An Offer He Can't Refuse

by Christie Ridgway

  “Contessa, you made your very own mold the night you danced in my arms.”

  That hot flush once more warmed her skin. Again, she wiggled against the leather seat.

  “Stop doing that,” he said softly, “or I’ll go insane.”

  Téa froze. What did that mean? Her eyes swiveled his way, but his gorgeous face might as well have been carved in stone. “I can see why you’re good at poker,” she murmured under her breath.

  They were on the freeway heading out of the Coachella Valley now, and he set the cruise control then looked over at her. “What did you say?”

  She cleared her throat. “I, uh, asked if you always wanted to be a—what did you call it?—money manager?”

  “I…well…” Johnny hesitated, one hand reaching up to rub his chin.

  All at once, there was a new thread of tension between them.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” she offered quickly. “It’s none of my business.”

  “No,” he said. “I want you to know about my work. Maybe you’ll think I should have told you about it before.”

  Téa frowned, alarmed and curious at the same time. “Really, Johnny. As long as your checks clear, that’s good enough for me.”

  “It’s nothing illegal.”

  She already felt a thousand times better. Not that she’d really believed he was involved in criminal activity, but hearing him say it was a relief. Given her family history, who would blame her?

  “I told you that my playing in poker tournaments is a hobby.”

  “I remember. I have a friend who holds a monthly girls’ poker night and she’s always inviting me. Maybe I should get you to give me some lessons first.”

  He smiled, this one creasing a sly dimple in the side of his cheek. “It would be a pleasure. It could be a pleasure.” His voice held that dark undercurrent that always sent her imagination soaring.

  She cleared her throat, trying to rein it in. “But you were saying…?”

  “Poker’s my hobby. Gambling’s my job.”

  “Huh?” She blinked, trying to understand. “I don’t get it.”

  He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “Let me go back for a minute. Have you ever heard of the group of MIT students who cleaned up in Vegas several years ago?”

  Not that she wanted to admit to it, but she’d caught a Dateline NBC rerun last summer when she was home on a Saturday night spending time with—what else?—her dressmaker’s dummy and her sewing machine. “Maybe…” she said, trying to sound uncertain. “Didn’t they have some sort of card-counting scheme?”

  “Yes. And if you use just your brains to win at the game, that’s not illegal either. But the casinos don’t like their clientele so smart. They finally sniffed them out and put their photos in the Griffin Book—an encyclopedia of sorts used by the biggest security firm in Vegas that the casinos hire to catch not only cheaters, but habitual winners. Whenever someone in the book shows up at one of the places they protect, the transgressor is politely, or not so politely, shown the door.”

  “So you were part of this group from MIT?”

  He shook his head, then shot her a little grin. “That group was caught. I was part of a different group from UC Berkeley. It’s how I made my seed money to invest in the syndicate I now run.”

  She supposed she admired his youthful talents, but she still didn’t understand about this syndicate. “Which means you do exactly what?”

  “I’m no different than any other kind of fund manager, meaning I direct the dollars of our group of highly capitalized investors. Rich men. But instead of investing the money in mutual funds or stocks and bonds and betting we’ll turn a profit from them, our group bets on the outcome of sporting events. Usually the three biggies, football, basketball, and baseball.”

  “There’s real money to be made doing that?” According to the Loanshark book, there was only debt and more debt. Many of the men—and women—her father had given money to had needed the high-interest loans to meet their gambling obligations and then to make more of them.

  “There’s big money to be made doing that, if you know how.”

  “And you do,” she said it slowly, trying to determine what she felt about the revelation.

  “I do, with the help of brainiacs like Cal who provide statistical analyses and a whole team of what we refer to as ‘legs’—the people who walk up to the casino windows and actually place the bets. Believe me, it’s very profitable. I’m on the IRS’s list of favorite sons. The business’s quarterly checks could fund a small country.”

  An unusual occupation, but not an illegal one. He regularly paid his taxes. Okay. “But why are you telling me this?”

