Twenty Times Tempted: A Sexy Contemporary Romance Collection

by Petrova, Em

  The woman looked dazed, confused. That pretty much described how I felt about her.

  Or maybe it was my low blood sugar kicking in. I’d gone without all day and the hot dog at the Garden had done little to take the edge off.

  I ordered number fours for both of us and nodded to extra dills and napkins. Steering the woman toward a quiet corner away from the windows, away from chatter, I dumped my laptop on the chair next to me and plopped down, arranging the silverware and stirring sugar into my iced tea.

  Tay or Taylor or O’Brien, however she wanted to be called, slid into the seat opposite, setting her coat and bag on the empty chair, then edging the seat closer until it nuzzled her thigh. She kept the strap looped over her left arm, like the bag ladies did on the street: protective and territorial.

  I was pretty sure she didn’t have anything I wanted, except…

  It cost her to speak, but she made the effort with, “This looks good.”

  She looked like she was going to cry or drool, or God forbid talk as in converse, and I wasn’t in the mood for any of that.

  Robert van Horn wasn’t getting his shit together, not yet.

  She tried again, this time more of a whisper, “Really good,” and I wondered about her situation. I’d never been a starving student; my family had seen to that, so maybe I wasn’t being as sensitive as I ought.

  Par for the course.

  I decided to try harder and offered up a description of everything on her plate, as if she was slow or an alien who couldn’t recognize the ingredients without cue cards and helpful explanations.

  “It’s their VIP.” I held up half the sandwich, doing my best impression of a dog and pony show. “I like their smoked turkey better but some say the plain works fine, especially with the baked Virginia ham.” I was on a roll and sneered inwardly at my little pun. “You could order other cheeses if you like, maybe, but this usually comes with Swiss, coleslaw and Russian dressing.” All on a thick slab of the best rye bread in the city.

  The contents threatened to slip down my wrists and onto my lap so I took a big bite and chewed. It filled my mouth but there was nothing there, not a whisper of a taste, nothing that came close to how she tasted: like honey and temptation I couldn’t afford. I liked to sin, just not with angels, and that’s what she looked like, sitting there all mocha and peach skinned, so luscious it brought me to the edge of sugar shock.

  And like the night before, my jeans got tight, embarrassingly so, so tight I wondered how I’d be able to finish the mountain of deli goodness oozing slaw all over the plate, with my extra dills forced to wade in a river of competing juices. Silvery cream lapped against the rim of thicker apricot colored dressing, blending into the concoction of pickling spices and vinegar.

  I owed her an explanation.

  Without preamble or fanfare, keeping my tone even and trying my damnedest not to roar my rage, I launched into an apology.

  “I lost that interview.”

  Wow, good going Robbie.

  She licked her lips and ignored me in favor of seizing a substantial corner of the sandwich, closing her eyes as she savored the flavors. After she swallowed and before the next bite, she asked, “Bad?”

  God, I might fall in love with this one. She got to the heart of the matter without the sorrys and woe is you and buck up buckys.

  “Bad enough to get canned.”

  “Tell me.”

  Little Robert settled for the time being as I trotted out the whys and wherefores and my potential brush with greatness. I finished half the sandwich, chugged the rest of my iced tea and asked if she needed a refill. She nodded no so I excused myself, keeping one eye on her just to make sure she didn’t do the end run out of the building.

  My mood shifted slowly from righteous rage to surly, still far short of charm school manners but the best I could muster. It was going to take a pitcher of Guinness to ease me down from the platform of anger and pent up violence that had me by the short and curlies.

  That, or…

  Don’t go there, van Horn. She’s not in your league.

  Except, exactly what was my league? Bimbettes with pom-poms and bodacious boobs and vacuous stares and the vocabulary of a thirteen year old, if I was lucky?

  Like me, that was getting old. I liked a warm body as much as any other man, but sometimes the price of admission was too high. And sometimes I just wanted to talk, and not about anything in particular.

