Jessica began to get a glimmer of what the other woman was talking about when she truly examined Lily for the first time and realized the petite blonde's figure wasn't perfect. She simply knew how to give the impression that it was.
"Also my complexion is mostly olive," Lily continued. "That gives me the option of wearing a variety of colors. But I've learned to steer clear of the brighter oranges and the yellower greens, because they make my skin look sallow." She fingered her necklace. "I adore jewelry, and you can probably tell I'm not your basic outdoorsy kind of woman. I rarely wear rings, though, because I do have a career that can be very messy, especially on the hands, and I lean toward jeans for both work and everyday use, because I can press them to make them look a little dressier, but they're still a practical garment that can take a lot of abuse." Lily steered Jess over to the three-way mirror in the corner of the shop and gently turned her to see her own reflection. "Now you try it."
Jess studied herself for a minute, men blew out a breath. "I'm an indoor-outdoor woman," she said softly. "I spend most of my time inside, but I also like to tramp the cliffs. I don't have a career, or even a job, but like Cassidy, I volunteer on a number of charitable committees that call for dressier day wear and some evening apparel." Then she faltered. Saying what she did was easier than assessing her pluses and minuses—especially when she felt she had more minuses.
"You have a delicate bone structure," Lily prompted.
Jess met her gaze in the mirror. "That's a very diplomatic way of putting it. I'm skinny :"
"Yeah? I'd love to hear you ask the nine out of ten American women who constantly struggle with their weight how sorry they feel for you because you think you're too slender."
"Easy for you to say," Jess snapped, and it didn't even occur to her to be appalled by her abrupt lack of manners. "You're stacked."
' 'Boobs , you're talking about?" Lily made a rude noise. "Please. You can buy those anywhere. Every lingerie department from Victoria's Secret to Walmart offers some form or another of padded, water-filled, or gel-filled bras. You can always beef up that area, but trust me on this, you cannot subtract excess curves to get the kind of slinky little hips that you've got. Neither can those of us who are more height challenged add inches to get those long legs. So quit your whining."
Jessica laughed in surprised gratification and studied herself more closely. "Okay, I have"—she cleared her throat—"delicate bone structure. And long legs and slender hips."
"And pretty lips."
"Yes, and pretty lips that look good in this shade of lipstick." Beginning to see she did possess pluses, she gained confidence. "I have nice skin, but…" She plucked at her sweater. "This color is all wrong for me, isn't it?"
"Too pastel," Lily agreed. "It washes you out. And a style less bulky would be more flattering. Something like these." She led Jess over to a stack of chenille sweaters that zipped up the front and had a different type of stitching through the midsection that lent a hint of a waistline. "Yep, I bet these would look good on you. What color grabs your fancy?"
Jessica reached for a rich golden brown, but then dropped her hand to her side, figuring it'd probably make her look like a big brown wren. But Lily pulled it out of the stack.
"I think most of us tend to be drawn to the colors that look good on us," she said. "Not always, of course, but more often than not." She held the sweater up to Jessica. "Look, you have excellent instincts. This brings out the highlights in your hair and makes your skin look really creamy. Try it on."
By the time they finished shopping that afternoon, Jessica found herself the proud owner of two new sweaters, new makeup, and even a new pair of shoes. She'd tried to protest the latter, citing the practicality of her current pair of casual oxfords.
But Lily had merely looked at her with raised eyebrows and demanded, "Practical for what, plowing the lower forty? I'm not suggesting you toss them away, Jess, just save them for tramping the cliffs. Meanwhile, buy yourself these darling ballerina flats for the less athletic moments. Heck, if you're looking for practicality, slip-ons have that in spades. Think about it: For someone who likes to go barefoot in her own apartment, this style is much easier to kick off and slide back into. Not to mention how good pretty can be for your health. It relieves stress. I can testify that seeing you wear something other than those big old clodhoppers has dropped my stress level considerably."
