Trick picked up the scraper and squatted beside Gary’s boat. Not that he wasn’t a little startled himself.
After his one disastrous experiment with love, he’d selected women intellectually, based on a pleasing combination of factors—looks, sense of humor and availability. At thirty-plus years it was no comfort to discover that the feel of a particular woman’s skin could short-circuit his gray matter and electrify every other part of him.
“You’re here early.” In white shirt and loosened tie, Gary walked down his front steps, briefcase and jacket under one arm, two mugs of coffee gripped in the other hand.
Trick straightened, glad to ease the strain on his leg, and accepted one of the steaming cups. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Trouble with Hot Hips?”
“Hot Hips is trouble,” Trick grumbled.
Gary handed over his mug and set down his briefcase and jacket to fiddle with the knot on his tie. “So stop seeing her.”
“We just met.”
“Even easier—” Gary took back his coffee “—to stop seeing her.”
“We have a deal.”
“Break it.” Gary gulped from his mug.
“She needs me.”
Gary picked up his briefcase, then fished a set of keys from his pocket. “She’ll find someone else.”
An image of Emma with smeared lipstick and a missing button popped into Trick’s mind. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Gary grinned. “Then you take care of her.”
“I will.”
“She needs you.” Gary walked through the front gate.
“I know.”
Gary opened his car door. “Good luck,” he called.
“I’ll need it.”
Gary ducked into his car, then yelled through the open passenger window. “Give her a big hug from me.” He wore an obnoxious smile on his face.
Trick shook his head. “I won’t touch her. Not even with a ten-foot pole.” Touching her was last night’s mistake.
Gary smirked. “You’re a legend, bud, but nobody’d believe ten feet.” Laughing uproariously, he drove away.
“Ha, ha.” Trick frowned at the car’s departing wisp of exhaust. He was still frowning when Emma, in a shiny little coupe, pulled into the vacant spot at the curb.
No touching, he reminded himself.
“Hey, partner!” she called out.
With approval, Trick noted Emma came dressed for hard work. Faded slip-on sneakers. Sweatpants cut off to knee-length. Big plaid shirt with the sleeves ripped out. The shirt provided no hint of those pert breasts he’d brushed the night before, but still exposed inches and inches of smooth, golden skin.
Since when did shoulders, elbows and wrists turn him on? Get a grip, Webster.
She passed through the picket gate and handed him a waxed bag. Lifting his eyebrows, he peered inside. “Muffins.” He set his coffee mug on the boat’s prow and put his hand in the bag. “Thanks.”
“Breakfast is the least I can do.”
“You want one?” He bit into a muffin, healthylooking but delicious anyway.
She shook her head.
“You ready to get started?” He gestured at the tools spread out on the ground. “We scrape, just like taking off old paint. After that, we scrub.” With the muffin, he pointed to a jumble of scouring pads. “Like doing dishes, only worse.”
Emma walked closer to the boat and scrutinized the green-brown matter that clung to the hull. “Um—what is this stuff?”
“How squeamish are you?”
She retreated a step. “Slightly.”
“Then I better not tell you.”
She grimaced. “Then I better know.”
He shrugged. “About two inches of algae, seaweed, barnacles, worm coral—”
“Stop!” She held up a hand. “I have plenty now.”
He swallowed the last bite of his muffin. “Let’s get going.”
They each picked up a scraper and set to work. Trick stayed on the same side of the boat as Emma, but started at the stern end, while she began at the prow. Trick estimated all morning would pass before they met in the middle. By then he hoped his muscles would be too tired to respond to an accidental touch.
“We need to make a formal arrangement,” Emma said. Trick glanced over and caught her hastily swiping away some hull gunk that had landed on her bare leg.
Inches and inches of golden-skinned calf. “Huh?”
“You know, I promised a fair financial arrangement.”
He remembered she’d offered to pay for his escort services. He cleared his throat. “That’s not necessary.”
