by Rita Herron
Maybe by the time Rory returned, she'd have Lance out of her system, and she'd be more open to Rory's affection.
* * *
If I have my way about it, the romance has just begun. You saw her in that string bikini. The weekend was nearly perfect. Dalton's comments echoed in Lance's head as he hammered at the Sheetrock that needed replacing in the kitchen wall. We have our secrets, don't we, Sophie?
Just what the hell had he meant by that? Secrets as in that they'd had wild sex or romped naked on the beach?
Not that he cared if the two of them saw each other again or if they'd had wild sex or romped naked on the beach. But damn it, last night the woman had kissed him like she could eat him up, then sent him away with his gut in knots and had him arrested. He didn't care. He couldn't care.
He wouldn't care.
It was simply that he'd spent a terrible night in jail. And his day had gone downhill, too. When he'd finally showered and met up with McDaniels, the man had been aloof and condescending. Lance had practically begged him to take his bid and the sketches of their plans for the development with him. Finally McDaniels had agreed, although he had been emphatic that he expected perfection, not some half-assed job, and that he didn't tolerate a company missing deadlines.
Like developers could always control the weather or problems getting materials or workers who called in sick or any of the other million things that went wrong during a project.
Lance's head throbbed like the devil, but he slammed the hammer into the drywall anyway, discovered there was no insulation, and then began to tear out the rotten wood, determined to finish this renovation in record time.
The front door screeched open and he paused, wondering which one of the troublesome sisters had arrived. Sexy Sophie or her sex-toy sales sister, Lucy?
Heels clicked on the hardwood floor, the scent of an exotic French perfume greeting him before he saw the owner. Sophie. He'd recognize the sultry scent anywhere.
Jesus. He glanced up and caught sight of that black hair spiked up in disarray, and his fingers tightened around the chisel. She drove him crazy simply by walking into a room. All that porcelain skin and those big green eyes... it was enough to make him forget the hell she'd put him through the night before....
Her cat darted from nowhere to slide against her legs, purring contentedly. The damn thing had hidden since he'd arrived.
"I see you've been busy," she commented, spying the shattered plaster and drywall on the floor.
She certainly wasn't acting as if she'd had him arrested; she was almost friendly. Maybe he'd been mistaken; maybe a neighbor had phoned.... "It'll be a mess for a while."
"I know. I guess I'll have to suffer through it."
And suffer through having you around too. He heard the unspoken message in her tone, and his anger from the night before returned. She really wanted to get rid of him. "I'll finish the house as soon as possible and get out of your way. I don't want you calling the cops on me again."
"Calling the cops?" Sophie's eyes widened. "What are you talking about, Lance?"
Was she playing innocent or lying? Or had he been wrong?
"Your phone call that I was a stalker—don't you think having me arrested went a little too far?"
Sophie gaped at him. "I... I... you were the pervert hanging outside the house last night?"
He ground his jaw. "I'm not a pervert, Sophie; I only wanted to protect you."
She dropped a bag of groceries on the counter, then began to unload the contents, avoiding his gaze. "I didn't call, Lance. I'm sorry." She angled her head up toward him. "You spent the night in jail?"
Humiliation crawled all over him. "Forget it."
She hesitated, started to say something, then seemed to change her mind. "Why are you still doing the renovations yourself, Lance? I thought you would just oversee things."
So she was changing the subject. He would play along. Anything was better than this god-awful tension between them, and reminders of his humiliating night. "Sometimes I do, but like I said, my crew's finishing up at Skidaway. Besides, renovations are my forte. That's how I got started in the business."
"I didn't know that."
He shrugged. "Had to fix up our old house to sell it after Mom and Dad died." Plaster splintered down as he yanked at it. Why had he mentioned his folks?
She laid out lettuce and fresh vegetables for a salad, then removed a cutting board from the cabinet. Fatigue lined her face, and her television smile had faded. Dalton had obviously worn her out over the weekend, just as she'd said. Did she have a date tonight?
"Maddie talked about missing your folks. That must have been difficult."
