Body Heat

by Susan Fox

  “What are the people like at this Cherry Lane place?” she asked.

  He wasn’t going to tell her about Maura Mahoney, because Con picked up on stuff. “I’ve met a few of the seniors and they’re pretty cool.”

  “Seniors?” Juanito asked. “Like, old people?”

  “Yeah, pretty old. And pretty smart. And kind of lonely, too.”

  Con nodded. “That’s sad.”

  “How come I don’t know any old people?” her son asked.

  She bit her lip. “We’ve talked about this. Some kids have grandparents and aunts and uncles, and some don’t. We’re just this itty bitty family, you and me.” She glanced across the table. “And Jesse.”

  “But he’s not old.”

  “Thanks,” Jesse said. “Now, you figure you got room for another burger?”

  Consuela shot him a relieved glance.

  The issue of relatives was sensitive. Her stepdad had been an abuser and, when Con’s boyfriend Rico knocked her up in twelfth grade, she’d decided things had to change. She said she never wanted to see her abusive stepdad again, and that her mom had to choose between them. Her mom called her an ungrateful little bitch. Con left home and moved in with a girlfriend’s family, and a few months later her mom and stepdad moved away. As for Juanito’s father, Rico had been another jerk, another abuser. Best thing he’d done was leave Con when she told him she was pregnant. He’d probably never told his parents he had a kid, and Con hadn’t, either.

  She was pretty smart about most things, but not when it came to men. She kept picking losers, men like her stepdad, Rico, and that supreme asshole Pollan. That thing she did, seeing the best in people, sometimes got her into trouble.

  After the three of them polished off the burgers, he and Consuela tidied up while Juanito went to change into pajamas. They took bowls of fruit salad over ice cream into the living room and started watching a Spy Kids movie on DVD. Jesse sprawled in the big chair with Juanito on the floor leaning against him. Consuela took the couch, half watching the show as she painted her fingernails and toenails a bright pinky-red.

  It was homey, which Jesse liked a lot. He’d never had much of that as a kid. Still, it was kind of weird, a twenty-seven-year-old guy spending his Saturday nights this way.

  He hadn’t been dating much, not since he’d beaten up Pollan. Con, with her ex out of her life—hopefully forever this time—was relieved but edgy. It was taking her a while to sort herself out. She said hanging out with Jesse kept her from doing something stupid. It worked for him; he hadn’t met a gal who turned his crank in quite a while. Not until today. And his crank knew better than to mess with the likes of Maura Mahoney.

  He tried to imagine her here in this living room. She’d think Con looked trashy, she’d notice the ice cream Juanito had dribbled on his PJ top, and she’d itch to turn the TV off. As for Jesse, she’d see him for exactly what he was: a big dumb lunk of a physical laborer.

  Why the hell was he picturing Maura in this living room? If he was going to bring any woman here, it’d be someone like that pretty redhead, Gracie.

  “Okay, kiddo,” Con’s voice broke into his thoughts as she spoke to her son. “That’s your hour of TV. Go brush your teeth and hop into bed.” She stopped the DVD.

  “It’s Saturday,” Juanito protested.

  “Yup, and that’s why you got to stay up this late.”

  Grumbling, the boy got to his feet and trudged away.

  Consuela took the ice cream bowls into the kitchen.

  Yeah, homey was good, and there was a part of Jesse that wanted a home and family of his own. He’d never had those things, and it was his own damned fault. He’d always screwed things up, been the dummy, the troublemaker. Yeah, he was older now, but did that mean he’d do any better? So far, he hadn’t met a woman who made him want to try. He didn’t think Gracie’d be the one, but the two of them could have some fun.

  “Need any help?” he called to Con.

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  He hunted through the magazines on the coffee table, wondering if that Victoria’s Secret one was still there. Nope. Probably a good thing. A copy of National Geographic reminded him of one of the foster families he’d lived with. They’d encouraged the kids to read it. It was supposed to be educational. Jesse, twelve, had been the oldest. He’d grab the magazine first and look for photos of women with bare boobs, then check out the rest of the pictures. There were some cool things, like shots of space capsules and outer space, photographs taken undersea. It really burned him that his foster brother and sister, who were only eight and nine, could read the damned stories.