So Jess laughed and bought them, secretly delighted. She knew her new purchases and a few quick lessons in applying makeup wouldn't magically transform her into a beauty. And it certainly wouldn't address her worries concerning her marriage. But for nearly the first time in her life, she felt stylish. Not just passable or neat, but genuinely stylish. And that made her feel attractive. It was as if a light had come on, as if the secrets that other women took for granted had finally decided to reveal themselves to her, too. And even knowing that sooner or later Lily would go back to California, Jess felt confident she was actually learning the skills to continue making choices that would highlight her assets.
There was a surprising amount of power in that.
It was getting late when Zach heard the knock, and he swore softly into the phone. "Someone's at my door."
"Then I'll let you go," Rocket promptly replied.
"And don't worry; I'll start looking into the background of Beaumont's family right away."
"You're the man, Miglionni. Something is sure as hell fishy here, and if anyone's got the juice to dig me up a motive, it's you." They settled on a time for him to call back for the results, and Zach hung up just as another knock sounded at his door.
"I'm coming, already," he growled, and strode over to yank it open. "Hold your damn hors—" At the sight of the woman on the other side of the door, the words dammed up in his throat.
Because the last person he expected—or wanted—to see was Lily.
And the last place he wanted to see her was in his bedroom.
But there she stood, all five and a third feet of her in her crazy sky-high heels, looking like sin incarnate and smelling like heaven. He didn't want to let her in, and he opened his mouth to make an excuse—any excuse—so he could shut the door in her face and safely keep her on the other side. But before a single word left his lips, she sashayed right past him into his room. The next thing he knew, she was crossing within a foot of his bed and bringing with her every damn memory he'd struggled all day long to suppress.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Well, hey, c'mon in," he said with carefully understated irony. "Make yourself right at home."
She turned to him. "I've been thinking."
"Ah. I thought I smelled something burning."
She gave him a look that was surprisingly repressive for a woman who was anything but repressed. "Very funny. You need a minute to get all your blonde jokes out of your system, or do you wanna hear what I have to say?"
He could use a minute, all right, but not to assemble his arsenal of jokes. The woman scrambled his brain. He'd been raised to be polite to women, yet every time he turned around he found himself acting rude as hell toward this one.
Still… did he want to hear what she had to say? No . He didn't want to have to deal with her, period. Then again, she looked as if she were about two seconds away from walking over and taking a poke at him with one of those competent little fingers of hers, and he really didn't think he could handle her touching him right now. He didn't trust what he'd do if she laid hands on him—and wasn't that a hell of a thing for a trained warrior to have to admit? Yet it was nothing short of the truth. It was all he could do just to squelch the fantasy that raced through his mind of the various ways he could keep those capable hands busy. So he gave her a brisk, impersonal nod and said, "My apologies. What have you been thinking?"
"That somebody really ought to call the police about the kidnapping."
That actually took his mind off wondering what it would be like to lay her down on the bed just a few steps behind her.
At last. Someone who showed a little common sense. He gave her a wholly approving look that for once didn't have a thing to do with her sex appeal. "You and me both, sweetheart."
"You agree?"
"Hell, yes. You heard me arguing this morning wi— No, I guess that was before you came downstairs." He rolled his shoulders. "Anyway, I had this very argument with Mrs. Beaumont. Christ, Lily, I'm a soldier—I believe in the system. But not only did Mrs. B. threaten to kick my butt out of here if I called in the feds over her objections, she said she'd deny Glynnie and David were even kidnapped!"
Lily looked properly horrified, and he was filled with a sudden comradely warmth toward her. He took a few steps closer.
"That's just plain foolish!" she said indignantly.
"Amen to that." He couldn't believe he hadn't realized before how intelligent she was.
"So what do we do?"