  He sent her another of his unreadable glances. “I want you to know more about me before I suggest something else.”

  “Suggest what?” She had no clue.

  His long-fingered hand rubbed over his chin once, then moved back to its calm grip of the steering wheel. “Moving the business and my primary residence is more…stressful than I expected. I think I could use a distraction from my obligations and responsibilities. I’d like something in my life that’s just pure pleasure.” His eyes glinted as he aimed one of those sly-dimpled smiles her way. “And I think, Téa, that could be you. Interested?”

  Twenty-five

  “Mad About the Boy”

  Jackie Gleason

  Lonesome Echo (1955)

  Téa’s first reaction: surprise. Second reaction: excitement. Third reaction: anger at her own inexperience.

  All those years wasted on the grandsons and great-nephews left her unprepared for this kind of male-female negotiation. An offer for another early-bird dinner date was easy to field—and to refuse. A request to be a man’s “pure pleasure” was something else entirely.

  A request to be this man’s pure pleasure was mind-boggling.

  But he didn’t seem to think it was as outlandish as she did. God, how thrilling was that? Despite the three reasons that would make her say no—M, O, and B—it was still a flattering proposition.

  He ran his forefinger down the side of her hot cheek. “I didn’t shock you, did I?”

  “Of course not,” she scoffed. What an actress she was. “But you mentioned that uh, one dance, so I thought it was all you were interested in.”

  “I decided to put my money where my mouth is. I told you self-denial was a waste of time and so I stopped trying to deny myself from being with you again.”

  Oh God, how ultra-thrilling was that? But a man like Johnny wanted more than a puddle at his feet, she felt sure of it, so she held herself together and suppressed her sudden urge to burst into one of Eve and Joey’s silly high school cheers. So she couldn’t have him. That he wanted her was enough—wasn’t it?

  He must have taken her silence for hesitation. “I realize running your own business takes a lot of your concentration and energy. But how about spending some…social time with me?”

  That “social” sounded more like “sexual” and her face flushed hotter even as everything south of there had its own clench-and-release reaction. She was thankful he couldn’t notice, though, because they’d reached the grounds of the swap meet and he was following the hand signals of the parking attendant into a nearby space.

  It gave her much needed moments to cool down and think clearly. As he came around to help her out of the car, she opened the passenger door for herself. He looked down at her, his eyebrows raised. “Well?” he asked.

  Well, he was her teenage fantasy and the lover who’d blown away her “better without witnesses” rule about sex all rolled into one. She’d be a fool—no, she wouldn’t be a woman—to refuse him.

  Except she had those three good reasons. Though Johnny knew of her mob background, he didn’t fully understand the taint she carried from it. There wasn’t going to be any more pure pleasure between Johnny and Téa.

  “Well?” he asked again.

  She stepped out of the car. “I’m thinking about it,” she heard
herself say.

  Because her mouth rebelled against a flat-out refusal. And because it was exciting to have the upper hand with him for once. For once, to play it cool.

  Okay, it might be playing a game, but…

  She slid a look at him from under her lashes as they headed for the swap meet entrance. Could she think of this as a game between them? If she did, then she wouldn’t get too serious about it. Certainly the blond varsity god walking beside her wasn’t interested in anything more than an amusing diversion. That’s what he’d said he wanted.

  What if she could see it as a temporary, amusing diversion too?

  Though the temperature was cooler here than in Palm Springs, the sun’s rays reflected off the asphalt of the huge parking lot. The atmosphere only got hotter as Johnny managed to appropriate her hand. He was even able to guide her direction of walking once they were past the swap meet’s entrance gate.

  “Hey, look here,” he said, tugging her toward a set of tables filled with sunglasses. “Try these on.”

  He pushed a pair of oversized hot pink plastic frames onto her face. Humoring him, she peered at herself in the mirror. “I don’t think these are me, Johnny. I’m all dark lenses and a mouth.”

