by Jill Shalvis
“Doesn’t your family ever get the best of you?”
“We’re not talking about me.” His voice softened. “But family shouldn’t hurt.”
“No, they shouldn’t.” Before her eyes, his temper drained. Something flickered in his gaze then. Sympathy? Compassion? Whatever it was, she couldn’t handle it, not when the urge to weep still had her eyes stinging. “Let’s finish the floor.” Again she turned away.
But Hunter just pulled her back. “What do your parents think of good old Uncle Victor?”
“They’re gone.”
He winced. “Hell. I’m sorry.”
“It was a very long time ago. My aunt and uncle raised me, and my aunt died not too long ago, which is why ... why he calls,” she finished lamely.
“Does he call often?”
“Weekly. I usually manage to avoid him, which makes me feel even guiltier.”
“Sounds like that’s part of his purpose.”
“Guilt is his specialty.” Why was she telling him this? It would only reinforce what he thought of her. She clamped her jaws shut.
His gaze searched her face deeply, as if he could see past her facade and into her very soul. Uncomfortable, Trisha squirmed away, unwilling to allow this man more insights than she’d already given him.
“I’d probably avoid him too,” Hunter observed, setting his hands on his hips. “He didn’t have much of value to say about you or your life.”
He never did. With a meaningful glance toward the tools, Trisha said, “The floor. I think we should—”
“Is he your only family?”
“Now who’s full of questions?”
“Is he?”
She sighed. “Yep. Just good old Uncle Vic and me. The floor, Hunter.”
“He sounded ... demanding.”
“He’s military,” she said with a shrug, wondering at his curiosity. “My aunt wasn’t as bad, but she attended mass daily, sometimes more than once. They aren’t exactly what you would call openhearted or forgiving.”
“Sounds tough. And you were all alone with them, no siblings to deflect some of the anger?”
She never talked about this, not even to Celia. Her new outlook on life—namely, being positive no matter what—didn’t allow it.
Diversion was self-defense. Backing away from both him and his touch, she said pointedly, “The floor, Hunter. We’ve got to finish it today.”
Again, he just looked at her, his green eyes seeing far more than she wanted him to. “I’m sorry he upset you, Trisha.”
He said this so lightly, with such tenderness and understanding, that her throat tightened again. “I’m ... just fine.”
“Then why are you twisting the phone cord as if you need something to strangle?”
Looking down at her tangled-up fingers in the long cord, she grimaced. “Can we drop this? Please? I’m really rotten with pity.”
“I’m not—” He broke off when she walked away from him, heading to where they’d been working. “Gee, I guess we’re done talking,” he muttered, and followed her.
She knelt, keeping her head down. What was it about this man that stripped her bare? “Are you going to help, or what?”
Yeah, he was going to help. Probably more than he wanted, but dammit if she didn’t look unexpectedly small, alone, miserable. God, he was a sucker. Dropping to his knees beside her, he looked into her drawn face. “I’m going to help.”
“Good.” She sniffed, blew her nose.
His heart broke a little. “For the record, I don’t pity you.”
“No?” One side of her mouth quirked. “Why not?”
“You’re too damned ornery.”
She laughed, as he’d hoped she would. Some of her color had come back, he noted, and that relieved him. For one horrified moment, when he’d been pushing her for answers as if she’d been an experiment of his, he’d thought she was going to burst into tears.
It had been a favorite tactic of his mother, and his two ex-fiancées.
Hunter Adams didn’t do well with weepy women.
But Trisha, she did something to him, something he was unaccustomed to. Listening to her battle with her uncle for pride and confidence stirred within him a fierce protectiveness he hadn’t known he possessed.
It also gave him an insight into the woman who, up until now, he’d looked at only superficially. It shamed him to realize it, but it was the truth.
Trisha Malloy had become far more than just a shell. Beneath the slightly off-center purveyor of fine lingerie lived a surprisingly tough, intelligent, and lovely woman. One, he suddenly realized, he wanted to know better.
