by Leslie Kelly
Ashley grimaced. “Yeah, I think Mr. Jones is trying to pretend he’s young and hip. Ick. He’s so nasty. The old fart seems to be outside lurking in the hall just laying in wait for me every time I come home.” Crossing her arms on the table and leaning over it, Ashley got right back on subject. “So…you still claiming you weren’t drunk enough to fall out of bed and are not dying of an acute hangover right now?”
“I was a little tipsy,” she insisted, wondering who she was trying harder to convince. “I was doing that trick where you put your foot out from under the covers and let it touch the floor.” So, hopefully, the room would stop spinning like a Tilt-A-Whirl ride. “But my bed’s too high.”
“You scooted too far?”
“Uh-huh. And I couldn’t manage to climb back up.” She rubbed her head, glad there was no lump. “How in heaven’s name could I have been drunk on two glasses of wine,” she mumbled as she dipped a washcloth in a big pitcher of iced water, wrung it out and lifted it to her brow. The tap water just wasn’t cold enough.
“Maybe because you haven’t eaten a thing in the past few days? Ever since you got back from Misery?”
“It’s Trouble. And I ate ice cream.” Almost a whole quart of it by herself. Last night. And the night before. Every day. For four days.
“With tequila chasers.”
Whoops. She’d forgotten about the shots Beth had insisted on doing. One for each man who’d broken their hearts. Between the three of them they’d killed off most of a bottle.
“One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor,” Ashley said, sounding cheerful. Which just made Jen want to pound her.
“Why aren’t you hung over?” she asked.
“I’m hurting a little. But I outweigh you by thirty pounds, and I’ve only ever had my heart broken twice.”
Jen lifted her head from the sink and looked at her blond friend, who was six feet tall, built like an Amazon and probably as tough as one. “Men would be scared to break your heart.”
“Yours, too,” Ashley retorted.
“I guess. So why was I drunk?”
“I thought you weren’t.”
“Well, maybe I sort of overdid it.” Judging by the serious pain, she’d very much overdone it.
Jen hadn’t been drunk in years, not since her college days. Now she remembered why. “But no guy’s broken my heart in—” she looked at the clock “—five whole days.”
Not that her heart had been broken, but she’d been hurt that Mike had stood her up. “Other than that, it’s been ages since anybody’s gotten close enough to me to do any lasting damage.”
“Yeah,” Ashley said, “but don’t you remember? You drank for every man who’s said a nasty word to you because of your books.”
“Call the distributor. There’s no alcohol left in the five boroughs.”
Closing her eyes, Jen rubbed the corners of them. She told herself to relax, waiting for the aspirin to kick in so she wouldn’t feel each and every one of her heartbeats send out a message that said, “Payback time, loser.”
“So, are you going to call him?”
“Call who?”
“The guy.”
The guy. Mike. Her stomach clenched at the very idea. “He stood me up, remember? He’s not interested.”
Ashley cleared her throat, saying nothing for a moment. Warily opening her eyes to peer at her nervous-looking friend, Jen asked, “What?”
“Don’t you remember his call last night?”
Finally, she stopped feeling her pulse pounding because her heart stopped beating altogether. She just stood there, jaw falling open, Ashley’s words reminding her of what she’d forgotten. “Oh, my God, he did call, didn’t he?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’d he say?”
“I didn’t talk to him.”
“What’d I say?”
“You called him scum and hung up on him.”
She scrunched her eyes closed again. “I think he told me he’d left me three messages saying he couldn’t make it Monday.”
“Right,” Ashley said, suddenly sounding sheepish. “But, uh, I think we chose not to believe him.”
The whole conversation flooded back into her mind. All of it. Complete with porn and vibrators. “Oh, my God.”
She wished her kitchen window weren’t stuck because she needed to stick her head out of it and scream her guts out. A chair through the glass. That’ll work.
