Things immediately began slip-sliding in the unstable heap and Jax dropped the dust mop once again and grabbed the Plexiglas box that had started the avalanche, slapping it against his stomach to keep it from tumbling away. Swearing under his breath, he braced his shins against the bottom of the pile and managed to rearrange a few things with his free hand. His efforts seemed to halt the mad rush toward the floor, and it wasn’t until he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be buried up to his eyeballs in Treena’s junk that he actually looked down at the object that had nearly disabled him.
He jerked in shock. The movement caused the pile he’d just saved to flow like lava from its shifting base, but he paid it no heed as he stared down at the collectible that had brought him into Treena’s life.
After a moment he roused himself and bent to retrieve the duster and clip it into its holder. Then he simply stood in the recesses and studied his grandfather’s baseball in what little light managed to filter back into the corner.
The ghostly echo of his father’s voice immediately started issuing orders in his mind. Goddammit, Jackson, those were easy pop-ups! Pay attention out there—all you have to do is stay sharp in the outfield and you’ll start catching them. He stared down at the ball in its clear box, sick with feelings he’d struggled long and hard to eradicate. Inadequacy, insecurity and a crawling sensation of shame and worthlessness clamored for his attention. The 1927 World Series ball represented the majority of his youth.
And, God, he despised the fucking thing.
So smuggle it the hell out of here today and hand it over to Sergei. Then all your problems will be over, right?
Sure, if he didn’t mind the fact he’d be stealing from the woman he loved. If he didn’t care that his betrayal would no longer be merely one of intent but firmly rooted in actuality instead.
Shit.
Still, what other choice did he have? He had to turn the baseball over to Kirov.
But he didn’t have to do it today.
Jax carried the ball in its Plexiglas container back to the stack of boxes and carefully set it behind the umbrella. Picking up a scarf from the floor, he released the fingers he’d pinched it between and watched as the satiny fabric fluttered down to cover both items.
Then he shook himself. He still had until after tomorrow night’s tournament. Maybe by then a way to tell Treena the real reason he’d first inserted himself into her life would occur to him.
“Hey,” her voice suddenly called, and he heard her footsteps crossing the living room. “Did you get lost in there?”
He rammed his fingers through his hair. “No,” he called back. “It’s like deepest, darkest Africa, but I think I’m finally approaching the Serengeti.” He turned and picked his way out of the closet, then stood blinking in the bright light that bathed the living room. When Treena walked up to him, vibrant in a turquoise tank top, matching casual skirt and strappy low-heeled sandals, he draped his arms over her shoulders and bowed his head to rest his forehead against hers. A feeling of peace bloomed within him as all the negative feelings resurrected by the ball’s discovery faded away.
“I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again,” he said, and to his chagrin there was a very real catch in his voice. He cleared his throat. Keep it light, coached the part of him that had spent a lifetime instructing him in ways not to care when someone he loved found him a huge disappointment. “What with, uh, all the booby traps in there and all.”
She started to pull back as if to examine his expression, but he laced his fingers together through the soft cloud of curls at the back of her head. He didn’t want her looking at him right this moment, since he wasn’t at all sure he had his poker face in place.
She didn’t fight his hold but rather rolled her forehead against his and smoothed her hands over his chest. But her voice held a hint of concern when she asked, “Are you okay, Jax?”
Tell her. Tell her now, demanded his accountable adult self. Maybe she’ll understand.
But maybe she wouldn’t, and his self-protective side had been active since he was a kid and was much stronger than his conscience could ever hope to be. So he merely said, “Sure. I was just thinking about Treena Sarkilahti’s secret life of sloth.”
“McCall,” she corrected as she always did when he used her maiden name and this time she did raise her head. She poked him in his abs. “And I’ll have you know, Gallagher, that I’m usually pretty neat.”
“Uh-huh. Sure you are.” He slapped on a look of cool cynicism even as he realized what should have been a no-brainer from the beginning. The reason he never called Treena by her married name was because he couldn’t bear the thought of her being wed to his father. He couldn’t face the idea of her lying in the old man’s arms the way she’d lain in his, all flushed and warm and satiated from his loving.
Pushing the image away, he said, “That closet was a revelation, babe.” Then without giving her an opportunity to reply, he indicated the front door with a jut of his chin. “So, you ready to ride?”
“I was born ready,” she retorted, and he laughed. She touched his lower lip and said, “Let me just grab my tote. I’ve got my sunscreen in it and a bottle of water.”
He let her slip away and half of him was pleased he’d eased around a potential land mine. The other half had a different take on the matter, but he stuffed down its objections with the rationalization that blurting out his real identity today would do neither of them any good. They both had a big day tomorrow. She had the audition she’d been working so hard toward, and provided he played well tonight, he’d have a seat at the tournament’s final table. Upsetting her now would merely screw things up for both of them.
He knew he had to tell Treena the entire truth, no matter how damning, and he would do it tomorrow, just as soon as everything was over. No more excuses, no more prevarications.
Still, that gave him a twenty-four-hour grace period. And until it was up, he intended to avoid anything that might put a look of betrayal on her face.
