Beneath the Surface (5 page)

“I bet you could.”
What did they give merit badges out for
? She was certain he’d excelled in totally different areas of achievement and socialization than had the rest of his troop. And despite his aversion to suits and ties, she could imagine him in the little green shorts uniform, politely helping an old lady across the street and shamelessly flirting with her all the way.

Tabitha bet he had nice legs too, to go with the rest of that hard body she’d been secretly ogling since he’d arrived.

“What about you?”

“Me?” She raised a brow.

“I can see you in a little Brownie’s uniform selling cookies door to door.”

The double entendre didn’t escape her—she knew he’d meant it not to—his smile slow and seductive as he sat back in his seat waiting for her response.

“I was entirely too busy with more important activities to indulge in that particular whimsy.” Too busy surviving, she thought.

Tabitha had never had to sell cookies door to door, but she’d had to barter, borrow and steal for a meal more times than she liked to count.

She especially remembered a period when her mother had neglected to come home for several days after Tabitha’s father had left them. Everyday for a week she had come home to an empty house, and an even emptier refrigerator before going out to the neighbors to play “Whimpy from Popeye” with promises that her mother would gladly pay them Tuesday for a meal today.

No, hawking hundreds of boxes of overpriced cookies for top-selling honors and a cheesy overrated prize had not been high on her list of eight-year-old priorities.

21

Gracie C. McKeever

“So, back to least favorite colors and materials?”

“I’m not too fond of orange and pink, unless they’re on a woman. As for materials, I like anything that’s washable.”

She wanted to ask him if that jacket he was wearing was washable since it looked like it had been through the ringer. Distressed leather had been a trend back in the 90’s, which looked to be about when he had bought the jacket. Of course, leather and blazers were pretty timeless…

“Before you ask, yes, it is.”

“I’m sorry? Yes, what is?”

“The jacket’s washable.”

Her jaw dropped but she quickly coughed into a fist to cover her shock. “What are you, a mind reader?” she asked and watched as he fidgeted in his seat, for the first time since he’d come into her office looking uneasy, as if she had hit a nerve.

“I read facial expressions and body language, remember?”

Tabitha recalled a couple of articles and his observations about what certain expressions meant, wondered if she had used the one that had given her away in the seconds between his washable comment to his confirming that his jacket was.

She took out her BlackBerry and pulled up her schedule. “How about we set up an appointment for me to visit your closet?” The quicker she got this man out of her office the better. He was entirely too unsettling, especially that way he had of seeming as if he were crawling around in her head, siphoning her thoughts.

Not to mention her totally out of character physical reaction to him—like she’d been sleepwalking through a non-existent sex life and her hormones had only jolted to wakefulness when he walked in the door twenty minutes ago.

“You’re done with me?” he asked.

Not nearly.
“For now.”

22

Beneath the Surface

She’d shot his concentration to hell and thrown him into instant writer’s block. EJ

knew it was infantile to take such a defeatist stand. Normally he didn’t put any credence into or own writer’s block. He personally thought the syndrome an all-purpose excuse for unproductiveness, laziness or procrastination—the first and second of which he almost never laid claim, the third…well, he was still working on that—laying the blame squarely where it belonged: with himself. Except it was so much more attractive and easier to lay the responsibility for his block on one uptight fashion and style consultant than to face the fact that he hadn’t been able to put an intelligible string of words together on his computer screen since he’d left her office two days ago.

The thought of her haunted him—almond eyes, oval face, high cheeks, slightly upturned nose and full cupid’s bow lips—all went a long way to putting the rock-hard in his cock. Shit.

He didn’t think he had ever seen a woman who made tweed look sexy. Ms. Lyons did it effortlessly, teasing him with her classy lines, strutting around that beige and cream office in her brown pantsuit and lightweight chocolate turtleneck beneath, making him wonder exactly what was under all that elegant durable material.

