The Tough Guy and the Toddler

by Diane Pershing

  And she did, all about it—how she’d happened on Riches and Rags, how much she admired Lisa for starting her own business, how good she felt about recycling other people’s castoffs to women who really appreciated them. As she spoke, her eyes shone with happiness and enthusiasm, and he felt a kind of melting in his gut that was more than booze doing its job.

  This was the Jordan he’d seen in the family album, the Jordan without the emotional baggage of her tragedy. It was good to see her looking happy, but somehow, he wished he wasn’t witnessing this side of her. He didn’t want to think of her as being a complex person of varying moods—a real, flesh and blood, extremely attractive woman.

  Somewhere in there, he went to work on the bread basket and they ordered dinner and a bottle of wine. Jordan didn’t finish her martini and didn’t touch the bread. Not a lush, he decided, or much of an eater, either.

  “—and so,” she said, “if I can swing it, I’m going to buy into the business. I’ve never done anything like this before. It will be a challenge, but I’m really looking forward to it.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Jordan leaned an elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. “Okay,” she announced with a mocking smile, “enough about me. Your turn.”

  “For what?”

  “Tell me about you.”

  Oh, no. He hated talking about himself. “What do you want to know?” he asked guardedly.

  “Do you miss your wife very much?” Her hand flew to her mouth. She seemed startled that she’d said that, as though she hadn’t planned it. “Oh, dear. I thought I wanted you to tell me about your work, but that question about your wife just slipped out.” After a short, apologetic laugh, she went on, “Ah, well, you know what they say about slips. So, I admit it. I’m curious.”

  Tonight, of all nights, he didn’t want to discuss Theresa and the complicated emotions that thinking about her brought up in him. It wasn’t a door he wanted to open, not with Jordan. As he felt his jaw tensing, her expression changed to a frown.

  “You have that look on your face,” she said.

  “What look?”

  “That off-limits look.” She touched his arm lightly, then removed it. “Dom, I didn’t mean to pry. I guess it’s just that most of what we’ve talked about has been me, my problems, my pain. You know so much about me, and I know practically nothing about you.”

  He scowled. “Yeah, well, I’m not one of those nineties guys, the kind who spill their guts all over the place. Back at the station, we had to take these sensitivity training classes, you know, where you say ‘I feel your pain’ and all that. I wasn’t much good at it.”

  Dom’s obvious discomfort mixed with disgust made Jordan want to laugh. She tried not to, but a bubble of mirth came out anyway.

  “What?” he asked suspiciously.

  “You look like you’re about to get force-fed some castor oil.”

  He seemed to consider it for a moment, then one corner of his mouth turned up. “Yeah, Theresa used to say I was not exactly a touchy-feely kind of guy, but—” He stopped in mid-sentence and frowned.

  “But?” she prompted.

  He shrugged. “I guess she liked me anyway...most of the time.” For a brief moment, the look in his eyes was pained and bleak, but then it was gone. “Anyway, enough about that.”

  Jordan stared at him, moved by the shifting emotions she’d seen on his face. Dom had been in love with his late wife, it was obvious, probably deeply in love. As that realization hit her, Jordan was surprised at the spurt of jealousy that rose in the back of her throat like bile. Not a nice emotion, she admitted with shame. Not even a reasonable one. Human, she supposed, but unattractive.

  Lighten up, she told herself. Steer away from Theresa. “I suspect you have a lot more sensitivity than you let on,” she said lightly, returning to their previous topic.

  He looked toward the ceiling. “Here we go. The woman trying to see more of the female side in the man than is really there. Listen, I do my job, I drink my beer, I go to bed. End of story.”

  “Joe Average.”

  “You got it.” He tore off another hunk of bread and slathered butter on it. Obviously, he expected that to be the end of this discussion, but she wasn’t through, not yet.

  “Do you read books, go to the movies?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Sure.”

  “Do you watch sunsets and wonder about how God created such a beautiful sight?”

  “On occasion. I mean, sure, I see things I like, I pay attention. Is that such a big deal?”