MACK KNOCKED ON Ellen’s door promptly at five-thirty that afternoon.
“So what are your thoughts on prime rib?” he demanded the moment she opened it. Then he took her in from head to toe and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. She wore a simple black suit with sheer black hose and sensible black pumps. Beneath the jacket, however, was a silky little purple top. Its satiny sheen made the moisture dry up in his mouth, for it looked like fancy underwear, like something forbidden that offered him a glimpse of cleavage when her suit jacket pulled back as she swung the door open wide to admit him.
“I’m all for it,” she said with a smile.
He jerked his attention back to the subject at hand. “I only ask because I made us a reservation at Lawry’s The Prime Rib, and if you’ve ever been there you probably know you can have anything you want—as long as it’s prime rib. So in case that doesn’t hit your hot button I also made a reservation at Austin’s Steakhouse over on Texas Star Lane.” He shook his head and stared at her again. “Damn, you look good!”
A delicate rose colored her cheeks. “Thank you. You look very nice yourself.”
He looked down at his charcoal suit, white shirt and the silver-gray tie that felt like a noose around his neck, and hitched one shoulder. “Yeah, I’m passable, but you…you look good enough to eat.” He nodded at the little top that commanded his attention. “I sure like your whozit there. What do you call that color?”
“Purple,” she said, deadpan. But her pretty hazel eyes twinkled with suppressed humor.
He laughed. “Come on, what do you really call it? I know you ladies have fancy names for colors. Like puce. I remember my mother calling something puce once. What the hell is that?”
“A brownish purple.”
He shook his head. “Jesus. And this shade?”
“Periwinkle.”
“Okay, sure, like the flower. Maryanne grew some of those in the yard of the house we rented before we bought our first home. It’s a very pretty
color. You look real good in it.” He cleared his throat. “So, which restaurant hits your hot button?”
“Lawry’s. I’ve never been there and I love prime rib.”
“Hot dawg.” He rubbed his hands together. “That’s what I had my taste buds set for, too. You mind if I borrow your phone? I should probably call Austin’s and cancel the reservation I made there.”
He ushered Ellen into the red-carpeted reception area of Lawry’s a short while later and admired her by the light of the fireplace while they waited for the hostess who would take them to the main dining room. “Did I mention how pretty you look tonight?” he asked.
“You did, yes.” She smiled demurely. “But a woman can never hear a compliment like that too often.”
He threw back his head and laughed, then placed his hand at the small of her back as he guided her to the white linen-covered table the hostess indicated. The silky material of her slip-top shifted beneath his hand and her jacket.
They were seated and a waitress appeared at their table to introduce herself as Mrs. Baxter and take their drink order. After she walked away, Ellen smiled at him. “This is very pretty. I love the Art Deco decor.”
“Is that what it’s called?” He looked around at the coved ceilings, hardwood floors and colorful rugs, before turning his attention back to her. “I like the use of all the wood.”
“Isn’t it lovely? Oh, and the waitresses’ uniforms!”
“Yeah, I read somewhere that they haven’t changed the style since the first Lawry’s opened in Beverly Hills in 1938.” Mrs. Baxter returned with their wine and they both silently admired her crisp old-fashioned uniform that was the same rich burgundy color as the restaurant’s velvet banquettes and chairs. It sported a starched white collar and cuffs and a pristine white apron that tied behind her back in a huge bow.
When the waitress had performed the wine ritual and left them once again Mack gave Ellen an inquiring look. “What do you suppose those tall head things they all wear are called?”
“I have no idea, but I remember seeing them on the counter-servers at Woolworth’s when I was a girl.”
“You know what they remind me of? My nurses at the hospital where I had my tonsils removed back in the early fifties.”
“In the fifties, huh?” Her eyes held warm interest as she gazed at him across the table. “How old were you?”
“Just turned ten.”
“Was it awful? I had mine taken out when I was fourteen. It was on the first day of spring break and my mother promised me I’d be up and at ’em by the following day, but I was sick as a dog the entire week and furious that I’d missed my vacation.”
“I had an easier time of it. I got to eat ice cream and Jell-O for two days, then pretty much bounced back to my usual trouble-making ways.” Mack leaned back in his chair. He had been half-afraid they wouldn’t have much to say to each other once he finally got Ellen to himself, but he found himself completely relaxed. “So tell me what it was like to work in a library all those years.”
Her face lit up. “I just adored it. I enjoyed my coworkers and loved helping people find a novel they’d enjoy or the research material they needed to complete a paper or a project. I loved that each day I learned something new.” She sighed with pleasure. “But most of all I adored being surrounded by books.”
He grinned. “From the looks of the shelves in your living room, you’re still surrounded by books.”
“Yes, I admit it, I’m an addict. How about you? Are you a reader?”
“Nothing like you are, I bet. But I like a good Elmore Leonard or Neal Stephenson book. Especially if I’ve had a particularly busy day. I’m not a big fan of all the reality TV that seems to be the big craze these days, so I find it a great way to unwind.”