Hunter worked days and nights for most of the following week. His current project, only twelve months away from launch, had kicked into high gear. As principal investigator, team leader, and payload specialist, all aspects of the flight would be under his command. The planetary surface lander they were to launch from the shuttle, the one that would study the soil content on Mars, had been ready for some time, but there was still a long list of preparations to carry out, all of which was his responsibility. An exciting task, one he typically thrived on.
But it became difficult to concentrate fully when his new project, the duplex, weighed heavily on his mind. He’d moved his spartan belongings into the lower apartment the weekend before. Now, for the first time in his many years of traveling and hotel living, he needed his own furniture.
He liked that very much, and as he jogged at week’s end, he thought over his week.
On Monday, he’d had most of Eloise’s furniture picked up by the center he’d donated it to. Now suddenly, or maybe not so suddenly, he’d become eager to dig in and fix the place up.
It was a joke, or it would be if he had told anyone his plans. Dr. Hunter Adams drooling over fixing up a house. But the yearning deep within him, to have a real home that belonged to him, couldn’t be denied.
For now he’d start with the lower portion of the house. He told himself he didn’t want to take on too much at once, though he knew it was that he couldn’t bring himself to fight Trisha for full possession.
He hadn’t spent any time with her all week. Which was good, he told himself. It meant she hadn’t destroyed or ruined anything. It meant she hadn’t caused any trouble. He’d heard her music, and several times he’d heard her laughter.
Halfway through the week, he’d come home at dusk to hear a lawn mower. Curious, since he knew he hadn’t paid a gardener, he walked through to the back and suddenly stopped, riveted by a surge of surprise and pure lust.
Trisha, hair piled precariously on top of her head, singing at the top of her lungs and rocking her head back and forth to the tune only she could hear in her headphones, was mowing the lawn. The cropped white T-shirt she wore clung to her damp skin, becoming sheer enough to reveal the outline of her nipples.
His mouth went dry.
Not noticing she had an audience, she moved past him, sashaying her cute little butt, barely covered in the tiniest, shortest cutoffs he’d ever seen.
On her next turn through the yard, she caught sight of him and started in surprise. Stopping, she flipped up the headphones and smiled sweetly—completely unaware of what she’d done to him.
He’d covered the shock of his reaction to her by muttering grumpily and taking over the job of mowing. That she’d relinquished the chore with only a knowing smile, then disappeared, hadn’t improved his mood, or his raging hormones.
The next day he’d come home to find her on the front lawn, giving Duff a bath.
“He rolled on the driveway, under my car,” she explained over the yowling feline objections.
“So you decided to punish him by sentencing him to a bath?” he asked, watching in amusement as Duff’s ears flattened against his head when she carefully mopped his face.
“He was covered in oil,” Trisha explained, leaning back on her knees.
His gaze dipped, and he got an eyeful down her gaping, drenched sundress, enough to render him speech
less for a minute. By the time he could speak, words weren’t necessary.
Because Trisha, with a wicked smile, threw a soaking wet washcloth in his face. Pulling it away slowly, he glared at her. “What was that for?”
“Take a picture,” she suggested with that irritating secret smile. “It lasts longer.”
“You’re not going to provoke me into a water fight.”
“No?” Those full lips pouted. “You’re no fun.”
“So I’ve been told,” he retorted. And, hard as a rock, he’d walked away.
The next morning, while shaving, he’d heard her shower running. Standing there in front of his bathroom sink, staring at himself in the mirror, he’d pictured what she was doing directly above him. He’d gotten hard, again. The image of her wet and soapy had stayed with him for the day, making it necessary for him to spend most of it behind his desk.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been unable to control his own body, and felt, quite ridiculously, like a teenager.
Now it was Friday, and as his feet pounded the cement, he realized he hadn’t seen Trisha the day before, and he wondered what she’d done, if she’d had a good day.
