Unravel Me

by Christie Ridgway

  Noah’s senses went on high alert. Even through the walls and the darkness, he could hear the guilty catch of Juliet’s breath. He imagined there was a flush rising on her cheeks, too, and it was the warmth of it that was releasing a tantalizing note of her classy perfume into the night air.

  “That’s it exactly,” Juliet confessed, her voice still low. “You, too?”

  “Yeah. I’ve had my moments. My advice—don’t beat yourself up about it. We’re still human, after all.” Gabe hesitated. “But, Juliet, if that little itch . . . that is, if you need . . .”

  Shit. Noah’s body went rigid. What was the bastard about to offer? And how quick could he get through the window and introduce Gabe to his fist? He was inches from the screen when Cassandra’s voice halted his forward momentum.

  “Gabe? Oh, Gabe?” she called from across the patio. “I just spotted a falling star. I’m wishing something for you.”

  “Froot Loop, didn’t anyone ever tell you to be careful what you wish for?” As he spoke, his voice drifted away from the window and in the direction of Cassandra. “My heart’s desire is to get you out of my hair, but I can’t ask you to wish yourself right out of Malibu.”

  In what appeared to be their usual style, the two traded insults that Noah barely registered. His focus, his thoughts, were on Juliet, standing just a few inches of plaster and insulation and stucco away. He knew she was still there, he could still smell her perfume and still sense her confused emotions.

  She needed, wanted, craved contact. Skin. Touch.

  Was that true? In his pocket, his cell phone vibrated, and Noah absently pulled it free. Was Juliet really itching?

  The truth is, Noah, what I felt when I kissed you was horny.

  Well, if that was the case, then the platonic hired help from across the pool had just added a new task to his mission. Because for damn sure the one that was going to be doing the scratching would be nobody other than Noah.

  Six

  War is the only game in which it doesn’t pay to have the home-court advantage.

  —DICK MOTTA

  Marlys wound through the hills above Malibu. Her dog, Blackie, part black lab, part who-knew-what-else, had his head out the passenger window and was drinking in the morning air with a toothy grin on his face.

  At least one of them was in a good mood.

  In the trunk of her Miata was another package for Juliet with the publisher’s return address in the upper left. Marlys had already placed a call to the Big Apple that morning and had been polite but icy when informing them that her father’s wife had had a change of residence. Her tone had gotten her through to her father’s editor, who had blah-blah-blahed an apology followed by a promise to take permanent note of the information. So this should be the last occasion that Marlys was forced to play delivery chick.

  And Marlys could hope that keeping clear of Juliet would mean she’d be freed from the acid bitterness that welled in her belly every time she came in contact with the other woman. The knowledge that marrying his second wife had dirtied the general’s reputation continued to fester inside the general’s daughter. However, if Juliet stayed in hiding here in the hills of Malibu, maybe Marlys could let go of her—yeah, she knew it—sometimes juvenile resentment.

  Her foot tapped the brake as she caught sight of the house. The garage door was closed, but a mean-looking motorcycle was parked in the drive. Huh?

  Instead of zipping in beside it, she made a more cautious and uncharacteristic choice. She parked the Miata against the curb across the street.

  But Blackie, being Blackie, didn’t curb his reckless impulses. The minute she opened her door, he shouldered past her hip and dashed out and up the street at a four-legged lope.

  “Damn.” She didn’t even try calling back the dog. From experience, she knew that would only spur him on. The animal was so focused on his own selfish concerns, he didn’t care a whit about pleasing the human who fed, watered, and walked him.

  Knowing he’d eventually wander back, she popped the trunk and tucked the thick package under her arm. With a last curious once-over of the motorcycle, she headed along Juliet’s curved, lushly landscaped walkway.

  Rounding a corner, she halted at the bottom of the graduated porch steps. On the white wooden bench near the front door, a man was sleeping. He wore battered blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and black motorcycle boots. His long legs were draped over the far arm of the bench and a leather jacket that looked like it had been run over a time or two was bunched under his head as a pillow. In contrast to the rest of his Hells Angel persona, his hair was cropped fairly close to his head and was matched in color by the black stubby lashes that rested against his high-cheekboned, very tanned face.