He shrugged. "I was sorry Maddie was so young. She needed Mom around."
"Yes, girls need their mothers."
"Sounds like you're talking from experience."
She bit down on her lower lip. "Your brother and sister were lucky to have you."
"I could never take my parents' place."
"But you loved her; that's what she needed from you."
A pang settled in his chest. He had done the best he could, but he'd still known Maddie and Reid had both hurt for their parents, and he'd felt inept at filling their shoes. "Just like you love Lucy?"
Her shoulders lifted slightly as she arranged pasta ingredients on the counter and began to chop tomatoes. His mouth watered. He couldn't remember when he'd eaten a home-cooked meal.
The burned toast in the jail cell this morning didn't count.
But all this talk of his parents and family resurrected past hurts and fears. Fear that he'd let Maddie and Reid and his parents down. Fear of losing his sister and brother.
He moved back to the plaster, anxious to end the conversation. He didn't want to know more about Sophie and her sister and the reason her green eyes looked so sad for a moment. If he didn't get to know her he wouldn't care.
And not caring was the only way to avoid getting hurt.
* * *
With the temperature outside soaring and Lance finishing her back doorway, the kitchen felt stifling as Sophie stirred the spaghetti sauce on the stovetop. She had been cooking since she was tall enough to reach the countertop. It had either been that or survive on dried-up peanut butter sandwiches, since Deseree's evenings had been filled with appointments.
Sophie hadn't understood what all those odd evening jobs were at the time. When she'd finally gotten old enough to figure out the truth, she had lived in denial, inventing elaborate stories for Lucy as to their mother's whereabouts.
Then Lucy had grown up, too.
Her heart tugged as she remembered the look of stolen innocence on her sister's face the morning she'd woken with an earache and tried to crawl into her mother's bed, only to be ousted by a stranger.
Sophie had vowed then that as soon as she was old enough, she and Lucy would move out on their own. Better to be alone than with a man for the wrong reasons.
A lesson to remember with Lance. And Rory and that singles service.
With Sophie's dancing gigs, she and Lucy had survived on their own. But Deseree had eventually popped back into their lives with promises that she'd mended her ways and lifestyle and wanted her daughters back in her life. Trouble was, Deseree meant well. Sometimes she lasted for months, working at a menial day job. But old habits were hard to break, and Deseree was no stranger to temptation. She'd meet an old client or flake out into one of her obsessive shopping sprees, and she'd run up her credit cards, and need a quick way out of debt.
In Vegas she could always find someone to oblige her.
Sophie had long since stopped blaming her mother for her weaknesses. She loved her in spite of them, and she worried about her like crazy.
Still, she prayed she didn't show up at her house while Lance was hanging around finishing the renovations. With Lucy coming, Deseree might be not be far behind. An explanation might get sticky.
Lance buffed the wood stain on the doorway and stepped back to examine his work.
>
Sophie couldn't help but admire him... er, his attention to detail.
"It looks fabulous, Lance."
"Thanks. I'm pleased." He turned to her with an odd look, a fine sheen of perspiration dotting his forehead. Odd how Rory looked grossly sweaty all the time, but on Lance a little moisture gave him a sexy bad-boy appearance.
She'd been so distracted watching Lance work that the sauce bubbled over. She jumped back to attention before she set the house on fire, and turned down the burner.
"That smells delicious."
The wooden spoon stilled in her hand. "It's pretty simple. I've been making it for ages."
"You enjoy cooking?"
"It's relaxing."
His eyebrow shot up as if he were surprised.
"You don't see me as the domestic type?"
A chuckle reverberated in his chest. "Maybe. Maybe not."
"It's Lucy's favorite." Speaking of her sister, where was she?
He crossed the room to wash his hands while she removed the pasta to drain it. They met at the sink at the same time. Steam oozed from the pot, curling around them. Or maybe the steam was oozing from her. Lance certainly made her hot.
Damn him.
She stepped aside, gestured for him to finish, then emptied the pasta in the strainer as he dried his hands. His gaze latched on to her, following her every movement. His stomach growled.