  It hurt more when they figured out he couldn’t, and called him “dummy.” Bad enough he got that crap at school; it sucked to get it at home.

  He slapped the magazine down on the table. What kind of idiot got to be twenty-seven without knowing how to read?

  A moment later, Juanito called, “Jesse, I’m in bed. Come read me a story.”

  Jeez, was the kid a mind reader? Jesse wandered into the bedroom the boy shared with his mother. Juanito, propped up on pillows in the twin bed by the window, handed Jesse a book.

  Recognizing the kid with big glasses, Jesse knew it was a Harry Potter. When Juanito had been little and his books were the kind with big pictures and only five or ten large-print words on a page, Jesse’d read to him. Too bad the boy had graduated to big-kid books. The sight of all those letters jumbled up on the page gave Jesse a headache. “Nah, I’d rather tell you a story.”

  “Dude, your stories are so cool. Tell me about Robo Kid.”

  Robo Kid was a character Jesse had made up, who was half human and half android. He spent his nights fighting bad guys and aliens and vampires, and his days pretending he was a normal kid.

  Jesse spun another adventure and Juanito listened raptly. Then Jesse whacked the little guy on the shoulder and said good night.

  In the living room, Con flicked the television off. “I’m gonna go kiss Juanito good night, but then can I talk to you, Jesse?”

  “Sure.” He wandered out to the kitchen and screwed the top off one of the beers he’d brought. He came back and settled into his chair.

  When she returned and took her own chair, he asked, “What’s up?”

  “I met this guy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “At the coffee shop at the mall where I work. He’s just got a job at the transmission place.” Consuela worked at a beauty salon in a strip mall. “He seems nice.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He asked me out. I don’t know what to do.”

  Jeez. Why didn’t she talk to a girlfriend about this stuff? “You wanna go?”

  “Yes, but . . .” She fiddled with the edge of her crop top, yanking it down over her brown skin.

  “But?”

  “How do I know . . .” She rubbed her left arm, where Gord Pollan had broken it a couple of years ago. That was when Con had had that restraining order against him. It had cost the asshole a trip to prison, but even that wasn’t enough to stop him.

  “How do you know he’s not like Pollan? Or your stepdad?”

  “Or Juanito’s father. Yeah. I know I’ve got this pattern. I pick that kind of guy. Even if they seem nice at first. Like, Gord seemed really sweet when we first got together.”

  Jesse sighed. “Didn’t the social worker help you with this stuff?”

  “Yeah, but I’m still not sure . . .”

  “You want me to check him out?”

  She came over to hug him. “Hon, you’re the best. He asked me out for coffee Monday night. Maybe if I met you after your basketball game . . .”

  “Okay. But what about Juanito?”

  “Ms. Barzhi next door says he can come over any time. She’s lonely ’cause her husband’s away on some training course.”

  “You maybe wanna think about bringing Juanito along. Let this guy know up front you’ve got a kid. Not to mention a . . . whatever.”

  “A protector. That’s what yo
u are, Jesse. You’re my protector. If you hadn’t beaten the shit out of Gord, I’d have never been free of him.”

  “Yeah, well. Listen, I gotta go.”

  “Hot date?”

  “Nah, just tired.” A hot date. Hah. And now he was wondering what Maura Mahoney’s idea of a hot date was. Champagne and caviar at some ritzy restaurant? Ballroom dancing? He imagined her in some slinky dress, her shoulders bare, a full skirt swishing around those long legs. Her back straight and regal, her partner holding her gently, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Not his idea of dancing. No, what worked for him was . . .

  He thought about Patrick Swayze and those girls in that old movie Dirty Dancing, where the summer staff got all raunchy together...

  He imagined Maura, dressed all sexy like the girls in that movie . . .

  Getting down and dirty on the dance floor . . .

  Except her partner wasn’t Swayze, it was Jesse.