  A burn started bubbling in her belly. Had Juliet gone from Marlys’s war hero father to men who looked like they sold drugs on East L.A. street corners?

  Perhaps her outrage made a sound, because the stranger suddenly woke. His lashes lifted in a beat, their color a cold, alert silver that immediately focused on her face. She’d seen only one other man come awake with just that same instant awareness.

  The comparison to her father pissed her off. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

  With a lazy movement belied by the sharpness of his gaze, he sat up. With his scarred boots planted firmly on the flagstone porch, he tilted his head and took his time taking her in. “What mushroom did you stroll out from under?”

  Marlys narrowed her eyes. “I’m short, not some stupid troll.”

  He shook his head. “It’s fairies, not trolls, who use mushrooms for umbrellas.” Lifting his face, he squinted up at the sky. “But I don’t see any clouds.”

  “Yeah? Well I’m about to rain on your parade, buddy. What the hell are you doing here? Should I be calling the cops?” For some stupid reason, it now irked her even more to think that this . . . this darkly handsome guy might be linked to Juliet.

  “I’m here to meet someone. Arrived early.”

  Hah. So he was linked to Juliet. And didn’t that just show how shallow the other woman was? She was a widow, for God’s sake, and she had no business hooking up with a man as gorgeous as this. Sex appeal clung to him as closely as that T-shirt hugged his ripped chest.

  Not that she’d noticed.

  “Are you sure you have the right house?” she asked, freeze-drying the edges of her voice.

  He shrugged, then craned his neck to glance at the address marker posted on the wall behind him. “This is the number my friend gave me when I called him last night. Noah lives here with a lady. Is that lady you?”

  Marlys bristled. She couldn’t help it. Everything about this man, his lazy posture, his cool eyes, his hot body, the whole package rubbed her the wrong way, as if she was a cat being petted from tail to ears. “Noah doesn’t ‘live’ with my . . . my stepmother.” She never referred to Juliet in that manner, she’d never thought of her as a maternal figure, but she kind of liked the idea of giving the leggy blonde an older, not to mention evil, image.

  Bad Marlys.

  The Hells Angel’s eyebrows rose. “Ah. That explains the brat part.”

  “Brat?” Marlys echoed, offended. She’d been called a lot of things in her time, but nothing so childish as brat. What a jerk. She straightened her spine and threw out her A-and-a half cups. “I might be the size of a kid, but I’ll have you know I’m twenty-five years old.”

  One side of his mouth kicked up. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to imply you needed a babysitter. But if Juliet Weston is your stepmama, then you’ve got to be the general’s daughter. I meant Army brat.”

  “Oh.” Army brat. A soft sense of nostalgia bloomed in her chest. That’s what she’d been a long time ago. Until she was twelve years old and her mother had tired of military life and divorced her dad.

  The motorcycle man was looking at her like he could see every thought in her head. Marlys prided herself on her tough exterior, so the idea he found her transparent incensed her all over again. “Did you say you ha
d business here?”

  “I have some time off. Thought I’d find myself a fairy whose wings could use a tug or two.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You tug the tail of a puppy. You strip the wings off a butterfly.”

  His smile was as lazy and slow as every other move he’d made. “Strip? When I get you naked, I promise I’ll leave the wings just as they are.”

  Strip. Naked. Marlys’s insides heated again. But it wasn’t that bitter burn she’d become familiar with. Not that she’d let him see that his flirtation was getting to her, not when, dressed in a long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of old jeans, it had to be a knee-jerk reaction he had to women, any woman, not particularly her. She slammed her hand on her hip. “Give me a break. That kind of line might work in a biker bar, but around here—”

  She yelped as her feet were swept from beneath her. She found herself up in the air—and, no fairy wings, damn it—then down, painfully, on her ass. Blackie—selfish, unrepentant, and wiggling with doggy delight—breezed up the steps, then back down, stepping on her hair as he circled her prone, breathless form.