"We proceed cautiously. We've got five days to work on her, and Rocket—" At her furrowed brow, he cut himself off to say, "You remember my friend John Miglionni who stopped by the house?" He got a flash of Rocket laughing himself silly on the phone a few minutes ago after he'd started to tell Zach he'd discovered Lily was exactly who she'd claimed to be, and Zach'd had to admit he'd already found that out for himself. Then, recalling his behavior when he'd introduced them back in Laguna Beach, not to mention the way he and John had double-teamed her, he braced himself for an acid response.
But she merely nodded. "Of course. Mr. Sensitivity. You call him Rocket?"
"Yeah, it's his Marine handle. He's a private detective now, and he's checking out the reliability of the local FBI." He patted her shoulder with companionable bonhomie as he explained the reason for John's inquiries.
Big mistake. She was soft and warm beneath his fingers, and it took an effort to remove his hand. He rubbed the back of his neck in an attempt to eradicate the feel of her and groped for the hail-brothers-well-met emotions of a moment ago. He cleared his throat. "Don't, uh, worry about it, okay? One way or the other—hopefully with the feds' help, but even without it—I will see to it that everything works out all right."
Lily stared up into his eyes, and blinked when she saw their normal gray watchfulness all warmly avuncular as he gazed back down at her. She didn't get this guy—she didn't get him at all.
Oh, not the trust-me-I-can-take-care-of-everything attitude—that struck her as pretty typical of the Zach she'd come to know. But earlier today he'd kissed her like she was the hottest woman in the known universe— and now he was patting her like a decrepit old dog? Good Lord. And to think she'd hesitated to come to his room for fear he'd jump to the wrong conclusion. Talk about worrying over nothing.
And how immature was it to be a little bent out of shape that the need had been removed? Heck, it wasn't as if she wanted to pick up where they'd left off. She stared at the pale scar that bisected his upper lip. Did she?
No, of course she didn't. But really, was she the only one who remembered the way they'd been all over each other just a few short hours ago?
Impulsively, she reached out and touched his chest. "Zach," she said… then realized she didn't have the first idea where to go from there.
Before she could decide, Zach's hand whipped out to grip hers. He jerked it away from the soft red material covering those hard, muscular planes. 'You don't want to be doing that," he growled. "Or maybe you do. Either way, be damn careful what signals you send out, Lily, because I'm not in the mood to be teased."
His eyes, when hers snapped up to meet them, were no longer the least bit avuncular. They were molten and intense, and seemed to see right down to her skin.
And suddenly she didn't have a doubt in the world that he remembered every single thing about that encounter.
Chapter 14
ZACHREMEMBERED, ALL RIGHT. He REMEMBERED every single second. And staring down at Lily, with that curvy body that made his fingers itch, and those electric-blue eyes that seemed to see into his darkest corners, he wanted nothing more than to pick her up, toss her on the bed, and have at her.
Jesus. He was a man who took pride in his self-control—so what the Sam Hill was it about her that brought him so close to throwing it all away, time after frigging time? To prevent himself from grabbing her, he crossed his hands behind his back and assumed the time-honored "at ease" position. But damned if she got to wiggle off the hook and just bebop on her merry way.
"Why are you really in my room?" he demanded. "You looking to pick up where we left off?" Say yes , he thought fiercely. Just say the word, sweet thing, and I'll be happy to oblige you .
"No, of course not," she snapped indignantly. "I told you—" Cutting herself off, she shook her head and blinked up at him thoughtfully. Then she shrugged. "I don't know," she admitted with the inherent honesty he was beginning to understand was an integral part of her. "Maybe. I'd like to say you're crazy even to suggest it… but maybe I am."
His hands came out from behind his back and he took a step forward, crowding her so closely she had to tip her head way back just to maintain eye contact. But she didn't step away, and triumph exploded in his chest. "Good," he said in a low, intense voice. "Because that's sure as hell what I'd like to do. I'd like to pick right up where we left off before we were interrupted—and then some. I want to strip you naked and touch you every place I've ever thought of touching you. Spread you out on that bed and lick you from head to toe." His gaze took a slow, leisurely journey down her body, and the sheer lust that roared through his gut tempted him to jettison his control, if only for a while. Hell, self-restraint was probably overrated, anyhow.
