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Authors: Susan Fox

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BOOK: Body Heat
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“Uh-huh.”
“He asked me out. I don’t know what to do.”
Jeez. Why didn’t she talk to a girlfriend about this stuff? “You wanna go?”
“Yes, but . . .” She fiddled with the edge of her crop top, yanking it down over her brown skin.
“But?”
“How do I know . . .” She rubbed her left arm, where Gord Pollan had broken it a couple of years ago. That was when Con had had that restraining order against him. It had cost the asshole a trip to prison, but even that wasn’t enough to stop him.
“How do you know he’s not like Pollan? Or your stepdad?”
“Or Juanito’s father. Yeah. I know I’ve got this pattern. I pick that kind of guy. Even if they seem nice at first. Like, Gord seemed really sweet when we first got together.”
Jesse sighed. “Didn’t the social worker help you with this stuff?”
“Yeah, but I’m still not sure . . .”
“You want me to check him out?”
She came over to hug him. “Hon, you’re the best. He asked me out for coffee Monday night. Maybe if I met you after your basketball game . . .”
“Okay. But what about Juanito?”
“Ms. Barzhi next door says he can come over any time. She’s lonely ’cause her husband’s away on some training course.”
“You maybe wanna think about bringing Juanito along. Let this guy know up front you’ve got a kid. Not to mention a . . . whatever.”
“A protector. That’s what you are, Jesse. You’re my protector. If you hadn’t beaten the shit out of Gord, I’d have never been free of him.”
“Yeah, well. Listen, I gotta go.”
“Hot date?”
“Nah, just tired.” A hot date. Hah. And now he was wondering what Maura Mahoney’s idea of a hot date was. Champagne and caviar at some ritzy restaurant? Ballroom dancing? He imagined her in some slinky dress, her shoulders bare, a full skirt swishing around those long legs. Her back straight and regal, her partner holding her gently, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Not his idea of dancing. No, what worked for him was . . .
He thought about Patrick Swayze and those girls in that old movie
Dirty Dancing,
where the summer staff got all raunchy together...
He imagined Maura, dressed all sexy like the girls in that movie . . .
Getting down and dirty on the dance floor . . .
Except her partner wasn’t Swayze, it was Jesse.
It was Jesse who had his thigh between her legs, Jesse she was grinding her pelvis against. And she had her hair down. She tossed her head and those red-gold tresses swirled like wildfire.
His hands gripped her waist and she leaned back, laughing, to run both hands through her hair and toss it. Her head swung from side to side as her pelvis made circles against his. Her whole body moved sensually in time to the music. The music was . . .
The theme song from some stupid TV show. Crap.
Consuela had flicked the tube back on. Thank God, or he’d have lost control of his body again.
She glanced at him, her expression kind of beaten down. “Is there even any point dating? I mean, at some point I gotta tell the guy, don’t I, Jesse? Tell him I can’t have any more kids?” Pollan had done that to her, too, when he got out of prison. “What man’s gonna want me?”
Jesse felt guilty as hell for having relied on the law rather than stopping Pollan himself, years earlier than he had. “Jeez, Con, you can’t think that way. You and Juanito are great. Any guy’d be damn lucky.” He went over and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Night. See you Monday.”
“Night. And thanks, Jesse. You’re the best.”
Not hardly. It was his fault Con couldn’t have kids.
As Jesse rode home, he thought about stopping for a drink at Low Down. Hang out with the guys, shoot some pool. But then he’d probably settle in for a few more drinks, maybe screw up tomorrow. His lawyer had told him to be careful, and he guessed he ought to listen. If it hadn’t been for Barry Adamson, his butt would be cooling in a prison cell right now rather than hugging the leather seat of his Harley.
Riding the bike was great, but there was one thing that would make it even better. A warm, sexy female on behind him. He could just imagine . . .
Arms tight around his waist . . .
Chapter 6
M
aura’s arms, squeezing him. Her face snuggled into his shoulder. She wasn’t wearing a helmet.
Her breasts pressed into his back and she nipped his neck. He didn’t have a helmet, either, he realized. His hair blew back in the wind and hers did, too. Even though he was riding the bike, somehow he could see the two of them from the outside, with that flag of fiery hair streaming out behind them like a flame.
Her hands were clasped across his belt. He took one of them and moved it down, spreading it across the front of his fly where he was already hard for her.
She accepted the invitation, pressing tight, sliding her hand up and down. A horn honked and—
“Hey buddy, get a move on before it goes red again!” someone hollered.
He gaped at the light, then gunned it and roared away. Why the fuck couldn’t he fantasize about Gracie, not Maura? Tomorrow, maybe he’d see if Gracie felt like seeing a movie. See if she could drive Maura out of his mind.