“Sure, it’s necessary. Otherwise it’s not business, but a favor. I’d have to find another way to pay you back.”
Trick refused to examine the mental list of other ways that quickly assembled itself. “No.”
“But you’re even cutting short a trip to your parents. What if they have a lead on some job prospects?”
Trick gritted his teeth. He should tell her about Trickwear. He should tell her he was wealthy enough never to work again. But he hesitated.
Though he’d never deceived a woman in his life before, he’d once lost a woman after losing his livelihood. Since then, he’d always wondered what attracted the women most—his success or himself.
“Your parents could help you network your way into a job, you know.” Emma tucked her hair behind her ear. “Do they have some good contacts?”
“I don’t think so,” he answered slowly. “They’re retired.”
“What kind of job are you looking for?”
He didn’t want to out-and-out lie to her. “I have an economics degree from UC Santa Barbara.”
“Really? I’m a double major, business and English from Sacramento State.” She pursed her lips. “What kind of jobs have you had in the past?”
Trick thought back to the first real money he’d ever made, the seed money that started Trickwear. “I surfed.”
Her scraper stopped for a moment, then she shrugged. “I guess some people might consider that work.”
Trick rolled his eyes. Obviously Emma knew nothing about the professional surf circuit. “I—”
With her scraper, she waved away his response. “But we’re off the subject. How much should I pay you?”
No way could he take money from her. “Listen, my folks taught me never to accept—”
“Yes,” she interrupted again. “Let’s get back to them. Maybe they do know someone who could offer you a job. What did they do?”
“Dad’s a petroleum engineer. My mother used to give piano lessons.”
“Oh, Lord.” She made a face like she’d sucked a lemon. “Not you, too?”
Trick’s thoughts were spinning. “Not me, too, what?”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Let me give you a small test.” She paused. “The Bachs.” Her words held an ominous ring.
“What box?” He looked around him, searching.
She let out a breath. “Not a box. Think music. The Bachs.”
“Johann Sebastian and Johann Christian?” He frowned. “There might even be some others.”
She made the lemon face again. “You do know.”
“That’s bad?” Before today, no one had ever accused him of being overly cultured.
“I hate all those B guys. Brahms, Beethoven, the Bachs.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Mozart, even.” She vigorously attacked a section of the hull. “I lived with three people whose only sign of feelings was their passion for classical music. I sat through more piano recitals than any child, ever.”
“You didn’t like playing? I didn’t show much talent for it, either.”
“I had no talent for music, and no interest in trapping my feelings in some notes on a page,” Emma said vehemently. “My sister Chloe, perfect Chloe, played piano like an angel.”
Trick noticed that Emma’d scraped clean about three feet to his fourteen inches. Apparently there existed some correlation between emotion a
nd elbow grease. “What’s Chloe doing now?”
“She’s a professor of music. She works at the same private college in Northern California where Mother and Father teach. They’re psych profs.”
“You’re far away, then. They must miss you.”
Emma stopped scraping and looked toward Trick. “Probably so. But they’re into analyzing, not verbalizing, emotion.” She smiled, that unique Emma smile, but its normal radiance seemed dimmed. “I don’t think they understand I can’t hold back my feelings. I don’t think they ever know what to say to me.”
She tilted her head, her brow wrinkling. “I’m getting quite used to that.”
She turned to her task. Trick froze, mesmerized by the loose curl that quivered against her cheek with each movement. The sun found buried strands of gold in the warm brown of her hair. Buried treasure.
“Emma,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“Mmm?” She continued scraping.
He wanted her to look at him with those mermaid eyes. He wanted to touch her satiny skin. He wanted to walk inside her open heart and shut the door behind him.
A cold wave of reality doused him. Crazy to get close to a woman like this. Crazy and dangerous. He squeezed the handle of the scraper and sat back on his heels, ignoring the slice of pain that traveled up his thigh.
