by Susan Fox
She hadn’t wanted his lawyer, or Jesse himself, to know how unprepared she’d been for his arrival, but now she needed to hear, from Jesse’s own lips, how he’d landed in trouble.
She went behind her desk, sat down, straightened her spine, and clasped her hands atop her desk. “Jesse, I need to ask you something.”
“Yeah?” He settled himself on the windowsill, only three or four feet from her, like a big cat lounging there. A black cat that just might be a panther.
“Tell me about the offense you committed.”
His body tensed, and in that moment he became the panther. He narrowed his eyes and the insolent expression was back. “You’ve read my file, Ms. Mahoney.” The way he said her name was a sneer.
“Actually, I haven’t,” she said, keeping her voice steady.
She read surprise on his face before he swiped a hand across his jaw. After a moment, he measured out the words, “I beat a guy up.”
A brawl. Yes, she could imagine that. It wasn’t a stretch to believe that violence might lurk close to the surface in Jesse, and be easily stirred. She imagined him and some anonymous man in a bar, drinking too much. Trading insults. Moving to fists. Jesse probably hadn’t started it—unless he’d been getting too friendly with the other guy’s girlfriend.
She nodded. It was bad—she abhorred even the idea of violence—but it could have been worse. “There will be no violence here, you understand?”
He raised an eyebrow; it was another sneer. “You figure I’d beat up on a guy like Fred?”
“I have no idea what you’d do. And watch your attitude, Mr. Blue.”
His eyes blazed, his nostrils narrowed, and muscles in his jaw twitched.
Maura wanted to spring out of her chair and take a step backward, but refused to let him know she was afraid. If he had a violent temper, there was no knowing what he’d do. But she needed to find out. If he could control that temper, he could stay. If he lost it, he was out of here immediately, no matter how handy he was in the garden.
“I hear you,” he muttered, lowering his eyes. “I’ll get back to work now. If that’s all.”
“That’s all.”
He was over the sill and across the garden like a spring that’s been confined and then released. The truly frustrating thing was that, no matter how ticked off she was with him, Maura found herself at the window, watching him walk, noting the animal power of his stride.
She was losing her marbles, to be attracted to a man like that. Or, she reminded herself, it was some kind of hormonal thing. She needed to do some research on . . . what would the topic be? Female sexuality?
Chapter 10
After an enjoyable tea with Virginia and a stimulating discussion of The Time Traveler’s Wife, Maura returned to her office and closed the door.
Using her Internet browser, she searched for “female sexuality.”
“Aagh. Five thousand hits?”
That was way too intimidating, and she didn’t know the right terms to narrow her search. Sometimes, there was nothing like the good old-fashioned method: a book. She accessed the online catalog for the branch library in the mall across the street and wrote down a few call numbers. No way was she walking in and asking a librarian to direct her to the section on female sexuality.
Not, of course, that sexuality was anything to be embarrassed about.
She even had a fair bit of knowledge about it. Agnes and Timothy had occasionally had discussions about human sexuality, from an archaeological or historical perspective, and Maura adored romantic novels and movies. The trouble was, her knowledge fell into two categories: academic and fictional. Neither provided much help when it came to her own sexual issues.
She headed out, her purse tucked inside a practical canvas tote bag that was a near replica of her mother’s. “I’m going over to the mall,” she told Ming-mei. Normally, she always added, “You can reach me on my cell phone if anything comes up.” But Ming-mei was perfectly aware of that. This time, Maura said, “I’ll leave you to hold down the fort.” For the second time that day, she saw a flash of pleased surprise in the young woman’s eyes.
Maura walked out into the sunshine, passed Jesse’s huge black bike, and crossed over to the shopping center. The neighborhood was a good one, and the mall attractive and busy on this Sunday afternoon. As she made for the library, she glanced into store windows. In front of a lingerie shop, she stopped dead. There was the peach-colored bra she’d dreamed about. With a lacy matching thong—though her dream hadn’t gotten that far before the radio-alarm woke her.