Back at his apartment, he peeled off his jacket, hung it up, and sank down in his comfy old recliner. He flicked through the movie channels, looking for distraction. Though everything else in his apartment was what Con called “bachelor minimal,” his television was a fifty-incher, and state of the art.
He paused, recognizing a scene from
Crazy, Stupid, Love,
the movie that said lucky people have soul mates. Emma Stone looked a little like Maura, with her beautiful face, greenish eyes, and red hair. Except Maura’s eyes were more striking and her hair more of a reddish-gold, and silkier . . .
Shit. He flipped channels again and the strains of
Moon River
filled the room. He groaned. Audrey Hepburn. Hell, it seemed that tonight everything was going to remind him of Maura Mahoney.
Crazy, Stupid, Love
or
Moon River
? If any of his guy friends caught him watching this shit, he’d never live it down, but the truth was, he liked a good chick flick just as much as action adventure.
Holly Golightly stood on the deserted street outside Tiffany’s in her cocktail dress and high-piled hair, drinking her breakfast coffee and munching a croissant, gazing in the window. He had to grin. This movie got to him.
Maybe because they were all losers. The girl who took money from men, the gigolo who lived off an older woman, even the no-name cat. Losers like him, yet together they found, or created, something that mattered. If there was hope for the three of them . . .
He grabbed a beer from the fridge, then sprawled on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table.
 
Back at her apartment, Maura plunked her autographed copy of
The Search for the Real Nefertiti
on the coffee table. For once her parents had come up with a gift that looked semiinteresting, but tonight she needed—she deserved—lighter fare.
And she knew just what she wanted. In fact, she’d timed her departure from the restaurant around the TV schedule that she’d studied last night. Her birthday had begun happily, and it would end happily, and she’d let the magic of a favorite movie obliterate everything in between.
In the kitchen, she mixed cocoa powder, sugar, and milk in a pan, leaving it on low heat. Then she washed her face, peeled off her work clothes, and slipped into soft cotton pajamas. A couple of giant marshmallows on top of her hot chocolate, and she was ready.
She swung open the doors to the antique wardrobe, revealing the television hidden within. Seconds later, propped up on pillows in bed, she sighed with pleasure at the sight of Holly Golightly outside Tiffany’s.
Two hours later, Maura watched through tear-flooded eyes as Holly claimed her no-name cat, then turned to Paul, her eyes telling him that she knew they belonged to each other. The three embraced in the pouring rain, and that New York alley became heaven on earth.
Maura blew her nose prodigiously, then gave a satisfied sigh, clicked off the television, and closed the doors of the wardrobe. Her guilty secret—indulged, then hidden away again.
She brushed her teeth and climbed into bed. What a sweet guy George Peppard’s Paul had been. Flawed in the beginning, but he’d become Holly’s true friend. He understood Holly’s frailties, yet loved her all the same. How could she have helped but fall in love with him, and trust him with her battered heart?
Snuggling down in the covers, Maura yawned. Once, she’d hoped to find a man like that herself. Increasingly, she’d come to believe they only existed in the movies. But oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful? Smiling dreamily, she hugged the spare pillow against her . . .
And relived that final scene . . .
It was raining . . . Cold, nasty rain . . .
But Maura didn’t mind a bit because warm arms encircled her. Her and her cat. She hugged the cat and Jesse hugged her. They were a family now, no longer drifting—or, if they were, they’d do it together. Chasing the same rainbow’s end . . .
She sighed contentedly as Jesse’s strength sheltered her and his body heat counteracted the cold.
“Maura?” Jesse said, his voice husky.
She glanced up. Somehow, magically, it had stopped raining.
And they were no longer in an alley full of garbage cans. They were in a park, with lush grass underfoot and cherry trees flowering overhead.
“It’s so beautiful,” she murmured.
“You’re so beautiful.”
He released her and for a moment she felt bereft, but all he was doing was taking off his leather jacket, tossing it on the grass. The cat meowed and Maura leaned down to free it. It twined itself around their ankles, as if it were weaving a spell to keep them together.
Maura gazed at Jesse. “We belong together,” she said. “The three of us.”
He leaned toward her, those tawny eyes warm with affection and desire. His mouth captured hers and she moaned with pleasure. His lips were soft on hers, gentle, almost teasing. Then his kiss became more intense, and inside her she felt a quickening, a thrill of desire.
A sudden breeze rustled the cherry tree above them, and a cascade of blossoms drifted down. “Oh, look, Jesse, it’s pink snow.”
She captured a blossom that had landed on his shoulder and held it to her nose. What a sweet, perfect scent.
