Jump Start

by Lisa Renee Jones

  Jennifer sipped a glass of champagne freely, freely because, per Mark’s demand, all guests had left their keys and cab fare at the door. Only the enjoyment of her drink would have been easier, if Marcie wasn’t casting her a scrutinizing stare, ready to hit her with a million Bobby questions. Until now, Jennifer had avoided Marcie’s inquisition. Friday clinic, then the rush to get ready for the party, had thankfully made that possible. But the buck stopped here, and she knew it.

  “That kiss last night,” Marcie said, turning to the table and selecting a plump strawberry. “The low-cut shirt tonight, the hot-pink lipstick…you’re going to take Bobby to bed and send him packing. Aren’t you?”

  Jennifer glowered. “Will you please obsess about your own husband-to-be, not my man who was to be, but no longer is?”

  Her brow quirked as she dipped the strawberry in chocolate. “Decided the chocolate-covered Bobby appealed, aye?”

  A slow smile slid onto Jennifer’s lips. “Maybe,” she admitted coyly. The truth was, she’d found herself walking down memory lane. The bedroom variety. The intimate, sexy things they’d done together. And one thing that had replayed in her head, over and over, was how simple seeing him again could be if she kept it about sex. He felt obligated to explain the past to ensure the wedding went well. She’d take away the obligation. She’d keep the simple, in the simple. The pleasure in the solution.

  Mark sauntered up behind Marcie. “It’s almost time for the games to begin. How about truth-or-dare to start?”

  This might be an unconventional pre-wedding party, but it wasn’t without conventional, naughty fun.

  Marcie’s eyes lit. “I can’t wait.” She turned in Mark’s arms and fed him a bite of the strawberry. “In fact. I have all kinds of ‘dares’ I’d like you to personally perform.”

  Suddenly, Jennifer’s skin prickled with awareness, the barely audible sound of Bobby’s voice lifted from the depths of party fever, tingling a path up her spine. Instinctively, her gaze lifted the moment he filled the opening of the patio door, tall and broad, his presence demanding attention.

  She allowed herself to devour him with her eyes, making no qualms about being obvious—after all, this was about sex, and she intended to make that clear in every possible way. Faded denim traced long, powerful thighs and accented a narrow waist. A button-down, navy-blue Western shirt outlined an equally impressive chest and, no doubt, covered a still impressive set of abs. He’d always had rock-hard, drool-worthy abs. And there was no denying, with Bobby’s maturity, he’d become primitively sexual on some level she’d never consciously noticed before now.

  But then, he wasn’t the only one who’d matured. She was a woman, not a girl. She knew what she wanted and it was him. So did several other females gathering nearby, twentysomethings Jennifer didn’t know, already tipsy and on the make for a man. They stared at him and giggled. But his eyes found Jennifer’s, boldly telling, boldly sensual.

  The music changed again to Marvin Gaye singing “let’s make love tonight.” She and Bobby stared at each other another second until they both smiled, and she knew they were both thinking the same thing—that they were going to make love tonight. The idea of sharing the same unspoken understanding in the middle of a crowd wasn’t new for them—it was simply history. Working the moment, playing the seduction game, Jennifer turned away, knowing Bobby would join her. Anticipating it as eagerly as she was the prospect of stripping him naked and having her way with him. Well. Maybe not quite that much. But the process of getting from dressed to undressed was going to be oh so fun. It always was. She was going to let herself enjoy it. Oh, yes. Seducing Bobby was fun.

  Marcie’s wicked, mischief-filled expression settled on Jennifer. “We’ll start getting the games together,” she suggested, lacing her fingers with Mark’s. “You enjoy yours.”

  Oh, she planned to, Jennifer thought.

  Marcie and Mark disappeared about the time Bobby sauntered to Jennifer’s side.

  Jennifer inhaled his scent, awareness shimmering down her spine, as if her body had been conditioned to recognize his presence, and even that scent, as erotic. Oh, man. It had been a long time since she’d felt warm, wet heat spread between her thighs at the simple knowledge that a man she wanted was nearby.