  “Sit.” The rough order from the man on the porch had Marlys struggling to obey. “Stay.”

  Blackie plopped down. Froze.

  In the same position, she and the dog looked at each other with astonishment. It’s why she didn’t see the biker guy move down the stairs. He was quick for a lazy man.

  “Are you all right?” He lifted her to her feet with big palms beneath her elbows. His hands ran down the cotton knit of her shirt to her wrists, then transferred to her waist to cop a feel along the denim covering her hips.

  “Hey!” she snapped, stepping back.

  “Just checking for injuries,” he said, giving her an unrepentant smile.

  She scowled, because every inch he’d touched was tingling, even through 100 percent cotton fibers. “You should be checking the dog,” she said, glaring at Blackie, who, miracle of miracles, was still down on his haunches. “Because there’s a rolled-up newspaper with his name on it.”

  “Jesus.” The stranger frowned. “Don’t hit the dog.”

  A flush shot over Marlys’s face. She wasn’t perfect by any means, she knew that, but she’d never actually strike Blackie. It mortified her that the man would think it. It mortified her that she cared what the man would think.

  “He’s my dog,” she mumbled, looking down at her feet. Good Lord, she was wearing her Keds from seventh grade. “I’ll do what I want.”

  “He needs some discipline,” the man advised. “Enroll him in obedience school.”

  “We’re kind of free spirits, Blackie and I,” she said, reaching out to stroke the dog’s head. Blackie whined.

  “I get it now.” The Hells Angel crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re both spoiled.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  The silvery eyes of his had warmed up. Apparently she amused him. “The principles are easy. Let him know what to expect. Reward the behavior you want, and when he crosses the line, withdraw your attention. A little time locked outside and he’ll come around.”

  “I’m not sure Blackie gives a flying fig about my attention.”

  “Beautiful fairy like yourself? Any male would be ready to knock himself out for you.”

  Marlys cast him a look through her eyelashes. All right, she was human, wasn’t she? And when a man this good looking called her beautiful—even when wearing her junior high Keds—it wasn’t a crime to be flattered. Or tempted.

  Didn’t he imply he was going to be around for a while? With the foul mood she’d been in lately, she could use a distraction, so maybe a flirtation—or more—wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

  Then she remembered. This particular temptation was here at Juliet’s house, a place she’d been looking forward to avoiding.

  “Where is my evil stepmother anyway?”

  Motorcycle man shrugged. “I told you I arrived early. Noah’s out, she’s out, I don’t know where either is.”

  She guessed she should be grateful he hadn’t broken into the place.

  “I’m Dean Long, by the way.” He stretched his hand toward her.

  Without thinking, Marlys put her palm against his.

  Zap.

  Electricity shot to her elbow as her bare flesh met his. Her gaze jumped upward to clash with his surprised silver eyes.

  “Wow,” he said.

  She yanked her hand away. “It’s the crisp October air.”

  His smile dawned slowly. “Yeah, must be about seventy-five, seventy-eight degrees out here.”

  Oh, what the hell. She found herself smiling back and enjoying the exhilarating feel of her blood zipping through her body. “Like I said, crisp.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Snap, crackle, pop.” The flirtation in his eyes heated to seduction. “I don’t know your name.”

  “Marlys.” She took a step back, and bumped into Blackie. He whined, and her fingers stroked the fur on the top of his head. “Marlys Weston.”

  Dean watched her retreat a few feet more, Blackie pressed to her thigh. “Are you going to come back and see me again while I’m here, Marlys Weston?”

  “I think I’m going to have to,” she heard herself murmur, then she turned like a coward and hightailed it to her car.

  Once there, though, she realized she’d only been telling the truth. She still had Juliet’s package.