“And you certainly keep busy.” Leaning in, she reached across the table to touch her fingertips to the back of his hand. “It must be very rewarding to be so competent at so many things.” The corner of her mouth crooked. “Winston, bless his heart, was a whiz when it came to banking. But when it came to keeping anything running around the house he was utterly helpless. I so admire the way you seem to master every single thing you put your hands to.”
I’d like to put my hands to you, he thought. Feeling heat rise up his throat, he tugged at the knot of his tie. Down boy, he lectured himself sternly. He didn’t want to blow the opportunity he had with Ellen. Focusing on the topic she’d begun, he told her a bit about his background in the aircraft industry and how his father had started him down his current path as a handyman by teaching him how to work with tools.
It was difficult not to think hot thoughts, however, when she fanned herself with her hand a few moments later and said, “This wine has certainly warmed me up,” and pulled off her suit jacket, rising to drape it over the back of her chair. He stared at her shoulders gleaming in the muted light as she reseated herself, gazed with covetous eyes at the way the skimpy periwinkle slip-top cupped her pretty breasts.
He felt enormous gratitude toward Mrs. Baxter for her timely intervention when she returned to take their order.
Unfortunately, once he’d allowed sexual thoughts into his mind, they stuck like a freeloading relative to the guest-room bed, and he had to work like the devil to evict them. His choice of restaurant helped, for Lawry’s service was a show that provided built-in distractions. Instead of tossing their salads, the waitress spun their mixed greens, shreds of beets, bits of egg, grape tomatoes and croutons in a stainless-steel bowl atop a bed of ice, drizzling in dressing, then serving the mixture onto their plates and presenting them with chilled salad forks. The chef rolled a stainless cart to their table and carved their individual servings from the majestic standing rib it showcased.
Then there was Ellen herself. The more they talked, the more imperative grew his need for a relationship deeper than a quick tumble into the nearest bed—although that desire was rapidly reaching near-addictive proportions. She was smart and funny and a whole lot earthier than he’d ever imagined.
Discovering that their senses of humor often meshed, they laughed frequently. She told him about her canceled trip to Italy and he told her about his one and only vacation in Europe, the excursion he and Maryanne had taken to England and France the year before she’d died. They talked about his daughters and about “their” girls, speculating on how serious Treena was getting about Jax and how long it would take Carly to whip Rufus into shape. The conversation flowed almost nonstop, but even the occasional silences were companionable.
Once they were enclosed in his car heading home, however, all the sexual tension he’d managed to tamp down during the meal returned with a vengeance. On the drive back to the complex he found himself growing more and more edgy the closer they got to home, and by the time they reached Ellen’s door he had outright knots in the back of his neck. He wanted in the worst way to push her up against the unyielding wood and put his hands all over that seductive little top.
Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her with the utmost gentleness, taking extra care not to touch her with anything except his lips.
And he did all right, he held it all together, until her soft lips opened beneath his. Then, promising himself he’d take only one little taste, he eased his tongue into the warm, damp cavern of her mouth.
That was a big mistake. His kiss turned fierce, desperate, and he trembled with the effort it took to hold himself back, to not plaster his body against hers and simply take and take and take. He ripped his mouth free and stared down at her, breathing hard. “Well, uh, good night,” he said hoarsely, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep himself from pawing her like a rabid dog.
She blinked, then drew a shuddery little breath and opened her purse to retrieve her key. Upon unlocking and opening her door, she looked up at him and bade him a soft good-night.
Then the prim curve of her lips turning into a siren’s smile, Ellen reached out, wrapped his tie around her petite fist and hauled him through the doorway into her apa
rtment.
Nobody had to invite him twice and, heart beating fast and furiously, he grasped her fine-boned shoulders. Kicking the door closed behind them, he pulled her into his arms and rocked his mouth over hers.
CHAPTER TWENTY
JAX WAS STILL asleep when Treena came back to the bedroom after her shower the next morning. They’d certainly been burning their candle at both ends and she knew she’d feel like sleeping for a week, herself, once this afternoon’s audition was finally behind her. That was a pipe dream, of course, but she at least intended to sleep late tomorrow morning.
Looking at such a large man sprawled out on his stomach like a little boy made her feel all gooey inside. His arms curved over his head and one knee was pulled up, his thigh free of the covers tangled around his hips. Observing him, so big and male and utterly at peace in her bed not only touched a tender spot inside of her, it managed to settle some of the butterflies fluttering in her stomach over the upcoming audition.
She moved quietly about the room as she pulled fresh undies and a gauzy top and jeans from her drawers and dressed. Then she headed back to the bathroom to apply her makeup.
Jax still hadn’t stirred when she returned to the bedroom, so she set about gathering her stuff together for the tryout. Forgoing her usual ratty leotard, she packed fishnet stockings, an almost new double-cross halter top and a pair of V-front boy-cut shorts into her dance bag. She polished her black T-strap shoes and placed them in the bag’s end pocket. la Stravaganza didn’t require its dancers to audition in full makeup and costume like some of the shows did, but she’d learned over the years that putting an extra effort into her appearance paid off. The choreographer and GM who conducted the tryouts paid attention to that sort of thing.
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