  I liked just being. But not being alone.

  After I settled, Taylor said, “That sucks,” like she meant it, like she cared enough to have an opinion.

  “Yeah it does.”

  We sank into companionable silence, enjoying the last of the sandwiches and sipping at iced teas, easing me off that platform and down onto a calmer level. One that let me stare at her without glowering, because I was pretty sure if anyone had cared to describe my face, ‘glower’ was the first word on their lips.

  And if I wasn’t careful, ‘lust’ was going to be the next adjective…

  Taylor—I liked it better than Tay though I doubt she’d mind if I used her surname, guessing she was used to it but not knowing why for a fact. She polished off the last bite and reached for a dill. She held it with reverence, between thumb and forefinger. It was still stiff despite being awash in fluids, skin side down and mottled with seeds peeking out of light-hued greenish slashes.

  Chewing her lower lip, she brought the length to her mouth and eased it in, lips pursed just enough to allow passage, and drew it to her finger tips, sucking it in, then pulling it out. Almost to the end but not quite, taking a nip, squaring it off, bracing it on her lower lip as she chewed and swallowed, and I followed the path it made down her throat and imagined what it might feel like … in there.

  Wanting to taste the picante sting of vinegar over a cool wash of mayo and the lingering trace of light and dark flesh spiced and sliced so thin it released the flavors in an explosion on the tongue.

  I wanted to feel that explosion so bad it hurt.

  Dabbing at her mouth with the napkin, she sighed and asked, “So?”

  “Uh…”

  “You said we’d eat first,” with an emphasis on the first and I knew I was going to ask the question and I’d be shot down, but if I didn’t ask I’d regret it for the rest of my life.

  But I wasn’t ready yet so instead I went for the easy out. “Do you want to grab a beer?”

  She debated that for a time while I OCD’d over the arrangement of the silverware and wished I’d just spit it out…

  “Come back to my place.”

  “Please.”

  For some reason, thinking I might have to beg got me hot and hard.

  Everything about her got me hot and hard.

  It’d been weeks since I’d used anything but my left hand to find relief. That still didn’t explain my growing arousal and obsession with this woman, on this particular night. It had nothing to do with needing angry sex or working off my frustrations from the job or my disappointment with my life and where I was headed.

  She’d hit me in the gonads last night, with her fork skewering that bloody raw mass of meat, contesting it mano-a-mano, then doing the kindness of recognizing my discomfort over the entrée and quietly taking charge. It made me want to know more. Know her more.

  One thing I did know: the woman was cagey, suspicious and running. From what I hadn’t a clue, but hopefully Paddy would unlock some of those secrets so I wouldn’t have to come at her in full frontal assault.

  The thought occurred that I could just ask. She might share. She might not. My gut warned me that what I wanted to know wasn’t on the menu. None of my damned business.

  My nose said it was news, loud and clear.

  She surprised me with, “I should be getting home, but…”

  Taking that as a yes, I put my jacket on and helped her with her coat. She gripped the bag tight to her side again.

  Opting for my usual smart ass self, I quipped, “You got your life savings
in there?”

  Taylor blushed and ducked her head, mumbling, “Yeah, sort of.”

  The clock on the wall ticked off the seconds but she wasn’t telling me more. I led her out of the restaurant and back onto the street, now jammed elbow-to-elbow as the Garden spewed its cargo of disappointed fans onto the sidewalk. Keeping her left side and the mystery contents firmly against my body, I made like a shield and plowed us through the throngs to the closest sports bar.

  We’d be able to drink, maybe shout a few platitudes at each other; I’d high five and commiserate with some acquaintances, and otherwise avoid having a meaningful discussion with Taylor O’Brien.

  There were other ways to have a conversation…

  Though the thought left me squirming, I knew a thing for a fact: I was ready and willing to make the biggest mistake of my life, just not stone cold sober.

  Chapter Ten

  Tay

  What the frigging bloody heck are you doing, girl?

