TAKE A CHANCE ON ME

by Susan Donovan

"Thanks again for snagging the contract for me, Thomas. I'm sure it wasn't easy and you probably got a lot of ribbing about it. I wish…" Emma stopped and stared down at the dinner roll in her fingers. "I really needed the money—my practice needed it."

  Thomas shook his head and began to say something but Emma jumped in again. "Aaron wasn't the most responsible person in the world. Money was a constant struggle with us and he had some personal problems that got us into trouble. But it was my fault too, for letting him get away with it."

  Thomas answered her in a soft voice. "Beckett told me."

  Her head snapped up and she blinked. "He did? When? What did he tell you?"

  Thomas shrugged. "The first night I came to your house. He told me, and I quote, 'Aaron had an eye for the ladies and couldn't hold on to a dollar to save his soul. He wasn't good enough for my girl. Never was.'"

  Emma snorted and took another sip of beer. "That about sums it up, unfortunately."

  Thomas waited for a few more details, but they didn't come. He had to smile—the only human being in the world he wouldn't mind opening up to him about a failed relationship wasn't interested in doing so.

  "You're a very private person, aren't you, Emma?"

  She tipped her head. "Not really. Not with the people I'm close to—the people I love."

  That sentence shot him through with pain—she didn't love him. But hold on. Of course she didn't love him! They'd only known each other a couple weeks! And yes, he was extremely attracted to her, but he didn't exactly want her to love him, did he? He didn't want any woman to love him!

  Did he?

  "Thomas, do you remember that night on my porch when we kissed?" Emma stared down at the brown paper tablecloth and her voice was barely more than a whisper.

  "Only every other second."

  Her breath was coming fast and her pulse was kicking hard and all she could think was that he didn't say anything about her dress. He didn't say anything! It was obvious that whatever was happening was a bit one-sided—he might not mind taking her to bed a few times, but he didn't like her enough to notice she'd gone to extreme lengths to look nice tonight. He didn't like her enough to be courteous. Respectful. Appreciative.

  She had to remind herself that this was not the type of man she wanted in her life—even for a few nights. She deserved more, and though she'd convinced herself that Thomas was more, she had to admit she may have been wrong.

  She needed to take charge of this situation, take care of herself. If she didn't, who would?

  "When I said this wasn't the right time, I meant that in a couple ways." She bit her bottom lip with nervousness. "It's not just Leelee."

  When she brought her soft blue eyes level with his, Thomas nearly moaned with longing.

  "I just signed my divorce papers, Thomas. I just got out of an extremely bad situation, and I'm not exactly at my best—I'm kind of exhausted, actually." She let her elbow rest on the edge of the table and cupped her chin in her hand, looking at him. "It took me a long time to realize that I wasn't responsible for Aaron. It took everything I had to get out of that relationship. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  "Sure I do." He cracked another claw. "You're scared."

  Emma sighed and shook her head. "I'm saying I need to be very careful. I'm trying to decide if I'm ready to get involved with anyone—with you—beyond being friendly business partners. I'm not convinced that you're the right kind of man for me."

  She sat back and said nothing more.

  Thomas's movements had slowed considerably. He used a napkin to wipe the streaks of red spices and butter from his fingers and grabbed for his bottle of beer. He took a long, slow drag, and let his eyes wander from that lovely, confused face to that dress again. Damn, he shouldn't have done that!

  How ironic. She'd just told him he wasn't her type and he'd picked that particular moment to nearly explode in his chinos just from looking at her. All that thick, gleaming hair, that succulent cleavage, those ripe, red lips slippery with butter.

  Never in his life had he known a woman as fun, appealing, smart, delicious—oh, Jesus, as fuckable—as Miss Marple over there, and all he wanted was to clear off the tabletop with one violent sweep of his forearm, lay her down on the butcher paper, and let his tongue slip over every goddamn inch of that farm-girl skin. He wanted to stretch his body over hers, feel her wrap around him, hear her scream his name.

  He wanted … her.

  Thomas put down the beer bottle and looked her right in the eye. He'd heard her words clear enough. And as he studied her, observed her body language, he heard that, too. And the actions were speaking much louder than the words.