“Did you want to tell me something?”
He felt her gaze, but he didn’t look her way. Prying at a stubborn barnacle, he cleared his throat. “I never liked Mozart, either.”
They fell into a comfortable silence after that. Trick felt as if he’d survived surfing a heavy set of waves, not by charging them, but by playing it safe, keeping to the shoulder. Didn’t matter how he’d made it through, now he felt relaxed enough to forget his worries, even though their shoulders were almost touching as they worked.
Emma switched her scraper to her left hand and flexed the fingers of her right. “No lover is worth all this.” She gestured to the mush of organic debris at their feet.
Trick grunted in agreement.
“Speaking of worth, we need to nail down our arrangement.”
“Emma—”
“Let me finish.” She rose to her feet. “There must be some sort of payment, or else I won’t be comfortable asking for exactly what I need.”
Trick looked at her warily. “What exactly is that?”
“I told you before.” Pink flushed her cheeks. “I feel stupid saying it, but unless we really appear to be lovers, this will be for nothing. Everybody has to believe it.” Her teeth worried her lower lip. “A couple of caresses here, a couple of kisses there.”
Caresses here? Kisses there? Trick’s imagination and his pulse went into overdrive. Caresses where? Kisses where?
“…clothes would be a good idea.”
Trick nodded as he caught the last of Emma’s words. Something about clothes. “Okay.” Let’s take them off.
“When?” she asked.
His eyes nearly popped from his head. “Huh?”
Wearing a concerned expression, she bent to peer in his face. “Are you all right?” Her voice sounded puzzled. “You said okay, I asked you when. I thought we were in agreement.”
“Huh?” Still on his haunches, he stared at her.
“Do you feel well? You look funny.” She brought her face closer. He moved back. She leaned farther forward, upsetting her balance.
Trick watched her fall in slow, slow motion. He didn’t try steadying her, remembering the night before. Her arms flapped a little, then her hands reached out and clutched his T-shirt.
No help. His tired leg couldn’t withstand her momentum, and they toppled, Emma flat against his chest. A loud rip accompanied the thud of his back as he hit the dirt.
Panting, Trick took stock of the situation. They lay torso to torso, her legs sprawled on either side of his hips. Each of her uneven breaths pressed the soft swell of her breasts against him. His blood pounded an urgent, direct path from his heart to his groin, an embarrassing path, if she didn’t move very soon.
She wasn’t moving.
“Honey.” His voice sounded choked. “You okay?”
“Just catching my breath.” Her voice sounded funny, too. She wiggled her fingers, and he realized they curled against the bare skin of his chest. His holey T-shirt had done its last chore before the ragbag.
“Good thing I’m buying you a new shirt.” She rolled off him and scrambled to her feet.
“What are you talking about?” He missed her warm, light weight.
“Our agreement that I’d buy you clothes for our dates.” She sounded puzzled again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
He sat up. “You confuse me,” he said grumpily.
“Me? I’m an open book. A wizziwig.”
Trick groaned. “There you go again. What’s a wizziwig?”
“W-Y-S-I-W-Y-G. It’s an acronym for ‘What You See Is What You Get,”‘ she explained.
He suppressed a premonitory shudder. So far, his dealings with Emma had been chaotic, to say the least. If this is what he’d get more of, the next few days were bound to be tough. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
That evening, Trick noted that Emma moved as stiffly through the shopping mall as he. With a sigh of relief, he followed her onto the escalator for a ride to the second floor of the department store at the west end of the mall.
“What did Gary think of the boat?” Emma asked. She stared at a shirt worn by a decapitated male mannequin. “Do you like this?”
Trick shrugged. Despite his protests and then his disinterest, Emma hadn’t been deterred from her shopping mission. Already, they each toted a bag. “I’ll finish up with Gary tomorrow. He’s so happy with our progress, he said he’s thinking of renaming the boat the Emma.”