  Steeling herself for what would surely be another blast of white-hot arousal, she turned to face him. “You made it,” she said in a remarkably unaffected voice, and motioned with her glass. “Drink?” She waved a hand at the table. “Or something to eat?”

  “Just you,” he said, stepping within inches of where she stood, inside the personal space reserved for lovers. As if he assumed he had that right before adding, in a low, husky voice bordering on possessive, “I came for you, Jennifer.”

  Jennifer’s reaction was sudden, intense—all the white heat, pooling low and wicked in her stomach. “You came for Mark and Marcie,” she corrected. “Like the rest of the guests.”

  “I’m going to the wedding for Mark and Marcie,” he said, pinning her in a wicked stare. “I’m at this party to see you. The same reason I arrived for the wedding two weeks early.”

  No. She didn’t want to hear that. Nor did she want to feel the twist in her gut, or the adrenaline surging inside her and setting her heart to thundering in her ears. Jennifer told herself to be as cool and unemotional as when she dealt with worried pet owners. She wouldn’t react. It served no point.

  But she did react. Before she could stop herself, she laughed, the sound crackling with a hint of bitterness she didn’t want to admit existed. Jennifer tipped back her champagne and finished it off, trying to bite back words, the bubbles tickling her nose. Being the lightweight she was, she could tell it was going to go right to her head. She set the empty flute on the table, emotion welling in her chest, resentment with it.

  Her hand flattened on the warm, hard wall of his chest, and she rose to her toes and brought her mouth an inch from his. She could almost taste him, and despite her anger, wanted just that. To taste him, to forget, to get lost.

  “When you try to explain why you’re here or why you left,” she said, her voice a thick whisper, “I get mad, Bobby. So, if you want me, stop talking.”

  He covered her hand with his, his eyes dark, heavy-lidded. “I want you,” he said, “but I won’t stop talking until you hear what I have to say. And if that means you have to get mad, well, get mad. I can handle it.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “So I’ll see you at the rehearsal dinner, and not until.” She tried to shove him away.

  He tugged her back, pulled her hard against his body, his hand molding her close. “We aren’t done here yet.”

  “Says you,” she said, entirely too breathless to appear unaffected.

  “That’s right,” he half growled. “Says me.”

  “You don’t get a say,” she said. “Not since seven years ago when you left without a look back.” Oh, hell, where had that come from?

  His eyes narrowed instantly, his voice brusque. “I looked back every day of the past seven years.”

  “I don’t want to hear this.”

  His jaw firmed and he started walking toward the house, pulling her with him. Jennifer didn’t argue. He wanted to talk. Fine. They’d talk. Oh, yeah. Fine. Talk, talk, talk. She had plenty to say. Bring it on. Forget seduction. She wanted to yell, and yes, she wanted to throw something at him.

  They were almost at the patio door when Sally, a petite brunette and waitress from the bar, appeared in the archway. “The police are here! They want Mark and Marcie!”

  Jennifer’s heart stopped. This couldn’t be happening! They’d talked to the neighbors, and preapproved noise. Bobby turned to Jennifer.

  She cast Bobby a pleading look. “Let me go. I have to stop the music!”

  As if in response, the music stopped, and a blonde, curvy, female cop in uniform, with her hair pinned up, stepped through the sliding glass door, followed by a broad-shouldered, muscular male cop with lots of dark brown hair. The kind a girl ru
ns her fingers through you didn’t often see on a cop. Murmurs and muffled laughter followed, as if everyone was in on the joke but Jennifer.

  “Ah, Jen,” Bobby said, tugging her close to his side. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “I hope not,” she whispered. “I really, really hope not because Marcie and Mark were adamant they didn’t want—”

  Marcie skidded to a halt beside Jennifer, Mark on her heels. “What the heck is going on?”

  “I’m looking for the owner of the house,” the female cop said.

  Bobby squeezed her hand in understanding of what was to come, as Mark stepped forward. “That would be me,” Mark announced.

  The female cop stared at Mark with a hard look and then walked toward him in a completely unsexual way that gave Jennifer hope this wasn’t what she thought it was.

  “I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to turn down the volume on this party,” the woman said. And oh boy, she got right up close to him. That wasn’t comforting.