  “And what a mouth it is,” he murmured, handing over a five-dollar bill for the glasses even as he leaned in for a kiss. “I like you…in…hot…hot…pink,” he murmured against her lips.

  She supposed she should have protested, or at least found a pair of sunglasses as cheesy to purchase for him, but when he lifted his head and towed her onward, she was too dizzy to make such a decision. Besides, the sleek, expensive pair he wore suited him to perfection.

  Damn, she thought. This wasn’t going to work as even a temporary amusement. He was way, way out of her league.

  Though not that you could tell by some of his shopping selections. Before they’d made it past two of the dozens and dozens of rows, he’d bought a set of miniature wrenches, a leg-sized bag of kettle corn, and a package of athletic socks. He halted again as they came upon a booth of Jamaican products. His hand hovered over a crocheted Rasta cap in black, red, and yellow stripes as he sent her a speculative glance.

  “No, no, no, no.” She put her hands over her very expensive, very difficult-to-maintain straight hair. “That won’t look good with my new sunglasses.”

  He listened. And bought another in gradated shades of pink that he clapped onto her head without a by-your-leave.

  “I thought men didn’t like to shop,” she grumbled, checking out her bizarre, but slightly rakish reflection in another mirror.

  “Do you really mind so much?” he asked, putting his hands on her shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze. “I want to bring some color into your life, Contessa.”

  “How do you know that I’m not perfectly happy with my neutral tones?”

  “Because you’re not some anemic mouse, as much as you seem to be comfortable in the wardrobe of one.”

  She frowned at him. “I might take offense at that.”

  “Don’t.” He smiled. “I just think you look best in bright, warm colors.”

  “I’m a designer, Johnny, I’m aware of it.” She couldn’t let him think she didn’t know her business.

  His hands busied themselves adjusting her cap. “Then why the mouse-wear?”

  She shrugged, looking away from him. “Maybe because I gave up on competing with Eve a long time ago. It seemed easier to disappear into the woodwork.” It was part of the reason. Sort of.

  “You don’t seem the jealous type.”

  Because she hid her passions as well as she hid her secrets. She clutched her purse beneath her arm, realizing she hadn’t thought about the Loanshark book or the Mafia wolves since climbing into Johnny’s Jag. Imagine that. He already had diverted her. Grateful, she rose on tiptoe to give him a quick peck on the lower lip. “Thank you.”

  His arm curled around her waist and held her there. “For what?”

  She could feel the thrumming of his heart through both their shirts. Steady but fast, and it made her feel bold and almost beautiful. “For the sunglasses, the hat…”

  For this unfamiliar type of confidence taking root inside of her. Téa Caruso with Johnny Magee. She was a good daughter, sister, designer, but it was something new to feel she could be good with a man. This kind of man. She broke free. “For that tempting offer I think I really am considering.”

  He smiled. “Take your time, Contessa. Take your time.”

  But as if to belie his words, he started up a subtle yet insistent pressure. As they browsed the aisles, he stayed close beside her, always a hand on the back of her neck or on the small of her back, his mouth a whisper away from her ear. Her skin seemed to be lifting toward his touch, nerve endings quivering in anticipation of his next stroke or his next breath.

  And trying to play it cool only heightened her sexual tension.

  He bought her more things. A glittery tube of lip gloss. A goofy necklace with her name spelled out in fluorescent bead blocks. When he drew her hair to the side to latch it on, he also unfastened the top button of her chambray shirt to loosen the collar. The second button popped free of its own accord, but when she reached up to fasten it, he grabbed her hand.

  “Don’t,” he whispered against her fingers. His lips were warm and soft.

  Swallowing hard, she jerked her gaze away from his and glanced down at what the loosened buttons revealed. Nothing even R-rated. Only a hint of cleavage that rose and fell with each of her ragged breaths.

  She left it alone, but had to move quickly away before she forget her cool and begged him to touch her, taste her, have his way with her. She hadn’t decided yet that she could risk that again.