  Noah ran across Juliet at Zuma, the two-mile stretch of sand situated at Malibu’s northern end. It was the kind of beach that symbolized California. The hundred yards from parking lot to waves were strung with dozens of volleyball courts and along the horizontal stretch lifeguard towers squatted like giant toddlers hunkered over plastic pails.

  Whether it was thanks to fate, or instinct, or just dumb luck, his eye had caught on her car in the near-empty lot as he cruised along the Pacific Coast Highway. Though he knew Dean was waiting for him at the house, Noah hadn’t hesitated to turn off PCH and into the parking lot at the next opportunity.

  He braked his truck beside Juliet’s Mercedes and then trudged through the sand in the direction of her solitary figure. She didn’t move or shift her gaze from the horizon across the water, even as two bright yellow lifeguard vehicles trundled past with rescue surfboards strapped to their racks.

  From twenty feet she turned her head and looked at him. The breeze off the ocean had dashed pink color against her cheeks and onto the tip of her elegant nose. It had made her mouth rosy, too.

  The mouth he’d kissed.

  The mouth of the woman who last night had confessed her longing for a man’s touch.

  He stumbled on nothing, tripping over his own feet like a skid row wino. One of the lifeguard trucks slowed beside him. “You okay, pal?” the driver called out, lifting his Ray-Bans to scrutinize Noah’s face.

  “Fine,” he said, waving with the hope the gesture would be enough. Sure, he was publicly intoxicated, but he didn’t feel like explaining that he was drunk on memories of those reddened lips and that beautiful woman in his arms.

  Her hair had smelled sweet and the smooth strands had slid against his cheek like water. She’d looked up when he’d groaned her name and without thinking, without weighing, measuring, worrying, he’d taken her mouth and given back the kiss of a starving man.

  He wanted that again. He wanted to be the one who assuaged her need—“craving”—for skin. Contact. Touch.

  The lifeguard glanced over his shoulder and took in the focus of Noah’s attention. Juliet was facing the men now, her hands stuffed in her pants’ pockets, her jeans stuffed in a pair of knee-length sheepskin boots. A long-sleeved white T-shirt clung to her slender frame.

  “Ah,” the lifeguard said, with a grin, as the truck started moving again. “Break a leg, buddy.”

  But nobody was going to get hurt, Noah assured himself, as he continued toward Juliet. This was about helping, not hurting. With several inches still between them, he halted.

  She spoke first. “What are you doing here?”
>
  “I . . .” Well, hell. He hadn’t thought it through that far. He’d spotted her car and formed a plan that only went so far as finding her. Throwing her down in the sand and having sex in the surf like the famous scene in From Here to Eternity wasn’t suitable for someone like the high-class blonde now staring him down.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets to disguise the way his cock had already warmed up to the idea and tried shrugging away his uneasiness. He liked women. Women liked him. Before now, he would have claimed to know all the steps to the dance and how to easily flow from one to the other until two bodies went from the first moves of foreplay to the last throes of a satisfying fuck.

  But this was Juliet. And from that night he’d rushed naked into her kitchen, nothing between them had been easy.

  “Noah?”

  Since he didn’t have an answer, he asked his own questions. “Are you all right? What are you doing out here?”

  She swung back to gaze at the ocean. Her profile was so damn classically pure it made his still-stiff cock ache. The banner the breeze made of her caramel hair had his palm itching to fist his hand in the stuff and draw her close enough to once again heat those reddened lips.

  “I need to take care of Wayne’s ashes,” Juliet said. “And here might be the right place for them.”

  Cold dashed over Noah’s libido like a winter wave. Oh, Christ, he thought, wanting to kick his own ass to hell and back. Here he’d been certain she was considering her next move to satisfy her skin craving when instead she was contemplating what to do with her dead husband’s remains.

  “Insensitive jerk,” he muttered, cursing that sexual thug inside himself.

  Juliet frowned at him. “Noah? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” Just moving my brain back from my little head to the big one. “So, about the general’s ashes . . . ?”

  “Maybe this is their right resting place.”