  “Did someone complain?” Marcie asked quickly. “Because we talked to the neighbors, and—”

  “I’m complaining,” the male cop said, already closing in on Marcie. He stopped almost toe-to-toe with Marcie, towering over her as he added, “You can either turn down the volume or turn up the heat. I’m going to need you to report to the dance floor, ma’am.”

  Marcie’s face paled as she blinked up at the cop. “What?” Then without looking at Jennifer, she said, “Jennifer?” A hint of panic laced her voice.

  Jennifer got the panic part because she’d promised Marcie no strippers, and she was pretty sure the “cops” were strippers. And as maid of honor, it was Jennifer’s job to fix this.

  “There’s been a mistake,” Jennifer interjected and took a step forward, only to have Bobby pull her back, against him, his arm around her shoulders.

  “It’s too late,” he said as she opened her mouth to object.

  The way he’d anticipated her argument, the familiar way he touched her, the way he shared this experience with her as if he’d never left, shook her to the core.

  And then to Jennifer’s horror, the female cop reached up and let her hair free. Bobby chuckled. Jennifer cast him a warning look over her shoulder. She was in charge of this party and responsible for anything that went wrong.

  In a blink, the entire situation spiraled to the point of no return. Marcie and Mark were herded to the dance floor and seated in chairs. All the guests huddled around them. Bobby and Jennifer stood behind it all, alone, side by side, but still close enough for a good visual.

  “You should run,” Jennifer said, “because Marcie is going to want to blame me, and if you’re nearby, you’ll be guilty by association.” Then, to Jennifer’s shock, Marcie smacked the now mostly naked, male cop on the ass. Jennifer jumped. “Oh, my.”

  Bobby laughed. “I don’t think she’s mad, and judging from the way Mark is drooling, I don’t think he’s mad either.”

  Jennifer tilted her head and studied Mark. He looked heavy-lidded, definitely not mad. “This is just a little too weird for me,” she said, turning away. “I can’t watch. They’re about to be married, and they’re sharing lap dances. There is something so fundamentally wrong with that.”

  “We could go inside and play cops and robbers ourselves,” he offered, wiggling a brow.

  “I thought you were all about talking,” she accused. “Not playing.”

  He pulled her close. “I told you,” he corrected. “I’m all about you. Any way I can get you.”

  Narrowing her gaze, she studied him, her hands resting on his chest. “Talk is cheap,” she said meaningfully. “Action counts. Sex without any strings. Take it or leave it.”

  His hand slid over her hip, and Jennifer felt the caress on every inch of her body. “What happened to not being my two-week fling?” he challenged.

  Jennifer knew the answer all too well. In fact, she’d replayed this scene a hundred times over. “I decided to make you my two-week fling.” And with that confession, she would have led him into the house, but suddenly a gasp went through the crowd.

  “Where’s the maid of honor?!” came a male voice. The cop, Jennifer realized. Or dancer. He wasn’t a cop. Again he called out, “The bride wants the maid of honor. Where’s Jennifer?”

  “Oh, no,” Jennifer said, turning to the crowd as they turned to her. Bobby released her, but stayed close. Instinct set Jennifer on edge just before her nerves proved merited. The male dancer appeared at the edge of the dance floor, facing Jennifer and Bobby, wearing nothing but an itty-bitty G-string.

  “Are you the maid of honor?” he demanded, fixing Jennifer in a stare.

  “Yes,” the crowd replied. “That’s her!”

  “You’ll need to report to the dance floor,” he demanded. “Bride’s orders.”

  “No way,” Jennifer said. “No way!”

  “I’m here to please the bride,” the dancer assured her. “If you don’t come willingly, I’ll have to take you by force.”

  “Oh, hell no,” Bobby grumbled at the same moment her fight-or-flight instinct sent Jennifer into flight. Which went horribly. Jennifer tripped over her own feet and reached out to catch herself. Her hands plodded, with a splash, into two large bowls of chocolate mousse. She screamed on impact.