Actually, she could use some new underwear. Not peach lace; how impractical. Instead, she went in and studied the sale table of cotton bikini panties and hipsters. Three for twenty dollars. She chose flesh-colored, the most practical shade.
“Can I tempt you with anything else today?” The saleswoman was blond and wavy-haired, as fresh and pretty as Amanda Seyfried in Mamma Mia! and with a similar engaging smile.
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, come on. Every woman deserves a treat now and then.”
Maura glanced around, noting all the tempting concoctions of silk and lace. She wasn’t about to say that her idea of a treat was pj’s, hot chocolate, and an old movie. She might as well just announce “I’m a middle-aged spinster” and be done with it.
But she wasn’t. Thirty was not middle-aged, despite Mrs. Jenssen’s hint that Maura was no longer young.
“You have a peach bra and panties in the window,” she heard herself say.
“They’re just lovely, aren’t they? They’ll be perfect with your coloring. Now, I’m guessing you’re a 36B, and a medium for the thong?”
Before she knew it, Maura was in a change room staring at her own ivory-skinned body decked out in peach lace. She shook her head critically. She was tall and gawky. She was pale and plain. She looked ridiculous in lace. The lingerie, on the other hand, was lovely. It deserved a woman like the salesgirl.
The lace was kind of scratchy. Not the most comfortable thing, but so feminine. Like the ruffled party dresses she’d worn before her parents died. The kind that, as an older girl, she’d gawked at in stores while her adoptive mother insisted on buying her something simple.
A tall girl should dress in clean, classic lines and understated clothing. Agnes had said that, and Maura believed her. After all, bright colors and trendy styles would only call more attention to her beanpole figure.
Maura closed her eyes and ran her fingers over her lace-clad breasts, across her tummy. Now, without her reflection to contradict her, she could feel feminine and pretty, the kind of woman any man would be attracted to. Even an outrageously handsome, sexy man like Jesse Blue.
Earlier today, he’d touched her breast through her clothing. It had felt so shockingly good . . .
Her hands cupped her breasts, remembering his touch . . .
Her body arched, pushing her breasts forward, imagining his hands caressing her . . .
He ran a thumb over the lace of her new bra. His thumb, the lace, both abraded her nipple ever so slightly, bringing it to instant attention.
He leaned down to press a kiss to the top of her breast, where it was framed so prettily by the scalloped edge of the bra. Then he skimmed back the lace and kissed underneath, trailing his tongue between the bra and her flesh.
Suddenly she wanted to be rid of the bra, to have no barrier between their two bodies. She opened her mouth to tell him that it opened at the front, but his fingers were already on the clasp, flipping it expertly.
He held the bra together with his hand for a moment, then slowly peeled back the two halves, revealing her skin inch by inch. “So beautiful,” he murmured. “Perfect . . .”
Perfect? Her eyes snapped open. Even in her wildest fantasy, she couldn’t imagine a man calling any aspect of her appearance perfect.
Look at her now, in the mirror, her chest and cheeks suffused with color, her hands clutching the bra against her chest. She looked . . . Hmm. She drop
ped her hands and studied her reflection. She actually wasn’t a total beanpole. The sides of the thong called attention to the gentle swell of her hips, and she filled out the bra well enough to have a little cleavage.
When was the last time she’d really studied her body?
“How are the sizes?” the saleswoman called.
“Good. Fine.” Hurriedly, Maura stripped off the peachy garments.
When she emerged from the fitting room, the saleswoman said, “Don’t you just love them?”
Maura smiled. “They’re beautiful.” She handed them over, giving the lace a last caress. She meant to say, “But they’re not for me.” Instead she heard a voice say, “I’ll take them.”
“Excellent!”
What had happened to her mouth? It wasn’t taking directions from her brain. Not wanting to admit she’d made a mistake, she passed over her credit card. And found herself smiling.
