A second later, Jack stepped out of his truck and walked toward her. "It's about time. I was starting to worry about you."
"What are you doing here?" She tried to sound as nonchalant as possible considering her heart raced ninety to nothing.
When he reached her Civic he stopped and leaned against the back fender. "Rescuing you."
"Thanks, but I don't need rescuing," she managed in a most cordial tone considering her circumstances. "If you'll excuse me, Jack, it's getting late. I need to go home."
"And just how are you going to do that?"
He smirked at her, actually smirked. God, she hated jocks!
"By getting in my car and driving off," she countered a little more snidely than she’d intended.
Okay, she'd let her temper get the best of her. It wasn't his fault she'd had a night from hell. It also wasn't his fault he was a chest-beating, testosterone-oozing Neanderthal who got paid to play childish games. It was probably a genetic defect. Still, she didn't have to put up with it.
"In this car?" he tapped his finger against the fender next to her wheel well. "I wouldn't suggest it."
His gesture drew her attention down the side of her car. That's when she saw it. A flat tire!
She closed her eyes and counted to ten, then counted to twenty when ten didn't help. Finally, she opened her eyes. Jack was still standing there—smirking.
Surely, he hadn't punctured her tire just so he could come riding to her rescue. Jack Dugan was a jock, which translated into asshole, but she didn't think he'd stoop to vandalism.
Resigned to asking him a favor, she conceded their skirmish. Barely able to suppress the sarcastic inflection burning to attach itself to her reply, she yielded, "Okay, Sir Jack, rescue me."
"Yes, my lady." Jack bowed playfully and waved toward his truck. "My chariot awaits."
"Why?" Panic fluttered down her spine. "Can't you just change the tire? I have a spare in my trunk."
Jack cocked a questioning brow at her. "Two of them?"
"Two?"
Jack pointed to her front tire. Flat as a flitter!
Two flats? The Fates must really hate me!
Damn, damn, double damn! Why? Why tonight of all nights did fate have to pick on her?
She'd spent twenty minutes calling friends and family for help earlier, but no one answered. How could everyone she knew be unavailable?
Everyone but Jack Dugan. Why, of all people, did it have to be Jack the Jock?
She had already figured out she was going to need help with more than a ride home. She just wasn't looking forward to asking Jack Dugan if he would mind helping her out of her clothes.
*
Tessa only spoke a handful of words during the ten-minute drive from the school to her house—and that had been after he'd pulled into her driveway. Those words? A very determined, very straight forward, "I need you—inside—now."
Message received, loud and clear! He'd pounced on the invitation like a defensive lineman on a loose football—at a dead run.
Evidently, she'd been paying closer attention to his flirtations than she'd let on.
Now she stood in the middle of her living room, clutching the lapels of a black silk cape that looked like something out of Bela Lugosi's closet. Her knuckles strained white under the pressure of her grip.
He wasn't sure if she was about to burst from her eagerness or break out in tears. But she definitely looked like she was about to come apart at the seams.
It was a little unnerving and admittedly could have dampened the mood, if she hadn't been the one to instigate things earlier in the driveway. Still, she looked nervous.
He crossed the space between them. As he reached out to cup her cheek in his palm, she took a large step backward.
Slowly lowering his hand, he studied her expression. Maybe he’d been more hopeful than realistic.
Okay, this wasn't going to be the slam-dunk she'd first implied with her invitation that bordered on a demand. No biggie, he could slow play with the best of them. "Relax, sweetheart, you lead. I'll follow."
Tessa stared at him for a long moment then nodded. "You have to promise you will never tell anyone what happens here tonight."
Then again, maybe they were on the same playing field!
Jack nodded solemnly—well, as solemnly as he could considering his fortunate turn of events. God, he hoped he wasn't leering.
"Say you swear it," Tessa insisted. "Say you swear it on something you hold sacred!"
He allowed a small chuckle to escape his lips as he held up his hand as though being sworn in by a court. "I will never tell anyone what happens here tonight. I swear it on my play book."
He had hoped to lighten the mood with his "play book" joke only Tessa didn't laugh. After pondering his offer for a moment, she nodded her acceptance, then squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and dropped her cape.
Jack Dugan forgot to breathe. Hell, he forgot how to breathe! His heart slammed against his chest wall with enough force to break ribs. Blood rushed from his head to his dick, damned near knocking him off his feet.
One minute he’d been hoping for some up-close and personal time with the mild-mannered Ms. Somerset and the next minute he’s sharing personal space with a porn queen with a ballerina fetish.
Touchdown! The crowd roars! Rhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
He had to shove his fingers into his front pockets to keep from reaching up, grabbing a fistful of air and then yanking it to his side in a celebratory gesture.
Oh yeah, the ole John Henry was doing the happy dance!
Tessa propped her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Well?”
Trying to be casual yet appreciative and at the same time not jump her tutu right there in her living room, he grinned back at her and teased, “Tell me I don’t have to wear tights to play in your fantasy.”
Tessa’s glare hardened as she opened her mouth to speak. But before words could form, he interrupted her.
“Okay, okay,” Jack relented. “I didn’t say it was a deal-breaker. It’s just hard to image being at the top of my game wearing tights.”