  It was Jesse who had his thigh between her legs, Jesse she was grinding her pelvis against. And she had her hair down. She tossed her head and those red-gold tresses swirled like wildfire.

  His hands gripped her waist and she leaned back, laughing, to run both hands through her hair and toss it. Her head swung from side to side as her pelvis made circles against his. Her whole body moved sensually in time to the music. The music was . . .

  The theme song from some stupid TV show. Crap.

  Consuela had flicked the tube back on. Thank God, or he’d have lost control of his body again.

  She glanced at him, her expression kind of beaten down. “Is there even any point dating? I mean, at some point I gotta tell the guy, don’t I, Jesse? Tell him I can’t have any more kids?” Pollan had done that to her, too, when he got out of prison. “What man’s gonna want me?”

  Jesse felt guilty as hell for having relied on the law rather than stopping Pollan himself, years earlier than he had. “Jeez, Con, you can’t think that way. You and Juanito are great. Any guy’d be damn lucky.” He went over and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Night. See you Monday.”

  “Night. And thanks, Jesse. You’re the best.”

  Not hardly. It was his fault Con couldn’t have kids.

  As Jesse rode home, he thought about stopping for a drink at Low Down. Hang out with the guys, shoot some pool. But then he’d probably settle in for a few more drinks, maybe screw up tomorrow. His lawyer had told him to be careful, and he guessed he ought to listen. If it hadn’t been for Barry Adamson, his butt would be cooling in a prison cell right now rather than hugging the leather seat of his Harley.

  Riding the bike was great, but there was one thing that would make it even better. A warm, sexy female on behind him. He could just imagine . . .

  Arms tight around his waist . . .

  Chapter 6

  Maura’s arms, squeezing him. Her face snuggled into his shoulder. She wasn’t wearing a helmet.

  Her breasts pressed into his back and she nipped his neck. He didn’t have a helmet, either, he realized. His hair blew back in the wind and hers did, too. Even though he was riding the bike, somehow he could see the two of them from the outside, with that flag of fiery hair streaming out behind them like a flame.

  Her hands were clasped across his belt. He took one of them and moved it down, spreading it across the front of his fly where he was already hard for her.

  She accepted the invitation, pressing tight, sliding her hand up and down. A horn honked and—

  “Hey buddy, get a move on before it goes red again!” someone hollered.

  He gaped at the light, then gunned it and roared away. Why the fuck couldn’t he fantasize about Gracie, not Maura? Tomorrow, maybe he’d see if Gracie felt like seeing a movie. See if she could drive Maura out of his mind.

  Back at his apartment, he peeled off his jacket, hung it up, and sank down in his comfy old recliner. He flicked through the movie channels, looking for distraction. Though everything else in his apartment was what Con called “bachelor minimal,” his television was a fifty-incher, and state of the art.

  He paused, recognizing a scene from Crazy, Stupid, Love, the movie that said lucky people have soul mates. Emma Stone looked a little like Maura, with her beautiful face, greenish eyes, and red hair. Except Maura’s eyes were more striking and her hair more of a reddish-gold, and silkier . . .

  Shit. He flipped channels again and the strains of Moon River filled the room. He groaned. Audrey Hepburn. Hell, it seemed that tonight everything was going to remind him of Maura Mahoney.

  Crazy, Stupid, Love or Moon River? If any of his guy friends caught him watching this shit, he’d never live it down, but the truth was, he liked a good chick flick just as much as action adventure.

  Holly Golightly stood on the deserted street outside Tiffany’s in her cocktail dress and high-piled hair, drinking her breakfast coffee and munching a croissant, gazing in the window. He had to grin. This movie got to him.

  Maybe because they were all losers. The girl who took money from men, the gigolo who lived off an older woman, even the no-name cat. Losers like him, yet together they found, or created, something that mattered. If there was hope for the three of them . . .

  He grabbed a beer from the fridge, then sprawled on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table.

  Back at her apartment, Maura plunked her autographed copy of The Search for the Real Nefertiti on the coffee table. For once her parents had come up with a gift that looked semiinteresting, but tonight she needed—she deserved—lighter fare.