When Maura walked out of the store, a little pink bag with gold handles dangling from one fingertip, she felt like Julia Roberts when she’d finished her shopping spree in Pretty Woman.
She glanced in a store window and caught her own reflection. Reality check. She was plain, gawky Maura, on her way to learn about her own sexuality. Any other thirty-year-old woman would already know; trust her to have to research it in a book.
Inside the library, she browsed surreptitiously, feeling as embarrassed as if she’d walked into a shop full of sex toys.
She selected a book that had been published recently, seemed more practical than academic, and was written by a husband and wife. The photo on the back cover gave her a moment’s pause. The fair-haired woman simply glowed, and the dark-haired man gazed at her adoringly. They looked like the kind of people for whom sex came naturally.
And yet this book was more than three hundred pages long, and contained topics like physiology, sexual changes with age, how to achieve orgasm, sexual dysfunction, and many, many more. Who knows, maybe Mr. and Mrs. Sexually-Fulfilled were the “after” picture, and had started out with some problems of their own.
Blessing the automated self-checkout, Maura completed the transaction as quickly as possible and buried the book deep in her tote bag. She tucked the lingerie bag in there, too.
Her secrets safely concealed, she made her way back to Cherry Lane and chatted for a few minutes with the residents who clustered around the door, waiting to be picked up for Sunday dinners.
Inside, Ming-mei greeted her with a smile. “Did you get what you needed?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Or at least so she hoped.
Back in her office, she checked the garden. The residents had gone in, leaving only the furniture and Jesse. He had planted three of the borders and was bent over the fourth, working industriously. The sprinkler tossed water on one of the newly planted borders. She glanced at her watch. It was five thirty. He had put in his hours for the day.
Didn’t he realize that? He didn’t wear a watch, and he showed no sign of quitting work.
Yesterday, they’d got off to a late start so it hadn’t bothered her that he’d stayed late, but she was determined this arrangement be administered fairly. She should inform him of the time. She glanced at the window. She could open it and hop through, or at least call him again, but that seemed too informal, given the sour note their last discussion had ended on.
She could buzz Ming-mei and ask her to tell Jesse the time.
“Oh, grow a spine, girl!” Her back ramrod straight, she strode out of her office, down the corridor, and into the courtyard. Jesse didn’t look up even when she stood right over where he crouched, tucking plants into the soil.
Trying not to think of the kiss, and her little fantasy in the lingerie shop, she said, “Jesse?”
Now, finally, he glanced up. “Yes, ma’am?”
Oh, great, now he was ma’am’ing her. And not with a mocking gleam in his eye. His usual spark, that vital sense of energy, was missing. Was he worn out from a long day, mad at her for warning him there’d be no violence at Cherry Lane, or worried that she might terminate his community service?
“It’s half past five,” she said. “You’ve put in your time for the day.”
“Wanna finish these.” He kept right on working.
“But you’re only required to put in seven hours.”
“They’ll dry out.”
“What? Oh, the plants will dry out if you don’t plant them? Hmm, maybe there’s some place we could put them.”
“Easier to just plant them.” Which he was doing, doggedly.
“All right, but keep track of how late you stay and you can get off early some other day.”
He didn’t reply.
Earlier, they’d worked together easily, talking to the seniors and planning the garden. They’d pretended the kiss had never happened. Well, she’d pretended; perhaps he’d already forgotten it. Now, she hated that things were awkward again.
If she was more skilled with people, she’d know how to handle this. But today, with Ming-mei, she’d learned a lesson about human relations. People liked being given responsibility, and credit. So she said, “Thanks for what you’ve done today, Jesse.”
His hands stilled.
“You’ve worked really hard.”
His head lifted and he gazed at her, his face expressionless.
“I appreciate your ideas on the landscaping, and getting that quote from the garden center.” She hated confessing her imperfections, but something made her add, “I’m hopeless with this kind of thing myself.”
His eyebrows rose.