  The sexual heat gathered around them as fast as the twilight, and it pushed against his chest, against his cock, and into his brain.

  Yes, her words said, "I'm not sure." But the soft pleading in her eyes, the way she'd been jealous of the waitress, the seductive pout of her lips, her quick breathing, that fucking dress!—all of it screamed, "Put your hands on me—now!"

  Thomas didn't know what to do. He could hardly breathe.

  So he started in on another crab.

  Emma simply stared at him. Her lips were on fire. She didn't know if it was the beer, the heavy-handed dose of Old Bay spice on the crabs, or just plain sexual greed, but her lips felt unbearably sensitive and swollen and a liquid fire was rushing through her veins.

  She watched Thomas as he ate—consumed was more like it. His mouth and chin were smeared slick with butter. He was an eating machine—evenly paced in his movements, denuding one helpless creature after another. It was a kind of lusty, barbaric dance that made her dizzy.

  A loud crack! pierced the air and she jerked. He'd smashed the mallet down on a crab leg, using far more force than was necessary, not saying a word, his eyes now fierce on hers. He looked exactly like he did that night in the diner parking lot—absolutely tortured.

  Then came another loud crack of the mallet, followed by more silence and staring, and the quiet was growing heavier, darker, breath-stealing. Emma felt how the air itself became heavy, rich, and dripping with the promise of sex.

  Sex. Sex. Sex.

  The two of them couldn't seem to escape it.

  Suddenly, Thomas picked up a new victim, held it with both hands, and wrenched apart the crab legs until they formed a wide vee in front of his mouth. His eyes locked on Emma's as he licked a drip of butter off the inside of his wrist.

  Emma jumped in her own skin.

  Then she watched him ever so slowly suck a plump tidbit of white backfin meat from a tendon. He licked his lips. He made a raspy sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh of pleasure.

  "All right. Friendly business it is, Dr. Jenkins." His eyes were hot and mischievous. "Would you say you're satisfied with the progress we're making with Hairy?"

  Emma didn't know if the speech and language center of her frontal lobe still functioned. She couldn't take her eyes off him—the man knew what he was doing. Yes, indeedydoo. He worked to a nice, even rhythm. He knew how to pace himself. Spreading. Pulling. Licking. Grinding. Eating.

  "I think I'm getting real close to being satisfied," she said.

  Emma let the very tips of her fingers brush against a few of the places she now imagined him putting his mouth—the hollow at the base of her throat, her temples, her lips. She absently dropped her hand to the tops of her breasts and lazily dragged her fingers over her cleavage.

  Thomas nearly howled—she'd just left a glittering smear of butter on her breasts! How thoughtful of her to provide the condiments, because he'd long ago decided her breasts would taste like hot bread right out of the oven—and he planned on doing some serious carbo-loading.

  "I think we work well together," he mumbled, his eyes glued to her butter-topped flesh.

  "Uh-huh," she agreed.

  Emma wiggled around on the bench, horribly uncomfortable. Her dress suddenly felt way too tight. Her underwear didn't feel tight enough.

  And it was back—Bing! Ri
ng! Ring! Bing!—as his eyes flashed in the tiki torch flame, his skin glowed bronze in contrast to the white shirt and white teeth, and as his pulse throbbed beneath the tender skin of his throat.

  She reached for her beer—suddenly parched—and brushed her fingertips up and down the sweating neck of the Corona bottle. "Thank you for keeping things businesslike between us, Thomas," she said.

  "Of course." He smacked his lips. "I think we both know it's always going to be serious business with us."

  Emma let go with a soft, strangled whimper. And right then, she knew, she was about to behave like a very bad girl.

  What is Emma doing? Thomas's heart pounded. His throat constricted. And he watched—oh, yeah, he watched.

  She looked up innocently from under those thick, black lashes and raised the beer bottle to her lips. Moisture beaded and dripped down the side of the bottle. Her lips glistened.

  Ever so slowly, she inserted the rounded tip of the bottle into her mouth, pulled it out once to let her tongue swirl around the slick ridge of glass, then pushed it between her lips.