  But the wanting to didn’t get any better when they happened upon a vendor selling candles and bath products. He picked out half a dozen pillars in various heights, lining them up and looking them over with a critical eye. “What do you think?” he asked her.

  “What do I think about what?”

  “I want candles in my bedroom. How many? What color? Which sizes?”

  She stared at him, her imagination leaping up to paint the scene. The big bed, surrounded by flickering flames, illuminating their reflections in the mirror overhead. Her skin burned, her womb clenched.

  “Téa? You’re the designer. What do you think?”

  Blinking, she pulled out of the fantasy. Johnny was watching her, his own face expressionless. Clearing her throat, she wiped her damp palms on her jean skirt and then commanded her fingers to remain steady as she pointed out possibilities. As the saleswoman wrapped them in tissue paper, Johnny picked up a small sample vial of scented oil.

  He sniffed it, then pressed his fingertip on the top to collect a drop. His hand found hers.

  She tried pulling away, but he held fast and turned her arm to expose the paler underside. Her gaze couldn’t leave his hand as he stroked the oil on her inner wrist. The scent of bergamot and citrus bloomed between them. “What do you think about this?”

  She stared at the wet line he’d painted on her skin. I think I’m in trouble! How could she manage to hold her own against someone so much better at the art of seduction? She was supposed to be playing here, not losing her head. The ridiculous bead necklace was already halfway to stealing her heart.

  No. Of course it wasn’t.

  His fingertips tickled up her forearm to the bend in her elbow. “It says it’s called ‘Heat of Passion.’”

  Téa licked her lips and was glad of the oversized sunglasses shielding her eyes from him. “It smells…heady.”

  “So do you, Contessa.”

  She shook her head, knees weak. “You’re too good at this.”

  He froze, then his touch slipped away from her skin. Pivoting toward the saleswoman, he accepted the bag of candles and then set off down the aisle.

  Perplexed by his abruptness, Téa started after him. “Johnny? Johnny, wait.”

  He hesitated, then paused to let her catch up. “Sorry.
”

  She tried to determine what had gone awry, but he wore that damned detached expression so well there was no clue to be found on his face. “I didn’t mean to, but it was the wrong thing to say, wasn’t it?” The knowledge that something she said might actually affect him had its own special pull.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” He strode off again, then halted once more to confront her. “I want to have you, Téa, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Her fingers flew up to the bead necklace, already warm from her skin. She didn’t like that rough note in his voice. She didn’t like him mentioning her name and “hurt” in the same sentence. “I thought you said you wanted a distraction. That doesn’t sound serious enough to cause either of us any pain, Johnny.” It was the only reason she was remotely entertaining the possibility.

  “Yeah.” He spun back around. “Of course. Let’s find those albums you’re looking for.”

  Lauer’s Music, thanks to Murphy’s Law, was set up in the farthest corner of the swap meet. On other visits she’d browsed through the files of vintage albums just for fun, never with today’s particular intent. Johnny’s sudden dark mood didn’t make her job any easier. He stood off to the side, arms crossed over his chest, watching her flip through the albums.

  The stall was sheltered from the sun by a blue tarp that, combined with her new sunglasses, darkened her vision. She pushed off her hat and put it aside with the glasses as she continued her search for albums in the musical subgenre known as “exotica.”

  It referred to a type of music from the 1940s and ’50s that was a fusion of instrumental pop, Latin jazz, and unusual percussion. It was also known for its sophisticated, sexy album covers. They epitomized the slant she was taking with Johnny’s mid-century modern design. His wasn’t going to be a sterile, industrialized type of home, but one with clean lines and deep colors that said unique, urbane, and very sensual.

  Like Johnny himself.

  And she wanted him.

  Despite all the reasons she shouldn’t, Téa suddenly decided that this good girl wasn’t going to deny herself any longer either. Instead, she was going for it. Why shouldn’t she take of him what she could get? Johnny had given her enough confidence to accept his proposition to be each other’s amusement, diversion, pure pleasure. She only had to remember that’s all it was.