You’re no fun.
Trisha’s words echoed in his head. No, he was no fun, not in her eyes. Which was exactly why he had to stop thinking about her. She was so different, so full of life—happy to live her life as she saw fit, as wildly as she wanted.
He was the complete opposite. Even if he decided to risk it for himself and drown himself in her beauty, they were doomed. He could never make someone like her happy for long.
He had never made anyone happy.
As he ran down the dark driveway, past the newly mown lawn, he glanced at his car and came to an abrupt stop.
The scrawled words on his windshield—in what looked suspiciously like lipstick—read:
I’m sorry about the little dent on your fender! Think you could scoot over just a bit more when you park? Keep smiling, Trisha.
Beneath that, she’d drawn a happy face.
Disbelieving, Hunter strode to the back of his car and swore colorfully into the predawn morning. His left bumper had been neatly rearranged, dotted with red paint—the very color of Trisha’s ancient Nissan.
He jerked his gaze up and studied the amply wide driveway that ran alongside of his large house. Then he glanced at the equally wide street and the front of the house, where at least three cars could have fitted. Unbelievable. A small white, flapping piece of paper had been attached to the fender, catching his eye. With a snort of disgust, he ripped it off, brought it close in the waning dawn and read:
Ran out of lipstick! I’m really, really sorry. Hope you have a nice day, Hunter. (This time I insist on paying the damages!) See ya soon.
A little laugh escaped him. “Unbelievable,” he repeated out loud. He spared a last look of disgust at Trisha’s offending red car, which didn’t appear damaged beyond a few missing flecks of paint. Shaking his head, he shoved the note in his pocket, thankful he’d run, because it looked as though he would definitely need the stress relief today.
Hunter allowed himself one last thought before he focused his energy on his work.
A silent Trisha didn’t necessarily mean a quiet one. It looked as if he’d do well to remember that in the future.
Hunter would have liked nothing better than to bury himself in his work, of which he had plenty. He’d been doing it for years. But lately, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, his personal life kept interfering.
He’d no sooner set foot in his office when his phone buzzed. His secretary’s voice came over the line, sounding surprised.
“You’re late.”
If he was, it was the first time in his thirty-four years he’d been late for anything. “Seems that way.”
“Is anything wrong?”
He smiled grimly. “Lipstick doesn’t come off windshields. Remember that if you ever get the urge to paint a guy’s window with scarlet lipstick.”
“What?” Heidi exclaimed, obviously startled. They’d worked together for nine years and they’d shared exactly three personal conversations—occurring each time Heidi had gotten pregnant and needed leave. “What did you say?”
“Nothing,” he answered wryly, shoving a hand through his short hair and sinking into his chair. “What’s up?”
“You’ve got a visitor down at the main building who’s awaiting clearance. Sheryl Adams?”
His niece. Tuition time already, he thought with a sigh, and okayed her clearance. Ten minutes later Sheryl entered his office, looking every bit the college student in her opaque black tights, thigh-high black leather boots, and a short black wool jumper over a stark white blouse. Hip-length, straight blond hair bounced as she danced into the room. “Hi, Uncle Hunter!”
Standing, he suffered her jubilant hug and kiss, then extracted himself from her arms when Heidi buzzed him again.
“You’ve got another visitor at the main desk,” she said, sounding wildly curious. Hunter knew two personal visitors to the reclusive Dr. Adams in one day would have Heidi the center of attention at lunch.
Not his mother again, he thought, knowing he didn’t have the patience today. Besides, his checkbook couldn’t handle it.
“It’s a Ms. Trisha Malloy.”
Hunter stared at the telephone. Trisha. Good Lord, what had she done now that she actually had to seek him out at work? “Send her up,” he said wearily, and managed to give a weak smile to his waiting niece.
He’d written Sheryl’s tuition check, and had just barely managed to catch her as she flung herself at him in gratitude, when his office door opened.
He heard the soft exclamation of apology.