  Do you have a ring through your nose, letting him drag you all over creation, like you’re a piece of meat? A puppy on a leash?

  Do you really want a beer? Really?

  Is it because you’re afraid if he says goodnight, that’s it, done, over, caput, finis, last stop…?

  Don’t answer that…

  The room was crowded but not uncomfortably so. Rob found us a spot at the bar, ordered a pitcher, then promptly disappeared to shouts of yo, Horndog and a few choice comments about his Sunday brush with fame being hoisted on its own petard.

  I recognized the weird mix of jealousy, relief it wasn’t any of them facing the woodshed from a disgruntled editor, and some genuine affection and respect. It was always a misconception: that the women in sports, as opposed to their male counterparts, were supportive and team oriented, less competitive as a rule. As with everything, there were shades of gray. I’d been in that arena for a lot of years, got up close and personal with both sexes. When it boiled down to the almighty Euro, that was the great leveler. For me, the main difference was the guys came at you from the front, up in your face, instead of two-facing you with pats on the back and the tingle of cold steel down your spine.

  The men seemed to play the game with the rules clearly spelled out. Maybe not so much for the women.

  Psychology wasn’t my strong suit, nor was my taste in men. A little fact that was keeping me from letting hope in.

  Michael O’Brien had stripped my dreams and my trust … and my bank account and future earnings. He’d not just set me aside in favor of perky, younger, skinnier and naïve—that I could have handled, maybe not well, but with a support group of like-minded women there was a chance—but he’d done the dirty with locking my self-esteem in a cage and throwing away the key. He’d forced me into a corner where the only way out was a bad decision compounded with ignorance and stupidity.

  I’d have been better off just offing the jerk. A jail sentence was a jail sentence, whether served behind bars … or behind your own cowardice.

  Tonight I was feeling the effects of that barrier to living. I wanted to open up, maybe explain to Rob why being interested was a bad idea and save both him and me a walk down a wild side with heartbreak a guaranteed final bucket. That would be the right thing to do.

  Of course, it was way more tempting to let it play out, see where it went, let the chips fall…

  Rob shattered that merry run of indulgent mea culpas, pressing against my back and reaching around to refill his glass. He didn’t have to make contact like that, there was more than enough room to my right, the right holding down his stool with my satchel and a hand that said do I look like I want company?

  “Hey,” his lips brushing the ear lobe still in full standing heat from when he’d pinned me to the wall in the Garden tunnel. Yeah, that ear lobe. The one he didn’t touch but could have, oh yes indeedy. And Taylor Richardson O’Brien would have puddled at his feet, a big gooey splash of southern brown shugah.

  “Urk,” came out as a gurgle. It was the best I could do as he jammed my midsection against the polished rail.

  “Uh, sorry,” sounded like he wasn’t, that it was deliberate, blanketing me with that leather jacket and the regimental buttons again.

  What was it with the buttons?

  They were hard, cold. They hurt, sort of. Bumping up and down the ridge of my spine and making me wonder what it would feel like without them in the way, with nothing but his skin over lean muscles doing a tango with my own flesh.

  “Are you okay? Do you mind…?”

  Of course I didn’t mind. I liked being left alone in a bar full of strangers, some of them eyeing me up, eyeing me down, doing little metal calculations.

  Guys loved computing the odds. It gave them something to do while avoiding first contact, the promise of a shut down more than enough to prevent incursion into my defensive position. I smiled, but kept my head down, eyes to the half-empty pitcher of dark ale.

  The comparison with the male species in Italy wasn’t so awfully different, though they did tend to connect more freely with women, under a veneer of appreciation. But the outcomes were usually predictable.

  Michael had been the exception, a true pursuer, not taking no for an answer, all the way up to not accepting no after I’d said enough already.

  “Damn.”

  “Damn what, sweetheart?”

  Damn, he was back and sliding onto the stool, handing me the bag and facing me with his knees jammed solidly into my thigh. Oh, lordy lord, that felt good, the lava hot kind of good, the fantasies are made of this kind of good.