Okay, so she was attractive, exceptionally so, her exotic features, especially those limpid, whiskey eyes hinting at a drop of Asian blood, as intoxicating as the color of her eyes. The sculpted cheekbones reminded him of a proud Native American heritage, accenting her strong ethnically mixed face. Everything about her was earthy and solid, and made him think of foreign tropical islands, warm summer breezes and hot sand against copper tone skin.

Jesus, either he needed a vacation, or he needed to get laid, probably and preferably both. If Tabitha were amenable, he could kill two birds with one stone.

EJ smiled, sliding into the fantasy of propositioning the prim and proper Ms.

Lyons before he abruptly pushed back from his computer, almost tipping over the swivel chair he rose to his feet with such force.

23

Gracie C. McKeever

He staggered back from the chair, raking a hand through his hair, closing his eyes, and taking a deep breath to try and exorcise her pixie’s face from his mind. No go, still there, worse than ever. Or better, depending on his frame of mind, and his frame of mind obviously wanted to be on her. Damn it.

Maybe working up a sweat would take his mind off of her, steer it back to his work-in-progress. It couldn’t make things any worse. As it stood, he’d written exactly three words—two of them several times over—filling the blank screen like an infatuated school girl trying out the last name of a crush with her first name to see if they were a good match.

Tabitha Lyons, Tabitha Lyons, Tabitha Lyons. Tabitha Vega. Tabitha Lyons-Vega.

EJ hit the deck and gave himself fifty, a quick set of push-ups that would have made a rampaging drill sergeant smile, but barely put a dent in taking the edge off of his tension.

Hell, he was going to have to go full out, totally obliterate the woman from his mind with an adrenaline rush. There was no other way. It wasn’t like he didn’t need it, the sedentary life was starting to catch up with him more than he wanted to admit. Things had been bad enough when he was in advertising, the biggest source of an aerobic workout coming from hop-scotching across the country for yet another campaign pitch or meeting. Half the time his credit card got more of a workout than he did, and he had enough frequent flyer miles on it to go to Mars and back.

EJ wondered what she was doing right now, mentally kicking himself for letting his mind drift back to the little lioness. Hell, he hadn’t been in her company more than a half-an-hour and the memory of her burned through his gut like spicy Italian cuisine.

He had shaken her hand and been lost ever since, an electric shock jolting through his body, brutal like a lightning bolt. He’d felt the small hairs rising on his arms, never had as visceral a reaction to anyone, male or female, and didn’t think it was just because she was a hot looking woman. There was more to her than that, more to his attraction.

EJ saw past the stuck-up attitude, past the perfect clothes, every long chestnut hair in place, unnecessary make-up skillfully applied and an erect carriage making her seem at least five inches taller than what he knew she was, everything so on point he thought her farts would probably smell like potpourri.

He realized almost immediately that it was all effected to cover her underlying sadness. She’d been hurt, badly, and was trying to hide beneath a veneer of cool professionalism.

She couldn’t hide from him though. Not for long.

EJ finished a round of sit-ups—ten quick sets of ten—bounced to his feet heading for his stationary bike at the far end of the living room when someone knocked on his door.

He grabbed the towel from the handlebar of his bike and draped it around his neck as he headed for the door, determined to get rid of whoever it was and get back to his work-in-progress.

24

Beneath the Surface

* * * *

Anything except the sight of Eric shirtless and in a pair of navy sweat pants that did little to detract from his overall sleek look.

She inhaled and his scent wafted to her. God, even his sweat smelled good!

He stood holding the door, his eyes slowly widening at the sight of her on the threshold. “Oh, shit! We had an appointment.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “Yes, we did.” She waited, staring at him, did not even want to begin to wonder what or who was the source of his perspiration and breathless state.

“You forgot.”

“No, I didn’t forget. Not totally. I mean I remembered this morning when I got up that we had an appointment. I just lost track of time in the interim and—”

“Please spare me.” She put up a hand, motioned to pass him and enter the apartment.