Tessa rolled her gaze heavenward, then pinned him with a look Jack had trouble matching with the circumstances. “Could you wipe that smirk off your face and get me out of this getup?”
“My pleasure.” He stepped closer then skimmed his fingertip across her collarbone. Her skin was soft and warm and—gone.
Tessa jerked away from his touch as though he’d stuck a branding iron to her. “What are you doing?”
“It’s called foreplay, honey. I don’t have to have a lot of it, but I figure even in the two-minute offense you’re running you expect a couple of kisses and a caress here and there.”
“Foreplay? You think I’m offering you sex?” Tessa broke into laughter.
She laughed so hard her eyes watered. Apparently, the intensity of her amusement triggered a catch in her side. Leaning forward slightly, she pressed her hand just below her rib cage.
Okay, now she’d done it. The ole John Henry had gone from standing at attention ready to charge to retreating for safer cover.
A woman laughing in a man’s face kind of had that effect on the male ego—especially when he’s rounding third heading for home and she calls the game due to lack of interest.
Jack shoved his fingers through his hair and willed his body to cool down. Somewhere along the way he’d definitely misread her signals.
After a moment, he gathered his wits enough to ask the obvious question. “What exactly is it you want from me?”
Her laughter died under the heat of his tone. She straightened her stance, squared her shoulders then leveled a no-nonsense glare at him. “I’m stuck.”
Jack went from mentally licking his wounded ego to confused to entertained in less than five seconds. He always was a fast healer.
How could she be so serious, so prim and proper, wearing that fuck-the-nutcracker getup? “You’re what?”
“I’m stuck.” She pu
lled at the red velvet clinging to her body as though that explained everything. “The hooks won’t come loose.”
His humor now firmly back in place, Jack decided to play dumb. “And you want me to…?”
“Get me out!”
“You mean as in, see you naked?”
She crossed her arms under her bulging breasts—saying the lady’s cup runneth over was the granddaddy of understatements—then spoke between clenched teeth, “I mean, as in unhooking me while being a gentlemen and discreetly looking elsewhere. You think you could swing that?”
“Huh uh uh,” he chided, waving a finger back and forth in front of her face. “When you’re asking someone for help, you should be nice. Maybe even say pretty please.”
Tessa fisted her hands at her sides and stomped one spiked-heeled foot. “Oh, for crying out loud! Will you quit playing around and help me?”
Jack made a show of checking his watch. “Wow! Would you look at the time? I better be on my way.”
He turned as though heading toward her front door just as she grabbed him by the sleeve. Not that the Dallas Cowboys' offensive line had a chance of dragging him out of there—but she didn’t know that.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Would you please help me?”
Jack couldn’t help himself. He cocked an eyebrow at her expectantly. His conscience screamed at his warped sense of humor. He ignored it.
This verbal combat wasn’t the game he’d envisioned they’d be playing when they first arrived, but it wasn’t so bad for a distant second. She was kind of cute in her current state of mind, all prickly and confrontational. Like a cuddly kitten with claws—big sharp claws.
Tessa groaned then pasted the syrupiest, fakest smile he’d ever seen onto her luscious lips. For a second he thought she might even bat her eyelashes at him. “Pretty please.”
“That’s better.” Jack nodded, then tapped his finger to his cheek and winked. “Now, give me a kiss and tell me you’re sorry.”
Tessa jerked back as though she’d been slapped, then doubled her fist and walloped him on his upper arm. “Kiss this!”
“Hey!” Jack howled. “I was just fooling around.”
“Find your jollies somewhere else, bucko. I’m not in the ‘fooling around’ mood,” she groused as she stomped over to an antique-looking roll-top desk in the corner of her living room.
“Yeah, that’s pretty obvious,” he wisecracked as he rubbed at the sting still lingering from her countermeasure to his very bad joke.
He watched her rummage through the top drawer of the desk, muttering to herself.
“Ah ha!” she exclaimed as she turned around and waved a pair of lethal looking scissors in front of her.
“Shit, Tessa, can’t you take a joke?” Jack fought the urge to throw his hands up in front of him even though she was a good ten feet across the room from him.
She looked at him blankly. “What?”
“What are you going to do with those scissors?”
“Cut myself out of this thing. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.” She flipped a curl of blond hair that kept teasing at the top swell of her breast back behind her ear then surveyed the red velvet clinging to her body. Without looking up she said, “You can go home now. I’ve got the situation under control.”
“Like hell, you’re more likely to cut a boob off than that thing you’re wearing.” Jack crossed the few feet between them. He took the scissors away from her then turned her until the row of hooks running down her left side faced him. “There’s no use destroying a perfectly good play prop—"
Tessa whipped her head around to face him and growled, “Watch it, buster.”
Jack chuckled and tugged on the first hook. “Like I was saying, no use destroying a perfectly good Halloween costume, when a helping hand…crap, it’s stuck.”
Tessa groaned, obviously her irritation with both him and the situation getting the better of her. “Well, there’s a news flash.”
“Suck in a little, maybe it just needs some wiggle room,” Jack said between clenched teeth, still wrestling with the stubborn hook.