Oh, good heavens. She sighed. "Lance, do you want something to eat?"
His gaze met hers, the look in his eyes full of hunger.
But before he could open his mouth to reply, Lucy burst through the back door, dressed in workout clothes. "Yum, Soph, smells great."
Sophie dragged her gaze from Lance. "It's ready."
"Good, I'm starved." Lucy grabbed a glass from the cabinet. "Besides, we need to hurry. I invited a bunch of girls over for a Sleepover party tonight."
"A what?"
Lucy filled the glass with sweet tea, then plopped into the chair. "A Sleepover. I gave out business cards at the club the other night. The girls will be here any second."
Lance gathered his toolbox. "I guess I'd better get out of the way then."
Sophie nodded and let him go. Having him around was entirely too painful. Too tempting.
Too nice.
She did not want to want him this way. She wanted to be over him.
"Now," Lucy said, "let's eat; then I'll fill you in on the games we'll play at the party." Her eyes lit up with excitement. "Wait until you see the party favors."
Sophie stared at the silver case full of goodies and grimaced. What in the world did Lucy have in mind?
Chapter 8
You don't see me as the domestic type?
Hell, no, he didn't, Lance thought as he let himself inside his duplex. But he could imagine her in nothing except that damned apron and those clunky heels. And he had envisioned dotting sauce on her body and licking it off.
Frustrated, he strode to the refrigerator and scrounged through the measly contents. A half-wilted head of lettuce. Six-day-old pizza that had turned into a moldy brick. A soured carton of milk. An empty container of orange juice. Two beers.
Ahh, another night of a liquid diet or takeout. That is, unless he wanted to dress up and go out. Meet women. Flirt. Maybe bring one home.
Bachelorhood. The life he'd always wanted. The life he'd once loved.
Dirty clothes on the floor. His favorite sports magazines roosting on his scarred coffee table in the den. His bed unmade. His bathroom free of women's stuff.
Like the flimsy black teddy that had been draped over the shower rod in Sophie's bathroom.
His body thrumming with desire again, he phoned the new Philly cheesesteak delivery joint around the corner, jumped in the shower to chill his libido, then dressed in a pair of running shorts. Tired from lack of sleep but rejuvenated, he scrubbed a towel through his wet hair and tossed it to the floor. Another perk of singlehood—he didn't have to worry about a wife nagging him to keep things neat.
Grabbing a beer and the remote, he settled into his favorite rust-colored recliner. He'd watch TV while he waited on his food, then consider going out. He needed something or someone to distract him from Sophie Lane.
Or maybe he'd simply veg out and sleep. God knew he needed to catch some z's. With Sophie's door firmly back in place, she and her loony sister were safe. McDaniels had the bids for the contract. Maddie was content at home with Chase. And Reid... well, his brother would probably be on the prowl, but at least he wouldn't be out with Lucy.
Because she was entertaining a group of women to sell her sex toys.
Why would women want that stuff anyway, when they could have their choice of any red-blooded male instead? He didn't understand it. Then again, women had always been the world's biggest mystery.
He flipped the channels, grunting at the choices. Reruns of several sitcoms. A cooking show. Fishing tips. Mating patterns of some beetle. The best bathrooms in Vegas. Hmm, Chase and Maddie should be viewing it for ideas.
Right, the newlyweds would certainly be glued to a show on bathrooms.
He flipped again. A hundred and ten channels and nothing on worth watching. The doorbell rang and he dropped the remote, his mind conjuring images of Sophie's homemade spaghetti sauce instead of fast food. Sophie feeding him...
The doorbell dinged again, and he hurled himself forward. A few minutes later he banned Sophie from his mind while he chowed down on his cardboard cheesesteak, his gaze cutting toward the shopping bag from the mall. Afraid he wouldn't sleep again, he'd stopped by the mall and bought some ridiculous relaxation tapes the salesclerk suggested and had sprung for one of those rock garden waterfall thingies that were also supposed to be therapeutic.