  Then she swallowed.

  Thomas was going down—down into the vortex without any hope of rescue. Which was fine with him.

  She let the bottle slip out again with a faint sucking noise, keeping the very tip of her pink tongue inside the opening. Then she repeated the whole excruciating process before she set the bottle down with shaking hands.

  "Serious business," she whispered, slipping her little pink tongue along her wet bottom lip.

  Thomas was in pain from the chest down. He grabbed the mallet. He grabbed the last crab on the platter. And he began to hammer out a slow, sure rhythm, his eyes fused with hers, hot and penetrating.

  Pound.

  Pound.

  Pound.

  Pound.

  Until the poor crustacean was mashed to a pulp, and Emma grabbed the edge of the picnic table and pressed her thighs together as she felt the tingle radiate to her scalp, her toes, realizing, as it was happening, that she was spontaneously combusting right there on the outdoor dining deck of Bayside Stella's, while an impatient crowd stood around waiting for a table.

  Emma didn't quite know how she came to be standing in the parking lot a few moments later, car keys in hand, Thomas at her side. Perhaps it was for the best.

  But there she was, and then Thomas was standing in front of her with that pained look on his face again and he was saying the strangest thing…

  "I paid your consulting fee, Emma. I couldn't get it authorized, so I used my own money."

  "What?" She fell against the Montero as if he'd pushed her.

  "If I hadn't, you wouldn't have had any reason to spend time with me. I misled you and I'm sorry. It wasn't right."

  Emma couldn't get enough oxygen to her brain. She was still buzzing from that very strange and very extraordinary public orgasm—and he'd lied to her. Again! She'd performed beer-bottle fellatio for a man who could not tell the truth!

  The next thing she knew, she was driving away, alone, glad that they'd taken separate cars. Within minutes, she pulled into a 7-Eleven parking lot, cut the engine, and sat there in the dark.

  The first two words out of her mouth came in a hoarse whisper.

  "Oh," she said.

  "My," she said.

  Then she took a huge breath, and let it out.

  "Gaaaawd!"

  Then she cried.

  In his Audi, Thomas's hands shook even though he gripped the leather steering wheel with all his might. He clicked on a Thelonious Monk CD and tried to calm himself.

  He clicked it off immediately and stared at the road ahead in silence.

  I am in one very large, big-time, bad-ass, hell of a mess.

  He drove faster.

  I'm completely in love with Emma Jenkins and she hates me.

  He drove faster still.

  What a bad time to tell her the truth.

  He looked at his watch.

  And now I have to go to work.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?

  « ^ »

  Emma knew that Thomas had been out all night for work and, with any luck, would still be asleep. She tucked Hairy under her arm, inserted the key into his townhouse door, and quietly stepped inside.

  Emma intended to put Hairy in his crate and leave. She didn't want to see Thomas. In addition to being ashamed about her public out-of-body experience last night, she was thoroughly pissed off.

  Because he'd lied to her. Because as much as she wanted to pay him back every dime he'd given her, it was already gone. The money now belonged to Baltimore Gas & Electric, Allstate Insurance, Charm City Mortgage, and American Veterinary Supply, and she'd have to borrow yet more cash from Beckett to repay Thomas. What a mess.

  Emma entered the room and let her eyes adjust. It was dim except for a narrow sliver of light that shot through a gap in the drapes. The low hum of music wrapped around her, and she recognized the sultry groan of Tom Waits—a piano man whose music should be banned everywhere but in seedy bars in the middle of the night, for the listening enjoyment of only the most severely drunk and depressed patrons.

  It certainly wasn't suited to a sunny Saturday morning like this one.

  Emma cocked her head and listened closely, now hearing more than just raspy lyrics and the tinkling of piano keys. She also heard the saw of deep breathing. Hairy squirmed out of Emma's arms and ran toward the couch—and her gaze followed.

  She could just make out what lay on that couch, all stretched out and almost naked. Thomas's face was turned away toward the cushions, one burly arm bent across his bare chest, the fist closed in sleep. The other hand lay open, palm up, along the top of his right thigh.

