She's No Angel

by Leslie Kelly

  The soft smile told him she appreciated the compliment. The flick of her tongue across her parted lips told him she wanted more than that. He bent down and she leaned up and their mouths met in a soft, effortless hello. Maybe more than a hello…an acknowledgment. From both of them.

  Oblivious to anyone around them, they came together, her softness accommodating him where he was hard, her curves melting into his angles. Their mouths drifted close, shared a breath, then touched. Slowly, sweetly. Sharing both want and promise.

  The taste of her tempted him to dive in for a full banquet, but he didn’t do it. Because, somehow, right now, tasting was enough. It was, in fact, just right.

  Not frenzied and frantic, the kiss was still incredibly sensual, both of them taking the time to lazily explore each other’s lips with delicate licks and nips, and stamp every sensation into memory. It was, most of all, an admission that despite their banter, they were both very serious about what they wanted. More.

  Afterward, they resumed walking, still silent, comfortable, but definitely very aware. Their sex talk had put him on edge. The kiss had pushed him over it. If she suggested they turn around and go back to her place, he honestly didn’t think he’d be able to refuse. But she didn’t suggest it, remaining quiet and introspective, as if still stunned by their first kiss of pure, lazy sweetness rather than hot, raw desire.

  He understood the feeling. And though he had never bought into that Tantric bullshit about self-deprivation, he had to admit, the slow buildup was driving him absolutely crazy with want. Because somehow, in that sweet, languorous kiss, his liking for Jen the person and his hungry desire for Jen the woman had melded together into a need that almost undid him.

  Jen cleared her throat, as if she was still affected by their kiss. Her voice soft, she asked, “Is this okay?”

  Though he wasn’t from this neighborhood and had never worked it, Mike knew the best restaurants in the city, so he completely agreed with her choice of a Thai place not far from her building. “I hear their curry’s great.” End of conversation. Which wasn’t as much of a surprise from him as it was from her. The woman rarely stopped talking.

  More surprising, he liked that about her.

  They got a table in a back corner, as private as one could get in a popular neighborhood joint like this one, and both ordered the same thing. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked once they were alone. “The walk wasn’t too much for your hip?”

  “I’m okay.” She sipped the water the waitress had left. “Much better than I was when I woke up Sunday morning.”

  Glancing into the depths of his own glass, he cleared his throat. “I hate that you got hurt because of me.”

  “I know you do and I also know it wasn’t your fault. Any luck finding out if it had anything to do with your drug case?”

  “Not sure yet.” He didn’t continue. Mike didn’t want to talk about that whole situation. Not here, not with her. It wasn’t that he didn’t think she was the kind of woman who’d be able to take hearing about his job as a New York City cop. He doubted there was much Jennifer Feeney couldn’t handle. He just didn’t want to waste any more of his personal thoughts or energy on a thug. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Deal. But only if it’s about nothing more serious than how much I hate the Yankees,” she said.

  He answered as a die-hard Yankees fan. “Ouch. I don’t know if we can get over that hurdle. You’ve wounded me.”

  The waitress returned with their drinks. After sipping from her fruity cocktail—complete with tiny umbrella—Jen murmured, “Sorry. I’m not good at being a girl.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” he asked, his tone deadpan, though her comment had been completely ridiculous. The woman was among the most feminine he’d ever known.

  She clarified. “I don’t do girlie, poofy stuff.”

  “You’re doing a good job with that chicks-only drink.”

  She grinned and sipped again. “Yeah, but I can’t make myself simper and pretend to know nothing about sports or that I have no opinion on anything other than shopping.”

  “Maybe we should skip dinner and go to Sports Authority.”

  “Maybe we should skip both and go to bed.”

  He groaned, raking a frustrated hand through his short hair. Obviously the sweetly contemplative Jen was put away for the night. The saucy temptress was firmly back in place. “Just shoot me, woman, it’d be less painful.”

  She had the audacity to pull her cherry out of her cocktail and lick every drop of juice from it, her tongue moist and decadent-looking. “You into pain?”