Surfing the channels one more time, he sighed in relief when he discovered a sports channel. "Tonight we have an interview with Rory Dalton, one of the greatest football players to ever grace the field. We'll be hearing all about Dalton's favorite plays and his plans for the future now he's retired."
Lance frowned at the picture of Dalton that flashed on the screen, photographs of his past seasons filling the footage. Had Dalton used his favorite plays on Sophie?
Had they worked?
The phone trilled, cutting into his disturbing thoughts. He checked the caller ID—Tanya Whitson—he didn't recognize the name. Assuming it was a sales pitch, he let the machine pick it up.
"Hello, I'm calling for Lance Summers. My name is Tanya. I saw your name and number at the singles club." She hesitated, then lowered her voice to a breathy level. "I'd like to meet for a drink. If you're interested, call me at 555-2545. 'Bye."
Lance dropped his half-eaten sandwich onto his plate. The woman had a nice voice. She sounded pleasant. And he had nothing better to do.
But was he interested?
* * *
"Thanks for coming, Maddie. At least there's one sane person at this party." Not only had Lucy hung lucky charms around her place, but now a group of tittering women had gathered to examine Lucy's sexy products. And Sophie still hadn't told Lucy that she had actually had Lance arrested the night before....
"Wow, look at all this stuff!" Maddie screeched.
Erotic massage oils and liqueurs, edible underwear, feathers, boas, Venus Butterflies, videos, pictures, artificial body parts, vibrators, posters, penis-shaped pasta... she had never seen so many types of romantic notions, as Lucy called them, in one place at one time.
"Are you kidding? I wouldn't have missed it." Maddie plucked a tube of grape lipstick in the shape of a male sex organ (the theme, it seemed) off the display and tested the color on her lips. "I may be married, but I'm far from dead, Soph. In fact, sex has never been better."
Tiffany, one of the guests, stole Maddie's penis-shaped drink charm from her martini with a grin. "Caught you."
"Drat, drat, double drat," Maddie said. "I just can't seem to hold on to my male organs tonight."
"It's because you can't stop saying the S-word." The object of the gam
e, Sophie thought wryly, was not to say the S-word or you lost your stick. Difficult when every item on display conjured images of just that—sex.
Something Sophie had done without lately.
"Okay," Lucy said as she lit a boob-shaped candle. "Time for another party game."
"Oh, heavens," Sophie said. "What next?" They'd already played Finish the Picture—essentially a picture of a man missing one important vital body part. Of course, Maddie had won with her sketch of Chase, which had every woman there anxious to meet Maddie's husband.
"All right." Lucy waved a glittery stick that resembled a magic wand—women were supposed to use it to make their partners deliver their fantasy. "This game is to stimulate your imagination. Everyone has to take the name of their first pet and combine it with the name of the street where they grew up. That will be your porn star name."
Several of the women squealed with delight. Sophie grimaced.
Maddie clapped her hands. "Okay, I've got mine. My cat's name was Too Cute, and the street I grew up on was Eaton Drive."
"Too Cute Eaton," Lucy said with a squeal.
Lucy passed the magic wand to the next girl in the circle. "I had a German shepherd named Tootsie and I lived on Poplin Avenue." Olivia twirled her olive in her glass. "Tootsie Pop."
The next girl snatched the wand with a mischievous grin. "Honey Lipton."
"Honey Lips," Lucy amended, bringing a round of laughter.
A stunning brunette lawyer joined in the fun. "Pepper Sprayberry—no, Pepper Spray."
"That sounds dangerous," Lucy said. "But exciting."
The magic wand continued, the game picking up speed. "Fluffy Main."
"Sticky Waters."
"Angel Ashton."
"Satin Butts."
"Furry Hornsby."
"Hotshot Sister."
"Blackie Humphrey—Blackie Humps."
Sophie rolled her eyes, quickly downing the rest of her martini as the spotlight turned to her. "My cat is Jazzy."
Lucy's eyes twinkled. "And your street was...?"
She could not believe she was saying this; it was everything she had fought so hard not to be. "Bell."