Christ, Taylor. Wise up. "Or maybe"—he snapped his gaze back up to pin her in place—"I should leave you in those cock-teasing shoes you always wear and just lick you from head to ankle."
There. That oughtta do it. He'd noticed that Lily never swore, so his deliberate crudeness ought to put some distance between them. And as much as it galled him to admit it, he needed her to be the one to do it, because he simply didn't have the strength to voluntarily pass up the chance to get naked with her.
Her eyes flared hot, and she made a soft, yearning sound low in her throat. "Maybe…" She licked her lips. Cleared her throat. "Maybe you should go with that idea."
Zach's much prized constraint hit the skids. His right hand whipped out and hooked her by the back of her neck. Pulling her flush against his body, he bent and rocked his mouth over hers.
It was like splashing white lightning over the coals of a fire believed to be extinguished, but which had only been banked. When Lily's mouth immediately opened beneath his own, red-hot lust exploded in his veins and incinerated the last bit of common sense he had left. He was all urgent need as he licked into her, all burning sensation as he felt her plush breasts flatten against him when she rose onto her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck. With a rough sound deep in his throat, he picked her up by her hips, took two giant steps forward, and toppled them both onto the bed.
Immediately, he rolled until he was half on top of her, throwing one leg over her thighs to pin her in place and pressing his forearms to the mattress on either side of her shoulders. He plunged his hands into that soft, cotton-candy hair and held her head still for his kisses. Triumph rolled through him when she kissed him back with unbridled enthusiasm—until a soft sound that struck him as more anxious than aroused purled in her throat. Frowning, he raised his head and looked down at her.
Lily's eyes were still closed, the fine skin of her eyelids looking fragile and vulnerable. Her Marilyn Monroe do clung in soft strands to his fingers, and her mouth was reddened and swollen. Shit. He was behaving with all the finesse of a high school geek who'd suddenly found himself getting lucky with the hottest cheerleader in town.
"Lily?" He stroked his thumb slowly over her cheekbone and down to her full bottom lip. "Are you all right?"
Lily was slow to drag herself from the hot quagmire of sexual enthrallment, but surprise at the question pried her heavy-lidded eyes open
, and she blinked up at him. His pale gray irises, ringed in darker charcoal, were full of fire. They stared back at her, hot, horny… and full of concern.
Ah, jeez. How was she supposed to not care about this guy, when he disrupted his own gratification in order to worry about her welfare? There was no question that Zachariah Taylor could be tough, hard-nosed, and occasionally downright impossible to get along with. But the man was also a caretaker right down to his big old size-thirteen combat boots. And more than anything else—more than his hard body and knowledgeable mouth, more than his propensity for smart-aleck remarks and his occasional loss of temper— that was the thing about him that really got under her skin.
So just how the heck am I supposed to stop myself from caring?
A cool dribble of unease trickled through her hot blood, but she shoved it aside. It wasn't a crime to care; heck, she'd probably never be able to feel this level of attraction if she didn't . That didn't mean she was in love , or that this was anything more than a temporary fling. Whatever this thing was that she and Zach had going between them, it would no doubt end once Glynnis was brought home safe and sound.
So until then, why not enjoy it? Did it really matter that flings weren't her usual style? Zach could be her exception.
Face it, the man was in a class all his own, anyhow.
Parting her lips, she gave the rough-skinned pad of Zach's thumb a tiny suck, then curled her arms around his strong neck and arched slightly to press her breasts against his chest. "Are you worried about me?" she asked with a slight smile. "I'm not sure how we got from 'lick you from head to ankle' to being anxious about—"
"I'm not anxious" he growled. "But when you made that little noise in your throat, it sounded as if you were—I don't know—in pain or something. I don't want to hurt you, or push you somewhere you don't want to go."
Getting Lucky m-2 Page 15