between them.
Attraction was an odd thing. He and Consuela would be perfect together, and he was just plain crazy about Juanito. But he could no more imagine going to bed with Con than . . . than he could stop imagining touching Maura Mahoney. Having her touch him.
He stifled a groan, relieved when Juanito came and took his seat, and they all began to slather the top halves of their hamburger buns with their favorite combination. He and the boy competed to see who could draw the coolest picture in ketchup and mustard. It was a tradition.
He wondered what the classy Ms. Mahoney was doing tonight. Did she ever eat hamburgers? She was probably into that fancy stuff like truffles and caviar.
Having constructed the perfect burger, he opened wide to take the first bite. And thought of Maura opening those sexy lips wide, wider. But it wasn’t a hamburger she was opening wide for . . .
“Jesse?”
He bit down hard. Into bun, meat, and his own finger. “Bloody hell!”
Con shot him a warning look. “Sorry,” he muttered. He inspected his finger and decided he’d live, then forced his mind back to present company. He took another bite and smiled at Juanito. “Hey dude, we did a mean job on these. They’re way better than Mickey D’s.”
“They’re even better with mayo,” Con teased.
Once they’d all taken those first few bites to ward off starvation, she said, “Tell us about the seniors place, Jesse. This was the big first day, right? Your, uh, new part-time job.” They hadn’t told her son about the assault charge against Jesse, nor his community service. “How did it go?”
“Okay. They’ve got me cleaning up a rundown garden.”
“Great! You’re good at that stuff.”
“Thanks.” He liked how Consuela focused on the positive. She didn’t know that he couldn’t read properly—he was real good at hiding that—but she did know he wasn’t exactly the intellectual type. Yet she never dumped on him for dropping out of school, just gave him credit for the things he was good at.