Before she could throw anything, however, a jackhammer started pounding on Jen’s front door. Each bang shot through her head and blew out a chunk of her brain. “Get my gun.”
“You don’t have one. And besides, it would be really loud.”
Actually, she did have a gun. A very illegal one, given where she lived. Her agent had bought her one and forced it on her after some of the nastier letters she’d gotten from unhappy readers. A few more of which had been waiting for her when she’d gotten back from Trouble.
Not that she’d ever fire a weapon, though she might be tempted when it came to bad guys. Especially since she’d had an odd feeling when she’d gotten back to her apartment—as if maybe someone had been inside it. Her first thought had been the slimy super, but she had him pegged as a perv, not a thief, and she honestly didn’t notice any of her panties or lingerie missing.
She’d chalked the whole thing up to an overactive imagination. But she’d also checked to make sure the gun was still locked away where it had been since the day she’d gotten it. The last thing she wanted was to think somebody had broken in, stolen it and planned to use it in a crime.
She really needed to get rid of the thing. Soon. Well, after she used it on whoever was jackhammering on her door much too early on a hungover Saturday morning.
But Ashley was right. It would be loud. She didn’t need loud. She needed whispers and feather softness and oh, Lord, did she need coffee. Of all days to be out.
“Let me die,” she groaned.
“Only the good die young, babe,” Ashley said, still so darned chipper Jen wanted to strangle her. “Which means you are going to live forever.”
Judging by the other women in her family, that was a distinct possibility. Her grandmother—who, some said, had murdered her husband long before Jen was born—had reportedly lived well into her eighties, though Jen didn’t remember her. And Aunt Ida Mae and Aunt Ivy showed absolutely no signs of slowing down. No rest for the wicked, they said. That was probably true in their case.
She hoped if she did live a long life, she got to be as cunning and ballsy as they were. Despite not quite having forgiven them for their shenanigans of the previous week, she almost missed them. Distance definitely improved her feelings toward those two, as it always had. When not being tormented by them on a daily basis, she always found herself liking their quirky ways and their strength.
They were family. Her family. Psychotic and malicious and outrageous. But hers.
The knocking picked up again. It was now accompanied by a muffled voice calling, “Anybody home?”
Her head still hanging over the sink, she tilted it to glance at the door, trying to scrape her stringy hair out of the way. “Go die a slow, painful death you mean-hearted bastard.”
“I’ll tell whoever it is to get lost on my way out,” Ashley said as she rose and walked to the door of Jen’s small apartment. “Call me later if you want to do lunch.”
“That would require consuming food.” Moving slowly, Jen took the seat Ashley had vacated. Moaning, she dropped her face in her hands. “I don’t plan on eating again for a week.”
“I guess that means you won’t want this,” a voice said. A male voice. A familiar male voice.
No. This could not be happening. Not today. Fate wouldn’t be so cruel, right? Man, it wasn’t as if she’d ever kicked a puppy or taken a Snickers bar from a little kid. She’d just written a few books about killing men, that was all. Could karma really be paying her back as if she were the reincarnation of Genghis Khan?
Jen opened
her eyes just enough to peek through her fingers. A pair of booted feet and khaki-clad legs stood right beside her chair. She knew without a doubt they belonged to the one man she most wanted to see…and the one she never wanted to see again, given what she’d said to him on the phone last night.
“This can’t be happening.”
“It’s happening.”
Looking up, her whole insides went gooey at the sight of his familiar spiky black hair, his dark eyes, that incredible face. And not because she felt nauseous. “How did you…?”
“Your friend let me in.”
Some friend. Ashley had let a gorgeous hunky man in to witness Jen looking like a used toilet brush.
“I guess there’s no way you’ll leave and come back tomorrow after I’ve at least had a chance to get my brain working again?” Not to mention taking a shower and putting a comb somewhere within five feet of her hair.
She should have known better. Mike wasn’t the kind of guy to go away when a woman asked him to. She’d known that about him from the very first—this was no Mr. Sensitive.