  Bobby’s arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her toward him seconds before her face would have landed in the ranch dip. Her hands came out of the chocolate sauce, dripping, messy. She gasped as Bobby picked her up and started carrying her toward the house, cradling her like a baby. A good thing since she didn’t dare hold on, awkwardly dangling her hands in the air. She glanced at them and then up at Bobby, at the strong, determined set of his jaw. He laughed, a deep, playful sound that resonated through her, turning her all warm and wanting when she should be indignant. And she was.

  “Don’t you dare laugh!” she declared, as he maneuvered them past the sliding glass door and headed to the kitchen.

  “I can’t help myself,” he said, walking into the forest-green-and-black-tiled kitchen.

  “You can help yourself.”

  “Sweetheart,” he said, “if you dip yourself in chocolate when I’m around, you have two options. I laugh. Or I lick it off.” He set her down in front of the sink, facing him. His voice lowered, his gaze intense, as he raised one of her fingers to his mouth and nibbled. “Or both.”

  Her breath lodged in her throat, and she coughed once, twice. Getting her man and her chocolate sauce hadn’t gone exactly as planned. But she wasn’t about to complain, not when he was leaning forward about to kiss her.

  6

  JENNIFER’S ANNOUNCEMENT that she planned to make him her two-week fling, to dismiss him with sex, pissed Bobby off in all kinds of ways. But it also worked in his favor. Because he knew what she would soon find out. Sex was the erotic, emotional path they would travel to get to a locked door on their past.

  Bobby stared down at Jennifer. The only thing keeping him from setting her up on the counter, stepping between her legs, and then kissing her until there was no tomorrow, was the chocolate all over her hands.

  Oh, hell. Who cared about a mess? They’d shower later—together. He reached for Jennifer, right when a giant clump of chocolate dropped onto his boot. Jennifer glanced down. Bobby did, as well. Their gazes lifted and collided as they both smiled.

  “Hmm, sorry,” she said. “I should probably clean up before I make matters worse.”

  His lips twitched. “As appealing as I find licking chocolate off you,” he agreed, “I do prefer a more strategic placement.”

  Jennifer smiled. He loved her smile. All Texas sunrise and honey. She blew hair from her eyes and rotated to face the sink. He turned it on for her and she agreed, “Definitely nothing strategic about falling in the party food while being chased by a cop, who’s really a lap dancer, and who isn’t even supposed to be here.”

  “Marcie and Mark don’t seem to care,” Bobby said, cleaning off his boot, his gaze slidin
g over Jennifer’s lush, heart-shaped backside. Tension waved through his body, sexual, hot. Ravishing. Like he wanted to ravish her.

  “Marcie isn’t happy,” Jen assured him. “Otherwise, she wouldn’t have sent that dancer to drag me to hell with her.” She turned off the water and grabbed a towel.

  “Marcie knew I’d never let that dancer anywhere near you,” he said, as he stepped behind her, framing her petite curves with his body, and pressing his hands on the sink beside her. She drew a surprised breath and then grabbed the counter. “Just as I never should have allowed anyone else near you in the first place. I missed you, Jen.” He buried his face in the silky strands of her long blond hair, erotic memories of having it sprayed across his chest shaking him to the core. There was more than want in him for Jennifer. There was need.

  “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t say things like that.”

  “I can’t help myself,” he confessed, meaning it. One of his hands slid to her stomach, and Bobby’s gut clenched with the memories of intimacy, of holding her, of burying himself inside her and hearing her call his name. He wanted to hear her call his name again. Over and over.

  Her hand pressed down on his. “We agreed no talking,” she reminded him, but her voice lacked conviction.

  “Just sex,” he said flatly, but there was a crackle beneath the surface.

  “Yes,” she confirmed softly, “just sex.”

  He used both hands, a double assault, caressing a path over her slender waist, brushing the curve of her breasts, and then molding them to his palms. “Is this what you want?” he asked.

  She made a strangled sound and her head fell back to his shoulder. “Yes,” she whispered.

  He inhaled her scent, teasing her nipples through the sheer fabric. “I remember your scent—jasmine,” he said. “Delicious and sweet.” He shoved aside the thin material and tweaked one of her nipples. She shivered in his arms. The nipple knotted to his touch. He remembered well. “You know what else I remember?”