She forged ahead. “And thanks for being so considerate of the residents. A lot of young people think that . . .” She shrugged.
Jesse spoke, finally. “That old folks don’t count for much?”
She nodded.
“Guess they count for as much as anyone else.”
“Yes, they do. Thanks for understanding that.”
Finally he gave her a smile. It wasn’t one of his dazzling grins, but it seemed real. “You’re welcome.”
She smiled back. “Good night, Jesse. See you on Tuesday.”
“Night, Ms. Mahoney.” This time there was no sneer in his voice.
She should have told him to call her by her first name. The staff at Cherry Lane all did. At first, she’d used the formality to remind him she was his supervisor. Now, she had to confess, she just liked hearing him say her name.
The way he drawled it now sounded almost like a caress. A caress that made her skin tingle and a pulse beat between her legs.
When Jesse finished in the garden, he tidied his tools into a corner. He could ask Maura about putting them back in the storage locker, but he kind of liked the way they’d left things when they last spoke.
Whistling, he left the building. The receptionist, the bitter-faced woman with gray hair he’d seen last night, glared at him suspiciously. He nodded; kept whistling.
Man, a shower was going to feel fine. His back and legs ached from hunching over, but he never minded a hard day’s work. Made him feel like he was good for something. Like he counted.
Maura’d said some people didn’t think seniors counted for much. People had said that about him, and a lot worse, when he was young. The way he saw it, everyone was different. Some folks were smarter, some were younger, but everyone counted and had stuff to contribute.
He climbed onto the bike and put on his helmet. He could go for some real speed, a road with lots of twists and turns, him nudging the bike deep down into the curves. A road that would make him work at it, take his mind off his crazy boss, who alternated between snotty ice queen, steamy fantasy, and sometimes a woman who actually seemed pretty nice.
God help him if he began to like that woman, as well as lust after her. She did control his future. Twice today, she’d been thinking of cutting him loose: after that kiss, and when she’d asked him about his attack on Pollan.
Shit, he’d have to watch himself. Didn’t want to end up in jail. His grip tightened on the handl
ebars and he revved the throttle.
Over the next hour, riding hard and fast, his tension dissolved in the sheer joy of operating the powerful machine. Finally, starvation had him turning back. He could have beer and a burger at Low Down, or Con would take him in if he showed up. That nice Mrs. Wolchuk had invited him to the Polish Community Center. All good options, except he wasn’t in a mood for company.
He did need food, though. It was a lot of hours since he’d eaten ham and cheese sandwiches in the garden.
Nice of Maura to give him lunch, especially when she was pissed that he’d taken Fred for a ride.
She’d smiled, though, when he told her about the old guy whooping his head off. There was a spark of fun in the woman, under that straightlaced exterior.
He thought of how he’d last seen Maura, out in the garden tonight. Her pretty green sweater had been buttoned all the way from neck to hem. All those buttons, they gave a man ideas . . .
Button, unbutton . . .
He stopped at a red light.
Her sweater had about a million of the things . . .
Little green ones that matched the soft wool, small enough to challenge big hands like his. But man, he wanted to unbutton her, to get inside that sweater, to make her open up to him . . .
His hands were clumsy as he fumbled with those buttons. He could have stripped the sweater over her head, but there was something sexier about undoing her, a button at a time. He leaned down to nip her collarbone.
“Jesse,” she protested.
He nipped again, then moved to the other collarbone. She sighed.
As he worked down the front of her sweater he resisted pulling the edges apart. Prolonging the anticipation.
Wondering about what lay beneath. Firm breasts—curves his knuckles nudged against as he worked the buttons. Breasts confined by a bra, but what kind?
With each button he undid, his dick pulsed and thickened.
When he reached the ones that held the sweater closed across her stomach, he thought about that stomach, a pale curve of soft flesh under her skirt. He bet himself what kind of panties she’d be wearing. Simple, practical, expensive, he figured.