  And she knew just what she wanted. In fact, she’d timed her departure from the restaurant around the TV schedule that she’d studied last night. Her birthday had begun happily, and it would end happily, and she’d let the magic of a favorite movie obliterate everything in between.

  In the kitchen, she mixed cocoa powder, sugar, and milk in a pan, leaving it on low heat. Then she washed her face, peeled off her work clothes, and slipped into soft cotton pajamas. A couple of giant marshmallows on top of her hot chocolate, and she was ready.

  She swung open the doors to the antique wardrobe, revealing the television hidden within. Seconds later, propped up on pillows in bed, she sighed with pleasure at the sight of Holly Golightly outside Tiffany’s.

  Two hours later, Maura watched through tear-flooded eyes as Holly claimed her no-name cat, then turned to Paul, her eyes telling him that she knew they belonged to each other. The three embraced in the pouring rain, and that New York alley became heaven on earth.

  Maura blew her nose prodigiously, then gave a satisfied sigh, clicked off the television, and closed the doors of the wardrobe. Her guilty secret—indulged, then hidden away again.

  She brushed her teeth and climbed into bed. What a sweet guy George Peppard’s Paul had been. Flawed in the beginning, but he’d become Holly’s true friend. He understood Holly’s frailties, yet loved her all the same. How could she have helped but fall in love with him, and trust him with her battered heart?

  Snuggling down in the covers, Maura yawned. Once, she’d hoped to find a man like that herself. Increasingly, she’d come to believe they only existed in the movies. But oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful? Smiling dreamily, she hugged the spare pillow against her . . .

  And relived that final scene . . .

  It was raining . . . Cold, nasty rain . . .

  But Maura didn’t mind a bit because warm arms encircled her. Her and her cat. She hugged the cat and Jesse hugged her. They were a family now, no longer drifting—or, if they were, they’d do it together. Chasing the same rainbow’s end . . .

  She sighed contentedly as Jesse’s strength sheltered her and his body heat counteracted the cold.

  “Maura?” Jesse said, his voice husky.

  She glanced up. Somehow, magically, it had stopped raining.

  And they were no longer in an alley full of garbage cans. They were in a park, with lush grass underfoot and cherry trees flowering overhead.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she mu
rmured.

  “You’re so beautiful.”

  He released her and for a moment she felt bereft, but all he was doing was taking off his leather jacket, tossing it on the grass. The cat meowed and Maura leaned down to free it. It twined itself around their ankles, as if it were weaving a spell to keep them together.

  Maura gazed at Jesse. “We belong together,” she said. “The three of us.”

  He leaned toward her, those tawny eyes warm with affection and desire. His mouth captured hers and she moaned with pleasure. His lips were soft on hers, gentle, almost teasing. Then his kiss became more intense, and inside her she felt a quickening, a thrill of desire.

  A sudden breeze rustled the cherry tree above them, and a cascade of blossoms drifted down. “Oh, look, Jesse, it’s pink snow.”

  She captured a blossom that had landed on his shoulder and held it to her nose. What a sweet, perfect scent.

  He reached behind her head and began to take out the pins that fastened her hair into its elaborate Holly Golightly style. His fingers were deft; he didn’t even look to see what he was doing. Instead he watched her face, occasionally leaning forward to scatter small kisses across her forehead, her nose, her cheeks.

  Her lips yearned for him, but he avoided them.

  He ran his fingers through her hair, and she realized he had removed the last pin. He leaned over and buried his face in her hair, then, finally, he kissed her lips. It was a quick kiss, only whetting her appetite.

  He took her hand, tugged it gently. “Lie down with me.”

  Vaguely, she wondered where their cat had gone, but then she and Jesse were sinking together to the grass and it was soft, so soft, under her. She sat, leaning back on one hand, reaching the other to touch his cheek. “Jesse . . .”

  He gathered a handful of pale pink petals from the grass and scattered them in her hair. “You look like a wood nymph. A princess. Titania.”

  She gave a blissful sigh. Who would have guessed that Jesse Blue knew A Midsummer Night’s Dream? That he could be so poetic?