  Sweetheart?

  Down in Philly, where I’d played a bit, getting my high tops wet so to speak, it had been dear this and dear that. Everyone was a dear something. Men, women, old ladies especially, used that phrase with impunity when talking to the female persuasion.

  This was the Big Apple. The rules might be similar here: substitute ‘sweetheart’ for ‘dear’ and you had a gentler form of ‘dude’. Maybe it was ‘dude’ feminized.

  Or maybe I’d been overseas too long and lost touch with my American roots.

  “Do you always talk to yourself?”

  He had that idiotic smirk going, the one that transformed his face, the one that had me clutching my thighs tight and adding a layer of protection with the bag.

  The lady parts were safe for the time being, my lips less so. He leaned in, close enough to steal my breath and if he kissed me, really kissed me… Well, I wasn’t going to be responsible for my actions.

  “Yo, van Horn, come meet…” and he was gone again.

  “Like a virgin,” I muttered, touching my lower lip with a finger, a single finger because any more sensory stimulation, even the fantasy thought of it, would set my triggers to overload. I was working the high post and planting, going for the hard three.

  “Is this stool taken?”

  “Ye—”

  No!

  Crap. Patrick Sullivan, otherwise known to all and sundry as just Paddy.

  “Never thought to find you here, lass. Might I sit?”

  Mamma would turn over in her grave if I went with my first instinct which involved making rude gestures and mouthing some choice obscenities.

  Paddy Sullivan, with a byline on the Daily News, had been my biggest critic: first, for leaving for the continent and secondly, for blowing a lucrative contract after nearly five good years of steady, if sometimes mediocre, success.

  That he’d been right on all the bullet points did not endear him to me. But I manned up and nodded okay.

  Time hadn’t been so good to the man. He was mid-fifties but looked older, worn, tapped out. Not unusual for a journalist, especially not in this town where the young turks didn’t just nip at your heels, they came after you with howitzers and pens loaded with acid.

  And too often they delivered.

  That Paddy had had longevity was remarkable. It didn’t mean I was ready to date him. Not him, not any journalist … with maybe one exception.

  �
�You mind?” He reached for the glass the bartender handed him, filled it from the pitcher and ordered another. “On me.”

  I sensed rather than felt Rob behind me. The rush of thank God, I’m saved crashed and burned when my sort-of-date said, “Hey, man, what are you doing here,” and not only shook hands but gave Sullivan a man hug with a pat.

  Double … no, make that triple crap with a cherry on top. They were friends, maybe good friends, buddies who shared stories and wisdom and mentoring. That kind of friendship.

  The kind that had me pulling back from the precipice I was about to jump off because as soon as Robert van Horn found out about me, about what happened, about me still being married…

  My best friend’s brother wasn’t stupid and he didn’t lack for a pool of warm bodies to fish in. And he was handsome in a way that snuck up on you. And a little bit endearing. Rough around the edges, yes, but edges that would never cut you until you bled, not like what Michael had done to me, leaving me weeping buckets of gore until emotional anemia set in. A trauma I’d yet to recover from, and with the way things were going, it looked to become a chronic condition.

  The noise in the room ramped up with a new wave of tourists, fans, couples, trawlers and bar-hoppers, the din burying me in remorse and embarrassment.

  Van Horn said, “Have you met…” and waved his hand like an introduction, with Paddy looking quizzical at first, then calculating. It was that second look that had me bolting for the ladies room.

  I should have stayed and brazened it out, because even a Neanderthal wouldn’t spill the beans with me sitting right there, and I’d have had a hour or two of my fantasy left before turning into a pumpkin.

  It would have given me another night of wish fulfillment, another night to hide the fraud I’d become.

  The ladies room was jam packed as usual, but by the time I’d taken my turn it’d emptied in a brief lull, giving me an opportunity to stare at the foggy reflection of a woman who was trying her best to reinvent herself. And failing miserably.