He opened the door wider and stepped aside.

She stopped several feet inside, admiring the unexpected order and cleanliness.

His taste in clothes may have been suspect, but his decorating style was flawless.

Or maybe he’d hired a professional like her to secure the smooth eclectic look of his loft.

She had a particular weakness for polished wood floors, loved the purity of uncovered parquet, but appreciated Eric’s only concession, a Persian area rug in the region right in front of the door where she was standing, pumps sinking into the luxurious turquoise material.

Tabitha noticed his workstation right away—the black flat screen monitor on the desk, the black lacquer entertainment center on the opposite wall housing a small CD

player, a twenty-seven inch flat-screen TV—and liked his state-of-the-art taste in electronics. The rest of the shelf space around the house was filled with hordes of framed family pictures that she liked as well, thought the personal touches gave nice insight to the man; more insight even than his over-protective older sister Evelyn gave with tales of growing up a tomboy in a house with three older fashion-plate sisters, two bratty younger brothers and one bathroom.

She smiled at the thought now as she admired Eric’s living room and thought his furnishings indicated that there was hope; he wasn’t totally clueless about what was going on in the outside world where style was concerned. But then he was a man, drawn to anything with gears, electricity and an engine. Now fashion…

Tabitha started when she felt his hands on her shoulders, glanced at him over one and saw that devastating take-no-prisoners smile. Her vaginal muscles tightened in response to his closeness and heat.

“Let me take your coat,” he told her as she let him slide the trench off of her.

25

Gracie C. McKeever

Watching him saunter to the coat rack to hang it up Tabitha noted he had the most delicious male butt, round and tight in every place it should be, making her imagine what each steely cheek would feel like cupped in her hands as he pumped into her.

Tabitha shook her head as if she could shake off her sudden desire. She didn’t need this sort of trouble in her life, didn’t want it. She was still stinging from the last time she’d let her hormones get the better of her and mixed business with pleasure and thought she could play the no-strings-attached game with the big boys.

She regretted the way she’d treated Michael while in her new and not necessarily improved, selfish mindset, hadn’t enjoyed playing against her nature for the short time she was with him. She’d decided if she couldn’t win the game of love and romance her way, then she’d rather not play it at all, unprepared to compromise her principles of commitment just for the sake of scoring a hard dick and available male body.

How she’d handled Michael after this epiphany had been the biggest mistake she’d made in her twenty-eight-year-old life, and she didn’t intend to make it again.

Tabitha clutched her leather satchel close to her middle as she drifted towards the entertainment center, drawn by all the similar faces smiling out at her from the shelves, bodies poised in varying degrees of relaxation and formality.

She saw Evelyn’s familiar face peeking at her from one group shot that also showed Eric surrounded by several kids as well as his own brother and sisters.

She smiled at their expressions—Eric’s playfully harried, and Evelyn’s supremely sisterly and aunt-like.

Everyone looked happy. More than happy. They looked serene, at peace with themselves and each other and comfortable in the knowledge that they would always have each other.

“Evie must have mentioned the lot of us to you.”

Tabitha started again, then nodded as she turned to see him behind her, patting his face and chest dry with a towel before he flung it to land on the bike handle several feet away.

He had the most disconcerting habit of sneaking up on her and it was starting to catch up with her more than she wanted to admit.

At least he could have exercised the common decency it would have taken him to put on a shirt and cover up those hard, glistening, bronzed pecs and abs, for Christ’s sake.

What ever happened to the sedentary lifestyle writers purportedly led? From the look of Eric, evidently, it was an urban myth.

Tabitha didn’t feel she had the right to mention his state of undress, especially in his own house, despite her momentary discomfort, despite the fact that they had an appointment and he hadn’t seemed to remember until she’d shown up at his door a couple of minutes ago.

“Are you like Freud and have several of the same pantsuit in your closet at home?”