She sucked in her breath.
It didn’t work.
“Again, but suck in more this time,” Jack coaxed.
She sucked in her breath, again.
It didn’t work, again.
Jack got down on his knees, slid his fingers between her and the red velvet on both sides of the top hook then told her to do it again.
“If I breathe in any deeper, my boobs will pop out the top of this thing.”
Jack stopped struggling with the hook and glanced up at her from his squatted position. “Really?”
“Oh, grow up.” Tessa growled as she sucked in one big, long breath.
“Hey, a man can dream, can’t he?” Jack answered in between grunts as he pulled the two sides of material together.
Nothing budged, not even a boob.
Finally, he gave up, removed his fingers from between Tessa’s warm skin and the silky-smooth velvet then rose to his feet. “That’s not going to work.”
Releasing her breath, Tessa reached for the scissors Jack had put on the coffee table beside them.
“Whoa!” Jack chided as he snatched the scissors up before Tessa could grab them. “I was serious about you cutting yourself.”
“Right now I don’t care. I just want this blasted thing off!”
Jack looked at her—looked past the do-me getup and really looked at her. She was desperate, on the verge of panic. If truth be told, he was getting a little unnerved himself.
Playtime was over. It was time to get serious.
Give the lady a helping hand out of her tutu, then go home and give yourself a helping hand.
“Okay, no more playing around. Turn around and I’ll cut you out.”
“Thanks.” Tessa nodded then spun around so that her back faced him. She seemed calmer—and that was a good thing.
Jack brushed his hand against her hair. It coiled around his fingers in soft, golden curls. For a brief heartbeat, he lost himself in the silky texture of hair cascading down her back. The scent of vanilla and sunshine wafted around him.
“Jack?” Tessa’s questioning tone pulled him out of his fanciful thoughts.
“You’re going to have to hold your hair up so I don’t cut it in the process.” Jack’s voice sounded husky and wanting even to his own ears.
“Okay,” she whispered. “But could you hurry. I really want out of this thing.”
She’d gotten quiet and pensive—softer, like she’d lowered her guard and was willing to let him inside. Ah, hell, he could be in deep doo-doo here.
“Yeah, sure thing. Just hold still a minute.”
Again, Jack slid his fingers in between Tessa and the red material imprisoning her, only this time a heated current of awareness shot through his fingers, up his arm, all the way through his body and then detonated in his groin. He bit back a groan and tried to recover.
What the hell was that?
He’d been sexually aware of Tessa from the moment he saw her in the parking lot—hell, make that from the moment he laid eyes on her six months ago—but never like this. Before had been playful. This was primal.
Oh yeah, he was in deep doo-doo!
“Having any luck?” Tessa asked over her shoulder, her words pulling him out of his testosterone-soaked pondering.
Not in the way I'd hoped. Which was probably a good thing.
"Be still," he cautioned as he eased the long blade in between his fingers and the material.
Once the scissors were in place he squeezed the handles. Nothing happened. The two metal blades clamped down on the bodice then went no further. Maybe the scissors were in some kind of a bind. He reopened them and tried again. Again, progress stopped once the blades came into contact with the red velvet. Surely, the scissors weren't that dull.
He repositioned the scissors and tried one more time. Again, nothing happened.
It was like trying to cut steel.
"Have you got another pair of scissors? These wouldn't cut hot butter," he griped, then nicked his finger as he extracted the blade out of Tessa's clothing. "Son of a—"
Tessa grabbed a tissue from a box on the end table and handed it him. "They look pretty sharp to me."
"Yeah, they felt pretty sharp, too." He glanced down at the razor sharp edges of the scissors' blades. A man could shave with them. So why couldn't they cut the ballerina suit?
He turned to lay them on the coffee table. That's when he saw it.
A black leather-bound book with the words Truelove Wears A Tutu embossed on it in bold red letters. The outline of a heart—that suspiciously mimicked the one on his collar—encased the fancy script title.
A quiver ran down his spine.
"What is that?" he asked, pointing at the book.
Tessa glanced in the direction he pointed. "I don't know. I've never seen it."
"What are you trying to pull?" He shot her a dubious look. "Did you swipe my clothes and replace them with these?"
She planted her fists on her sides just above the stiff ruffle of bright red netting and glared at him. "What are you talking about?"
So much for soft and pensive. She was riled—again. Not that he cared. Something was going on and he wanted to know what.
"You see this?" He pointed to the heart embroidered on his turtleneck.
Tessa shrugged. "A little frou-frou for a jock, but to each their own I guess."
Not sure if he'd just been complimented on his athletic abilities or accused of being "limp-wristed," he decided to let her comment slide. He picked up the book and thumped the matching heart on the cover. "It's the same as the book."
"So? Just because you want to coordinate your wardrobe to your reading materials, doesn't mean I have to stand up and applaud."
"A, this is your book and B, these are not my clothes." Why was this woman playing dumb? Whatever made him think Tessa was a straight-up-the-middle runner? He'd been blindsided by one of the wackiest flea-flickers ever.
"What are you talking about?"
Return to Cupid, Texas (3 Valentine Novellas) Page 8