He was big and he was tough and he did what he wanted. Which was usually incredibly sexy and exciting, but right now, it just frustrated the hell out of her.
He didn’t even respond to her request. He merely blew out a resigned breath—as if he didn’t even believe she’d asked it, then sat down across from her. Pushing the chair out from the table, he stretched his long legs and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Jen?”
“Yes?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
CHAPTER NINE
Somebody should invent a ne type of Barbie doll that looks pretty and new right out of the box, but has a special button marked How her Stupid Husband Will Eventually Make her Feel that turns her frumpy, useless and fat.
—I Love You, I Want You, Get Out, by Jennifer Feeney
MIKE COULD HAVE TAKEN PITY on her and left when Jen asked him to. But he had the feeling they had some bridges to mend. He needed to make Jen believe he hadn’t intentionally stood her up. The best way to win any battle, he knew from experience, was to launch an attack when the opponent was vulnerable.
Not that he wanted to attack her physically. He just wanted to attack her defenses—the ones she’d thrown into place the minute she’d started to think he was exactly like every other guy she’d known or written about.
As for being vulnerable? Well…she looked about as pathetic as a kitten that had fallen down a well.
Jen’s face was red, as if she’d been pressing an ice pack on it, and strands of her hair clung to her head. She wore plain, washed-out sweatpants and a spandex sports top that clung to her full breasts. He liked the shirt. A lot. As she glared at him with bloodshot eyes, Mike tried hard to feel pity for the hellish hangover she must have, and not amusement at how cute she looked with all her defenses down. Nor aroused at how hot that tight little top was against her amazing body.
“Just kill me and get it over with.”
“That bad, huh?”
Slowly nodding, she wrinkled her nose and sniffed, finally noticing the brown bag Mike had placed on the table. A warm, yeasty scent rose from it. He’d thought breakfast might be a good ice-breaker.
Apparently not. Jen’s face went white. “What is that?”
“Bagels.”
Visibly shuddering and launching back in her chair, she waved her hand at the bag. “Get them out of my sight unless you want to see what kind of ice cream I was eating last night.”
He couldn’t hold a smile in any longer. “You got it bad.”
“Yes, I do. Now stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop smiling. Don’t do that. I can’t take you when you smile. Go back to being Mr. Moody.”
“You bet.” He killed the smile, though he didn’t imagine she could miss the way his shoulders were shaking with laughter.
“Why are you here?”
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay. You said last night you didn’t get my messages.”
Her succulent bottom lip disappeared into her mouth and she gnawed on it for a moment. “You really left me messages?”
He nodded, keeping his stare steady and completely open. “Yeah, I did. I talked to both Ivy and Ida Mae. Plus I left you a note on Ida Mae’s door at nine o’clock Monday morning saying I had to return to the city unexpectedly and wanted to see you here as soon as you got back. You didn’t get any of them?”
Shaking her head, she groaned. “Ida Mae and Ivy got mad at me on the way home Sunday night because I told them I was leaving the next morning. I guess your grandfather had invited us for lunch and they were afraid if I wasn’t there, he’d cancel.”
“But they couldn’t talk you out of it…so to pay you back they kept my messages from you.”
“Right.”
Frustration made him lift both hands to his head and run them through his hair. “How in the name of God did you end up related to those harpies?”
“Hey, you can pick your friends. Can’t pick your family.”
As if anyone would choose to be related to those two.
Clearing her throat nervously, she said, “Um, I have a feeling that wasn’t all I said to you on the phone last night.”
“No, it wasn’t.” The annoyed tension in the air eased the tiniest bit as he remembered all of their conversation on the phone. Every sweet, naughty bit of it. But he decided to make her sweat. “You told me you didn’t like me.”
She nibbled her lip. “I did?”
“Uh-huh. That hurt my feelings, Jen.”