  He laughed, deep and low, watching the pleasure wash over Jen’s face the way it always did when he let down his guard and just enjoyed being with her.

  “You have the sexiest laugh on the planet. I want to gobble you up when you laugh.”

  “God, you really are killing me here,” he said, leaning over the table to be closer to her. Close enough to smell the fruity drink and see the cherry juice drenching her lips.

  A frown tugged at her brow. “Wait. You don’t think…”

  “What?”

  “Well, you don’t think talking about the incredible sex we both know we’re going to have could possibly jinx us?” She sounded stunned…slightly horrified. “Make it not so good?”

  He grunted. “Elmer Fudd could pull up a chair and start whispering in my ear and I’d still be dying to have you, Jen.”

  She appeared slightly mollified. “So it hasn’t, um, diminished your interest? I mean, I’ve never done this before.”

  His jaw dropped.

  “Don’t get your hopes up, big guy,” she said before reaching for her glass. “I’m not saying I’m a virgin. I just meant I don’t usually talk—think, dream, fantasize—so much about sex without actually having it.”

  She’d definitely read him wrong. “Thanks for clarifying. And for the record, I was not hoping for that. I was terrified of it.” When her expression remained puzzled, he explained in an intimate whisper, “The things I want to do with you don’t involve being overly simple and basic.”

  Heat washed up through her face, as if she’d eaten a bite of the curry that hadn’t even been brought to the table yet. Around them, other patrons continued to chatter, but they remained silent, both, he knew, lost in thought about what he’d said. Anticipating it. Wanting it. Dying for it to start. All of it.

  “Simple and basic aren’t even in my vocabulary.”

  Shaking his head, he lifted his beer and said, “Have you always been so blunt?”

  “Always. I don’t play games, and I don’t pull any punches,” she admitted. “Whether you’re taking me to dinner or taking me to bed, I’m the same Jennifer Feeney who once advised a woman whose husband kept going on ‘business trips’ with his twenty-year-old secretary to piss in the bastard’s mouthwash bottle.”

  He choked a little on his beer, but managed to avoid spewing it all over her. Fortunately, it was a dark beer. Not, uh, the shade of a familiar yellow mouthwash. “I hope you also told her to have room service surprise him with a big, garlicky pizza.”

  “A man who thinks on his feet. I like that.”

  “You know,” he admitted, “I’ve never liked women who got mad and got even, but you’re growing on me.”

  She must have heard the tiny note of seriousness in his tone because rather than leaping on the “growing on me” part, she reached across the table and twined her fingers in his. “Tell me about the woman who made you stop laughing.”

  Mike gaped. The subject change came out of nowhere. Jen’s mercurial mood swings tonight were making him dizzy, keeping him off balance and unable to remain circumspect about things he didn’t want to talk about. “It wasn’t somebody I cared about.”

  “Sure.”

  “No, really.” Well, the woman who’d shot him hadn’t been somebody he’d cared about. The girlfriend who’d dumped him out of loyalty to her nutty, murderous friend? He didn’t want
to go there. “That’s all we’re going to say on the subject.” He knew how to get her to drop it. “Unless you want to talk about more serious things? Like the stories in your book?”

  She clenched her lips together in a tight line. Mike wasn’t sure whether he was glad about that or not. Because he still very much wanted to talk to Jennifer about the murder of her uncle.

  He hadn’t told her last night that he’d pulled the file on Leo Cantone and taken a look at the case. Mainly out of curiosity—but also, he had to admit, some concern. Jen might laugh off the insanities of her elderly aunts, but if one of them really was a killer, he didn’t want the woman he was crazy about anywhere near them.

  Woman he was crazy about. Now, where had that come from?

  “Okay, fair enough. Small talk only.”

  They stuck to their agreement, sharing light conversation, good food and sexual tension thicker than the sticky rice that came with their meal. Every time she took a bite of food, she groaned in nearly orgasmic delight. Each sip of her drink soaked her lips in sensual red. She brushed her leg against his beneath the table and reached across it to touch his arm a dozen times. He smelled her perfume, felt her warmth, was wrapped in her soft laughter. And drowned a little more in liquid want with every minute that passed.