She grinned. “That flatterer. He’s full of baloney.” She tilted her head, looking at the shirt again. “What is the name of Gary’s boat? I didn’t notice.”
“Always Up.” Emma’s eyes rounded. “In reference to water-skiing,” he defended.
Emma shook her head. “Oh, yuck! When will you men learn that it’s subtlety that wins the day? And wins the ladies.”
Trick pretended to whip out a notepad and pencil. “Tell me again? What is it that wins the ladies?” He poised his forefinger over the palm of his other hand.
Emma laughed. “Subtlety. S-U-B—” Her gaze shifted from his face to a spot just over his right shoulder, in the direction of the escalator they’d recently stepped from.
The bag in her hand fell. “Come here,” she whispered urgently.
Pricks of sensation burst over his nape. He closed the two steps to Emma.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
As his head bent, words hissed from beneath her teeth. “And don’t be subtle.”
5
Emma held her breath as Trick’s lips came closer. Over his shoulder, she peeked quickly at the advancing couple, then gazed back to his face. Make this look good, she silently commanded.
His mouth touched down. A pang of raw response, as fast and dazzling as a shooting star, coursed from her lips to her toes and burned away rational thought.
He lifted his head, his eyes wide and puzzled. “More,” she whispered. In the distance, she heard a thump, and then both his hands cupped her face and she realized he’d dropped the bag he’d held.
Gulping a breath, she snuggled her cheek into one erotically rough palm.
His mouth advanced again. Good, good. She rose on her tiptoes and let him tilt her head for a better fit. His lips met hers, hard.
A burst of stars. She saw flashes of light behind her eyelids, felt flashes of heat exploding at her pulse points. Trick’s lips moved, and she softened her mouth, wanting to absorb every sensation.
His tongue licked her lower lip.
Another flare of heat. Good God. Her heart bucked, trying to leap the inches of air between them. Emma leaned into Trick, flinging an arm around his neck to draw him nearer. His tongue licked again, and s
he opened her mouth.
“Ahem.”
The familiar sound of a familiar throat being cleared extinguished Emma’s burning emotions and snapped her to the present. She hastily drew back, opened her eyes and turned around.
“Michael. Pauline.” Emma heard the surprise in her own voice. She’d seen the couple approaching, but the kiss had pushed them from her mind.
She darted a quick look at Trick. His expression impassive, he watched her face as he ran a thumb across his lips.
Her ex-fiancé, Michael, and his fiancee wore faint smiles. No telling what they were thinking. Had she and Trick pulled it off? “What are you doing in San Diego?” Emma asked. The other two lived at least forty miles away.
Michael put his arm around Pauline. “The bride-tobe has a special order at the bridal boutique on the lower level. So we drove down to pick it up and have a romantic dinner at the beach.” Michael smiled at Emma, then studied Trick.
Emma looked at him, too. He hadn’t budged since the kiss. She blinked. He’d sort of hulked up, too, so he now resembled a frozen caveman.
“Oh! Excuse me. Let me introduce you,” Emma said. She raised her eyebrows at Trick, but he just stood there, still stony faced. “Michael Holliday and Pauline Northrup, this is Trick…” Good Lord. I don’t know his last name.
“Webster.” Her Neanderthal came to life and stuck out his palm.
Michael’s lean fingers disappeared into Trick’s hand, no, make that paw. “Nice to meet you,” Michael said.
Trick grunted. He offered his hand to Pauline, too, and grunted another monosyllable.
Emma tittered in nervousness. She’d never made such a sound before, but that was the only term for the noise erupting from her lips. She stepped close to Trick and put her hand on his rigid forearm. She squeezed lightly, hoping to wake up his IQ and remind him of their need to appear devoted to one another.
“How’s your vacation?” Michael asked her.
“Wonderful. I—we’re having a great time.” She slid her gaze to Trick, who appeared not to be interested in the proceedings, or possibly even breathing.
The Wedding Date Page 5