  He wore nothing but a thin pair of athletic shorts that looked gray in the muted light, the drawstring tied loose and low on narrow hips, his long legs stretched across the cushions.

  Even in the poor light, Emma saw that he was golden, sculpted, perfect—the most exquisite male animal she'd ever laid eyes on. Too bad she'd never trust him again.

  Then she wondered how many seconds it would take her to strip naked and start rubbing her flesh all over his.

  "No, Hairy!" she hissed. "Damn!" She wasn't fast enough. Hairy hopped right on top of Thomas. The dog nosed his arm until it flopped over the edge of the couch, and began circling to find the sweet spot on his chest. Emma held her breath, expecting to see the poor thing hurled through the air.

  Then she smiled—this ritual was nothing new to Thomas, apparently. He acknowledged the dog's presence with a clumsy pat to the head and a garbled greeting of "Hey, pal." Still asleep, he adjusted his body and turned his face toward Emma.

  She stood completely still, unable to move even if she'd wanted to. She simply watched the dog ride the rise and fall of Thomas's chest as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

  She was crying? What a lame-o thing to do, as Leelee would say. She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand, amazed and horrified by the tight sensation in her chest, the trembling in her limbs.

  She didn't want to feel anything for him! He'd misled her, even if his motive was a nice one. A real nice one. Oh, hell—the man had paid eight thousand dollars just to have her near him!

  Emma watched him sleep, trying to hate him and failing, seeing only how sweet he looked, how sexy—how lovable. Thomas Tobin, the surly, sneaky, undercover hit man, was so lovable.

  Hairy had just nibbled his master's jawline, little flea-bites that made Thomas chuckle in his sleep and wave his hand to shoo away the dog. Hairy persevered, nipping a cheek and then an upper lip until Thomas began to groan and mumble.

  Emma leaned closer and tried not to laugh. It seemed that a real friendship had blossomed between this man and this dog, and she was feeling quite proud of her role in the transformation when Thomas whispered something, and she tensed. Had she heard correctly? Had he just said her name?

  Emma was studying Thomas's moving lips when a dev
ilish smile spread over his face and he moaned, "Oh, yeah, Emma. Put your mouth on me."

  Her hand flew up to stifle a gasp. Hairy skittered down Thomas's body as if to get out of the way, and Emma watched the dog jump down, race across the room, and curl up in a ball in the recliner.

  Thomas mumbled something else and Emma turned back—to find that his eyes were halfway open and he was gazing at her behind heavy lids. Before she could escape, he grabbed her, crushed her against the front of his body, gripped the back of her head, and forced her mouth down onto his.

  The top of Emma's skull nearly blew off. His lips were hot and impatient, and he was mumbling to her even as his tongue entered her mouth, flicked inside her. His other hand clamped down on her butt, grinding her crotch against his, and there was no escaping the man's outstanding attributes.

  "Oh, yeah," he groaned against her lips. He dragged his hands to the back of her thighs and pulled until she was spread wide across him. "Ride me, Emma."

  A strangled cry flew from her throat as she tried to end the crush of his embrace, the attack of his mouth, the spreading of her legs. She got a hand loose enough to smack his cheek.

  Thomas went completely still beneath her. He released his death hold on her body, relaxed the lip-lock. And Emma pushed herself up from his chest, panting.

  "Jesus!" Thomas sprang to life, throwing her off balance and sending her backward to the end of the couch, where she landed with a thud on his insteps. "Ow!" he screamed.

  When he yanked his feet out from under her, Emma's rump hit the sofa arm.

  "What the hell—" Thomas was fumbling behind his head for the lamp and Emma shielded her eyes from the abrupt glare.

  She listened to him mumble swear words for a moment or two, then peeked out from between her fingers. Thomas's short curls were crushed to the side of his head. He was unshaven. His eyes were wild and rimmed with red.

  And he was tugging on the drawstring of his shorts, now tented with the Big Daddy of all erections. She let her hands fall from her face so that she could ogle.

  Then their eyes met. Thomas blinked at her several times and opened his mouth to speak. "I'm not sure what—"