  Despite the frustration, though, Mike couldn’t remember enjoying a dinner more. Dancing around off-limit topics and unsatisfied desire heightened everything he’d been feeling, thinking and sensing about Jen since the moment he’d met her.

  By the time they got back to her place, Mike doubted he’d be able to hold out another whole night before having her. If she gave him the green light, his good intentions would fly out the window and he’d have her on her back with her knees behind her ears faster than she could say Take me.

  When they reached her building, walking in complete silence for the few blocks back, he hesitated at the bottom of the outside steps. “Mike?” she asked.

  He stared into her eyes, looking for pain or discomfort, seeing nothing except a warm, welcoming hunger that probably mirrored his own.

  “You’re staying.” It wasn’t a question.

  “You want me to stay.” That wasn’t a question, either.

  She nodded. “Come up.”

  He didn’t answer. He simply opened the door for her and held it while she entered, then followed her up the stairs to her apartment. With every odd step he called himself a weakling for not sticking to his decision to wait until tomorrow night. With every even one, he mentally swore he’d be gentle. Tender. Careful not to hurt her.

  Well, as tender as a man could be when he wanted to bury himself inside a woman’s body and never find his way out again.

  Jen’s hand was shaking as she lifted it to the lock, so Mike took her key away to open the door to her apartment himself. He just hoped she didn’t notice his was shaking, too.

  Shaking. Out of pure need that had been denied for too long. Had he ever wanted someone like this? Ever built something up to such a high tension that it was now a matter of fuck her or die?

  No. That wasn’t the right term for it. It might have been what he’d wanted to do when she’d been a stranger walking along a dusty road. Now he wanted to make love to her.

  Don’t be stupid, don’t think that way, a voice in his head said. But it was too late. He was falling for her in a big way. And he was finally going to touch her, hold her, stroke her, explode in her the way he’d wanted to for days.

  Then he noticed something and all other thought disappeared. “Did you forget to lock your door?” he asked as the key spun around uselessly in the lock.

  “I can’t believe I’d be so careless, but I was a little distracted when you got here, so it’s possible,” she admitted.

  Yeah. Possible. But Mike was a cop—he didn’t take chances like that. Gently pushing her to the side, against the hallway wall, he reached for his concealed weapon. He entered the apartment carefully, his senses on high alert, knowing something was wrong. When he flipped on the light, he knew why.

  Her place had been trashed. Furniture was overturned, papers strewn across the floor, a glass cabinet broken. Though they’d only been gone two hours, the place looked as if it had been used for an Animal House-type frat party.

  “Stay there,” he ordered as he moved into the small apartment. The silence said whoever had been in here was gone. A quick perimeter check confirmed it. After making the brief circuit of her tiny bedroom, bath, kitchen and small living area to confirm no one was there, he came back to the entrance.

  Jen stood in the doorway. Her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide, she took it all in, just shaking her head in silence.

  Mike reached for her, taking her silence for shock. When he felt the tremors racking her body, he hugged her close and said, “Don’t be afraid. We’ll get this guy, Jen.”

  Shaking her head, she pulled back so she could look up at him. “You’re going to have to call in police and we’re going to have to sit here dealing with this for a few hours, aren’t we?”

  Unsure where she was going, he nodded. “Yes.”

  “Hours,” she mumbled, looking as if she was about to cry. Well, who wouldn’t when they’d been so violently invaded like this—had their belongings torn through and broken? It was a wonder Jen hadn’t started wailing.

  “It’ll be all right,” he murmured, gently rubbing his hands up and down her arms. When she shook her head in wordless denial, he insisted, “It will be, I promise. Don’t worry.”

  “I should be worried, shouldn’t I?” she asked, her tone wondering, still dazed. “But I’m not. Hours…”

  “Let me call it in, then I’ll get you something to drink. I think you’re in shock.”