Hands full of buoyant, happy coed, Hunter jerked his head up to see Trisha turning away.
“Trisha?”
She disappeared around the corner.
Dammit. “Trisha!” Hunter plucked Sheryl’s arms from around his neck and strode to his door. “Wait.”
Slowly, from halfway down the carpeted hallway, Trisha turned back. The very short, very full skirt of her fuchsia outfit swung wildly around her trim thighs. “I can see you’re busy,” she said softly, quietly, though her hands fisted at her sides. “I’ll just talk to you another time.”
He’d never seen her so strangely subdued, so ... calm and unassuming. Something was wrong, very wrong, and his heart tripped. “Now is fine, Trisha.”
But Sheryl, curse her very lovely hide, chose that moment to bounce out of his office, throw her long arms around his neck, and kiss him soundly on the cheek. “I’ll never forget this,” she vowed cheerfully with a vibrant giggle. “Never.”
Without another word, Trisha turned and left.
Seven
Trisha forced herself to walk sedately through the NASA complex that housed Jet Propulsion Laboratories. She even managed several halfhearted smiles in response to the few appreciative glances she received.
But once she made it back through the main building and to the parking lot, she started running, her breath catching in her throat, her ridiculous pink pumps slapping dangerously against the asphalt.
What was the matter with her?
She’d come simply to make sure Hunter had gotten her note, to apologize in person. She’d wanted to see if he would accept her offer to get estimates for the damage to his fender so she could pay the bill.
That was absolutely all she’d come for.
It had nothing to do with the fact that she ... missed him. Nothing at all.
Goodness, she hated liars. And she was lying to herself now. She’d come to see the man who had begun to fascinate her and she damn well knew it.
Just because said man had a tall, leggy blonde hanging all over him meant nothing.
She had no claim on him, nor did she want one. She’d known him for only a couple of weeks, and even then on a casual basis. Their teeny-weeny kiss meant nothing, nothing at all. Dr. Adams could mess around with a dozen such blondes for all sh
e cared.
Right.
That kiss hadn’t been teeny-weeny. Nope, it’d been the mother of all kisses, at least in her eyes. Nerves had her fumbling with the lock on her car as her breath huffed out from her run. Her hands were shaking so, that she couldn’t fit the key into the lock.
“Trisha.”
Hunter’s voice came from directly behind her and she nearly leaped out of her skin. Her keys went flying out of her hands.
Hunter squatted down at the same time as she, reaching for the fallen keys, which was how she found herself hunkered down beside her car, staring into his dark green, unfathomable eyes.
Solemnly, he handed her the keys, then slowly pulled her up as he rose. The top of her head came to his chin, she noted with disgust. No wonder he never looked twice at her. The lovely blonde in his office had been nearly six feet tall.
“Why did you run off?” he asked, tugging her gently back when she tried to turn away.
She lifted her chin, assuring herself she couldn’t catch her breath from her run, not from the way he was looking at her. “You looked pretty busy.”
“Did I?” he asked quietly, an annoying smile playing about his lips.
She inhaled deeply at his obvious amusement. “Are you going to deny you had your hands full?”
He laughed, shook his head, then threw his head back and laughed again. Rarely did he let go like this, and Trisha could only stare. When he smiled like that, his entire face lit up, and he became even more handsome, if that was even possible. “I don’t see what’s so funny,” she said haughtily. Freeing her arm from his grasp, she grabbed her keys and hurriedly unlocked her car.
But Hunter laid a hand on the door, deterring her. His eyes still swam with humor, but he sounded sincere when he said, “You came all the way over here, Trisha. It must have been important. Is everything all right?” Suddenly the amusement faded, replaced by worry. “What’s the matter? Has something else happened?”
He looked mildly terrified, which helped. Served him right to have a bad moment, and knowing that, she regained some badly needed confidence. How dare he assume that she’d done something else to his precious house. Stubborn as he, she crossed her arms and glared at him.