  “It just means you’re not immune to the world and the people in it—” she smiled “—and not as shallow as you’d like me to think you are.”

  He held up his hands in mock-surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m deep as a damned well. Satisfied?”

  At that moment, as the old bread basket was removed and a new one set down, Jordan laughed delightedly. “It’s all an act, isn’t it? This whole poker-face, tough-guy thing of yours.”

  “Me? A tough guy?” He considered it, then nodded. “Yeah, sure. I guess I am. But, trust me, it’s not an act.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “No, I’m not offended. It’s just that where I grew up, in my part of Brooklyn, you didn’t have a choice. Early on, you learned to take care of yourself or you wouldn’t make it.”

  “But you went into law enforcement.”

  “Yeah, well, back then you had three choices—you could be a priest, a member of the Mob or a cop. The priest was out, but as for the other two, it was a toss-up, trust me. Theresa was the one who decided for me. If I’d chosen to join the wise guys, I would have lost her.”

  Theresa again. Jordan wondered if he knew how his voice, his whole attitude gentled when he spoke her name. This time, Jordan felt no jealousy, just a strange emptiness. She wanted someone’s voice to soften when he spoke her name, wanted someone to love her that deeply. No one ever had, and that old insecure inner voice of hers was fond of telling her she didn’t deserve it.

  She was grateful when their dinner was served—fish for Jordan, lamb chops and new potatoes for Dom. It gave her a moment to shake off the effects of too much wistful reflection.

  “Anything else I can get you?” the waiter asked. “More bread? Fresh ground pepper?”

  “Uh-uh,” Dom said.

  Jordan smiled at the young man. “We’re fine.”

  Dom dug right in, but Jordan found herself watching him instead of eating. The play of muscles around his jaw as he chewed, the pleasure on his face as he swallowed. He reached for his water glass, drained it. A nearby busboy filled it immediately. Dom nodded curtly at the young man, then frowned at her. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “Oh, yes.” For the first time, she picked up her fork, then found her attention caught again by the way Dom attacked his dinner with gusto. As he glanced up again, he caught her staring at him. “What?”

  “I take it you like your meal,” she said with a smile.

  “Yeah, it’s delicious. Really good. You like yours?”

  She took a bite. “Yes, the fish is very tasty.”

  His elbow brushed his napkin, making it drop to the floor. It was immediately picked up by a busboy, and a clean one was handed to him. “Waste of laundry soap,” he muttered, then looked at her. “You keep watching me. Do I have butter on my tie or something?”

  Caught. Might as well come right out with it. Setting down her fork, she rested her elbow next to her plate and balanced her chin in her hand. “You have the most fascinating face.”

  He set down his fork and jerked a thumb to his chest with an are-you-putting-me-on? look. “My face? Fascinating?”

  “Yes. It hardly changes expression at all, just a small muscle movement here and there.”

  He wiped his mouth with his napkin. He really did have a beautiful mouth, she observed, with full, sensual lips. She wished she could forget how those lips had felt on hers—maybe then she’d get her appetite back.r />
  “Yeah, well, that’s what I was talking about,” Dom told her. “Never let them know they’re getting to you. Keep your cool. Never show fear.” Again, one corner of his mouth turned up. “Street rules. Learn ’em or you’re history.”

  “Never show fear,” she repeated. “So, are you afraid? Here? Tonight, with me?” She held her breath at her audaciousness; as before, it had just popped out. She’d tried for a teasing tone, but didn’t think she was very successful.

  There was a small moment of silence while he took in her question, considered it, then shrugged again. “Maybe. Yeah,” he admitted, and she could have sworn he was embarrassed.

  His gaze fell on her full plate. “Hey, you’re not eating.”

  As a change of subject, Jordan observed, it lacked a certain grace, but it made the point. Getting inside Dom was more difficult than digging up a petrified tree stump. Why was it so important, she wondered, to be allowed past his facade? What did she want from the man? More than he was willing to give her, that was obvious.

  “I’ve had a few bites,” she said.