  Jen’s brow shot up and her mouth opened. She snapped it closed again, shaking her head in disbelief. “Shock? I’m not in shock, I’m mad as hell.”

  That was the Jen he knew.

  “And if I get my hands on the son of a bitch before you do, I’m going to kill him.”

  On came the death threats. He felt so relieved, he wanted to send up a prayer of thanks.

  “Do you realize what this means?”

  “Yes,” he said, his amusement disappearing as quickly as it had returned. Deep-seated rage replaced it. “It means someone’s targeting you.” He’d evaluate that later, once he knew she was okay. The person who’d broken in was probably the same one who’d been harassing her. When Mike found him, the bastard was going to be wishing somebody else had killed him first.

  She barely seemed to hear him, instead fisting her hands and putting them on her hips. “It means hours.”

  As he tried to figure out what she was getting at and why she kept saying that, Jen threw her head back and looked up at the ceiling as if shouting the injustice at the heavens. “Argh. I can’t take this anymore.”

  “What is it?” he asked, wondering why she wasn’t ranting or racing through the apartment to make sure her jewelry and electronics were safe, like any typical robbery victim.

  Then again, Jennifer was in no way typical.

  Grabbing the front of his shirt, she yanked him close, until their bodies touched, chest to chest. Her pebbled nipples scraped against him, and her heat washed over him, reminding him of exactly what they’d been thinking as they walked up the stairs to her apartment.

  And suddenly, he got it. Hours. God help him.

  “Listen to me, Mike Taylor. The next time a desperate woman throws herself at you in a lake you say yes. Got it? Yes.”

  Then she pressed a hard, angry kiss on his mouth, spun away and muttered, “Now, call in the damn reinforcements.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Until the moment a guy gets in a woman’s pants, he’s Prince Charming. Afterward, he’s about as loving and romantic as Captain Caveman.

  —I Love You, I Want You, Get Out, by Jennifer Feeney

  EMILY HAD A VERY NICE EVENING. Her date with Mr. Ward—Roderick, as he’d insisted she call him—had at first seemed like
something she’d dreamed about. She’d been playing the part of the poor, inexperienced secretary and he’d been every movie variation of a wealthy, dashing Cary Grant. He’d been charming, opening doors, ordering her dinner for her—but only after questioning her about her tastes. Her first date had gone exactly the way it was supposed to from the movies she’d watched over the years.

  Except…something was missing. Roderick had been proper and cordial; they certainly hadn’t lacked for conversation. He’d seemed to especially enjoy talking about things like the weather and the quality of the produce at the local market. They hadn’t exactly chatted, but there had certainly been no long, uncomfortable silences.

  She hadn’t quite been able to put her finger on what was wrong until now, as they pulled up in front of her house. Their evening had been lovely, but it had not been terribly romantic. Not intimate.

  He hadn’t touched her once. He’d certainly never flirted, well, she didn’t think he had. Since she’d never been flirted with before, she couldn’t be one-hundred-percent sure. There had been that one moment when they’d been talking about the global-warming documentary on the way home and he’d made a comment about wearing lighter clothing. Was that flirting? An expression of interest in her?

  She had no idea. But even if it had been, it certainly hadn’t been emotional. Nor even, as strange as it sounded, terribly personal.

  It wasn’t entirely his fault. She hadn’t exactly behaved like herself tonight, feeling out of her element. Not only because Mr. Ward was someone so different from the people she knew here in Trouble, but also because it was her first date.

  Should she be Grace Kelly from The Philadelphia Story… always elegant and proper? Or Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina, sweet and charming?

  Whatever the case, she knew whom she could not be—boring, silly Emily Baker from Trouble, Pennsylvania.

  I can’t do this, she thought. Her seventy-four-year-old brain wasn’t up to working out these intricate mating puzzles at this point in her life, despite how much she longed to solve them. A part of her wanted to ignore the romantic movie advice that had the heroine waiting to be swept off her feet and ask Roderick if he planned to kiss her. That way, at least, she could be prepared for it and not do something foolish like immediately worry over her crowns.