Her bloodshot eyes widened, her mouth forming an O of surprise. She reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. “I’m so sorry. I do like y—” Suddenly, she yanked her hand away, obviously remembering who she was talking to. “You’re so full of it.”
Shaking his head mournfully, he admitted, “The only thing that made me feel better after that remark was knowing you had had a few drinks and certainly didn’t mean it.” Then, looking down so she wouldn’t see his smile, he added, “And picturing you over here with your friends filming Girls Gone Wild Part Forty.”
Groaning, she leaned back and stared at the ceiling, shaking her head back and forth. “God, I need coffee.”
“Want me to make it?”
“I’m out. Of all freaking days to be out of coffee.”
“Come on. I’ll take you out for one.”
She shook her head. “I think I’ll just stay right here, not having to look at you, waiting for the ceiling to crash down on top of me and put me out of my misery.”
Standing, he stepped over to look directly down into her face. Her eyes were closed, as if she hoped he’d just disappear by the time she opened them.
“Come on, you know you need it,” he cajoled. “And so do I. I haven’t slept much lately.” His voice low, he added, “I’ve been thinking too much about how I should have spent Monday afternoon.” In her arms. In her bed. In her body. Taking her, filling her, possessing her. Then doing it all again.
Those moody eyes flew open and she flinched, almost falling out of her chair. “Huh?”
All the tension in the room changed, becoming thick, more sensual, more aware. For the past five days, Jen had apparently been thinking they were through, that what they’d talked about Sunday night would never happen. Now that she knew he hadn’t intentionally stood her up, she had to be wondering if they might get together after all.
“You can’t want me now.”
He did. Oh, he definitely did. He’d like to start by leading her into the shower, gently soaping her body and easing away the aches. Lathering her hair and wrapping it around his hands as he washed it. Stroking her temples to ease her headache. Filling her body slowly with the water roaring down on both of them.
But she looked as if she could barely stand up, much less have hot shower sex. So he didn’t say any of that. Instead, he merely murmured, “Yeah. I do. But only when you stop looking as though you’d
scream like somebody getting a tooth extracted without Novocain if I so much as touch you.”
“You can’t want me,” she mumbled. “I look like the bride of Frankenstein’s half-witted brother.”
Reaching down, he grabbed her hand and tugged her up. Cupping her chin in his hand, he held her steady so she couldn’t look away. “I’m dying for you, Jennifer. I’ve dreamed about you every night this week, every hour of those nights. And fantasized about you during just about every waking one.”
“Oh.” She licked her lips in blatant invitation.
Unable to resist anymore, he swooped in and kissed her. He swirled his tongue into her mouth, plunging deep and hard, showing her what he wanted.
When he pulled away, she muttered, “Oh, thank God I brushed my teeth.”
Dropping his head back and laughing, he let her go and swatted her curvy butt. “Get your shoes. Let’s go for coffee.”
She nodded, still looking a little dazed. “Give me five minutes to get myself presentable.” Jen glanced away and caught a glimpse of her reflection in a mirror hanging in the hallway. Her gape of dismay said she hadn’t realized quite how bad things were. “Never mind. It’d take five hours.”
He put a hand on her shoulder, standing behind her, their eyes locking in the mirror. Slowly rubbing his cheek into her hair, he moved to sample the smooth softness of her neck. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss there, licking lightly at the vulnerable nape. “It’ll take a whole lot more than five hours to do everything I want to do with you,” he whispered, watching as her delicate skin flushed in immediate reaction.
She shook a little, leaning back against his chest. Her mouth fell open, her pulse fluttered in her throat. For a second, he wondered if she’d say to hell with it and drag him to her bed.
He’d been noble enough to say he’d wait until she felt better a few minutes ago. But it had taken everything he had to say it. He honestly didn’t know if he could manage it again.
“Soon,” she finally said, her eyes sparkling with both promise—and regret. “I’m not going to sleep with you until I can be sure I’ll be an active participant.”