  Dom shook his head in wonder. “My mother would be on you like the rent collector if you didn’t clean your plate.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “My mother?” This time his smile was real and unguarded. “Mom’s the best. Always hugging, always feeding people. Like those Italian women in the commercials, except she’s not fat, she’s tiny. She eats, don’t get me wrong, but she has more energy than all of us put together, so she burns it off. There were eight of us kids, so she never sat down. She’d take one look at you and say, ‘What’s the matter—you don’t like my cooking?’”

  Jordan sighed. “I know. I’m too thin.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You could use a little meat on your bones. You know, just enough—”

  Dom had been about to say, “Just enough for a man to grab hold of,” but checked it, settling instead for, “Just enough so you’re healthy. Hey—” he held up a hand, palm out “—it’s none of my business.”

  “It’s all right. I asked you. And it’s true. I have lost weight this year. Okay.” She picked up her fork, cut into her fish. “I’ll eat.”

  A frown formed between his brows as he watched her pick daintily at her food. He felt funny, not ha-ha funny but strange. The woman had a way of making him feel off-kilter. He kept trying to keep his distance and she kept picking away at his wall. The result was he felt out of step, thrown by his reactions to her questions.

  Yes, he was afraid of being with her. She’d nailed him with that one. Afraid of what, exactly? He knew what he wanted from her. A bed. Hot sex. Oblivion. Hell, that was the easy part.

  So maybe he was afraid of what she wanted from him. Yeah, maybe so.

  He drained his glass of wine and was about to reach for the bottle when, as though summoned by a magician, the waiter appeared and beat him to it. After the smiling young man had lifted the bottle and poured his wine, he asked, “Everything okay sir?”

  “Terrific.”

  Jordan must have caught the hint of sarcasm in his tone, because when the waiter had left, she asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “I just don’t like people...hovering over me all the time. It makes me uncomfortable. When I eat, I like to be left alone.”

  “They do hover here.” She worried her bottom lip, as though fretting over an unsuccessful tea party.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” he said quickly. “The food’s delicious.” His gaze swept the room, taking in the well-groomed diners, the low lighting, murmuring waiters, discreet music. Top of the heap. Class A. If you liked that kind of thing.

  “Yeah,” he went on, “it’s a great restaurant.”

  “I hear a ‘but’ in there.”

  He shrugged. “It just isn’t my usual kind of hangout, that’s all.”

  “What is your usual kind of hangout?”

  “More of a joint. Beer, pool, you know.” He chuckled. “Believe me, you’d hate it.”

  He didn’t know what reaction he expected, but it wasn’t the gleam of mischief that shone in Jordan’s eyes. She met his gaze straight on. “Oh, yeah?” she challenged. “Try me.”

  He stared at her, then felt his mouth curve in admiration. “You’re on.”

  She was like a totally different person, Dom thought, as he sipped an ice-cold brew and watched Jordan sink the six ball in the corner pocket. Gone was the sleek woman with the elegant manner. Get her away from that upscale environment, and suddenly she was a regular human being, or as regular as someone with her looks could be.

  They were at his favorite hangout, Morgan R’s, and the Marina del Rey dockside restaurant and bar was packed. There were sporting events on two large TVs on either side of the bar, rock music blared from the loudspeaker, and the crowd was the usual assortment of cops, locals and tourists. Also a lot of single guys on the make. Since Dom bad brought Jordan here, several of them had given her the eye, but she’d handled them. If they didn’t take the hint, one look from Dom had done the job.

  For the past hour, Jordan had been shooting pool, first with him, then with her current opponent, a retired cop named Nick Holmes. Nick, who was one of his best buddies, wasn’t beating her too badly. She had to concentrate hard on her shots—she was rusty, she’d told him earlier when she’d come over to the table for a sip of cold beer. But, she’d added with a lift of an eyebrow and a cocky smile, the night was young.

  He sat back in the booth, nursed his beer and watched her through hooded eyelids, appreciating her every move and—damn it all—found himself comparing her to Theresa.

  His late wife had never liked coming to Morgan R’s—she preferred to entertain others with home-cooked meals. It was no problem for him to go, she would tell him, to let down with the guys after a long day—just so long as he always came home to her.

  I’m with Jordan tonight, Dom told himself. Hell, he was thrilled to be with Jordan tonight. So, he needed to get off memory lane and back to the present.

  As though she’d heard him and decided to help him along, Jordan came to the table, laughing. A fine sheen of sweat gleamed on her face, and there was a glow in her eyes. Holding a pool cue in one hand, she rested the other on a cocked hip and grinned. “Ready to shoot some more pool, mister?”

  He rose, took the cue from her hand and gave it to Nick. “How about we take a little walk instead?” Dom asked her.

  The cool night air hit them the moment they stepped outside. Without even thinking, Dom removed his jacket and put it around Jordan’s shoulders. Then, almost as automatically, he kept his arm around her. He wanted contact with her, had been wanting to touch her all night.

  “Thanks,” she said, and just as naturally, put her arm around his waist and leaned into him as they walked. The only restaurant on this section of the dock was Morgan R’s, so once they got a few feet away, the noise and music subsided. There was a hazy half-moon in the sky, and the sounds of creaking wood and waves lapping against the wood pilings filled the night.

  Dom liked holding Jordan this way, liked how she seemed to fit into the curve of his arm. Her hair smelled good. They would walk a little, he figured, and talk a little more and see what developed.

  “So, you’re a pool shark,” he said.

  With a small laugh, Jordan replied, “Not even close. But back home in Wyoming, the pool hall was the only entertainment in the area. Incidentally, I also ride horses, mend fences and can milk a cow. Can you do any of those?”

  “Nah. But I can pick a lock and duck under a subway turnstile and have been known to break records running down fire escapes.”

  “City mouse and country mouse, that’s us.”

  Chuckling, he steered them to the railing that overlooked the harbor, and for a moment they watched the moored boats bobbing gently in the water.

  How lovely this was, Jordan thought. Peaceful. Since they’d left Beverly Hills, she’d relaxed considerably. Not only did being with Dom out here on the marina feel good, but
so did the hum of sexual tension in the air. Dom’s arm around her felt protective. His body was solid and sturdy with its thick muscles and obvious strength.

  “Jordan?” he said.

  “Hmm?”

  When she angled her head to look at him, he brought his free hand up to stroke her face. Yes, she thought, closing her eyes. This is right. The sensation of his callused fingertips on her heated skin was subtly erotic and she responded with a quiet moan of pleasure. He turned their bodies so they faced each other, then planted soft kisses on her eyelids, her forehead, over her nose and cheeks and chin. Such soft kisses, she thought, from such a hard man.

  Finally, he touched his mouth to hers, sliding his tongue between her lips and probing the moist flesh within. He took his time exploring her, and as he did, a slow, steady, pulsing heat oozed through her bloodstream, hardening her nipples, creating an ache between her legs.

  It was a sweet ache, but powerful. This was the kind of bodily reaction she’d heard discussed among other women, but she had rarely experienced. Indeed, Jordan hadn’t known much real sexual urgency and had wondered if she were incapable of it.

  She didn’t have to wonder now. Lord, she wanted this man and she wanted him badly.

  Splaying her hands across his broad back, she used her tongue to let him know that whatever he wanted to give her, she would gladly accept.

  Suddenly, Dom pulled his mouth away, bringing an abrupt end to their kiss. His withdrawal was a shock to her system, but before she had time to recover, he’d gripped her face between his hands and stared at her, something tangled and dark written across his features.

  “What?” she managed to say, her disappointed body still craving his touch. “What’s the matter?”

  Mute, he stared at her a little longer, then dropped his hands and turned away from her, once again peering out at the boats and the ocean beyond. “What?” Jordan asked again, clutching at his arm. “Tell me, Dom.”

  He shook his head. “You’ll take it the wrong way.”

  “Try me.”

  He rubbed his hand over his face wearily, then leaning an elbow on the railing, he angled his face to meet her anxious gaze. “When I’m with you, Jordan,” he said slowly, “I think a lot about Theresa. Not,” he added quickly, as he saw her look of dismay, “how I wish she were here instead of you, or how much I miss her, or any of that stuff, I swear.”