He reached behind her head and began to take out the pins that fastened her hair into its elaborate Holly Golightly style. His fingers were deft; he didn’t even look to see what he was doing. Instead he watched her face, occasionally leaning forward to scatter small kisses across her forehead, her nose, her cheeks.
Her lips yearned for him, but he avoided them.
He ran his fingers through her hair, and she realized he had removed the last pin. He leaned over and buried his face in her hair, then, finally, he kissed her lips. It was a quick kiss, only whetting her appetite.
He took her hand, tugged it gently. “Lie down with me.”
Vaguely, she wondered where their cat had gone, but then she and Jesse were sinking together to the grass and it was soft, so soft, under her. She sat, leaning back on one hand, reaching the other to touch his cheek. “Jesse . . .”
He gathered a handful of pale pink petals from the grass and scattered them in her hair. “You look like a wood nymph. A princess. Titania.”
She gave a blissful sigh. Who would have guessed that Jesse Blue knew
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
? That he could be so poetic?
He stretched out beside her and she leaned over him, petals drifting down from her hair. She took that sexy gold earring between her teeth and tugged gently.
He chuckled.
Then she nipped his earlobe and ran her tongue around the inside.
He stopped chuckling and gave a soft groan.
She trailed kisses down his neck and across his Adam’s apple. Today, she was the snake, tempting him—though he wasn’t putting up much of a fight. His hands were warm on her back, lifting her blouse, insinuating their way underneath. Caressing bare skin and moving up to the fastener of her bra.
He was wearing a black T-shirt and she kissed her way around the neck of it. Then she said, in a seductive growl, “Take it off.”
“Only if you do the same.”
At that moment his fingers unfastened the clasp of her bra. “I’ll . . . think about it,” she murmured, suddenly nervous. “You first.”
Breathless, she watched as he sat up to strip off the T-shirt. First, he tugged it free from his jeans, then he crossed his arms in front of him, each hand grabbing an edge of the bottom. He began to peel the cloth upward, and she saw a flat, bronzed stomach, then an arching rib cage, then firm muscles, dark curls of hair, small nipples. Everything was so foreign, so very male, so absolutely perfect.
She leaned down to bury her face in his chest, but his hands gripped her shoulders. “Now you.”
Her breasts, confined inside her blouse, inside her unhooked bra, were heavy. Aching. For his touch. She might be nervous, but yes, she wanted this. “Unbutton me,” she murmured.
Those deft fingers went to the top button of her blouse and he slipped it free, then moved down, one by one. Her blouse separated slightly, and he made no effort to pull the sides apart. It was like he was drawing out the moment, the anticipation.
Then he said, “Take it off, Maura.”
With shaky hands she obeyed, easing her way out of the blouse, holding it bundled in front of her for a long moment, then finally tossing it to the floor. She realized they were in bed now, a huge bed with ivory sheets and pillowcases with embroidered edges. She was entranced by the sight of Jesse’s dark masculinity against the pristine sheets.
“So beautiful,” he murmured.
She glanced down at herself, startled to see that her bra, barely clinging to her breasts now, was a lacy peach-colored one. When had she acquired that? But that thought fled, too, as Jesse reached up to peel the fabric away from her, his hand so brown compared to her pale skin and the pastel fabric.
Her nipples were hard, blatantly inviting him to touch them. And he accepted the invitation. He cupped her breasts in his hands, and she felt the roughness of his skin abrade delicate female flesh, a sensation the likes of which she’d never experienced before.
His eyes were glazed with desire. He opened his mouth and said—
“It’s seven o’clock and a beautiful sunny Sunday morning.”
Maura jerked awake and slapped at the clock-radio beside her bed.
Aagh!
What the heck was she doing dreaming about Jesse Blue? Dreaming about things she’d never experienced—not even during intercourse—things she must have subconsciously absorbed from movies and books?
And here she was, feeling all swollen and achy and . . . aroused again. She’d turned thirty and suddenly all her female hormones, which had pretty much lain dormant all her life, had kicked into overdrive. Yes, it had to be a hormonal thing, or otherwise surely she’d have felt this way about Bill or Winston. This . . . lust couldn’t relate specifically to Jesse Blue. Could it?
But if it had to do with turning thirty, why hadn’t she felt the slightest bit of attraction to Edward, the considerate, intelligent man who would dovetail so perfectly into her and her parents’ lives?
Disgruntled, she got ready for work. A shower, a quick breakfast in her robe, then she dressed in a tailored taupe skirt, a short-sleeved pale green blouse, and a sage-green cardigan. She chose flat shoes, recalling with a grimace that today she had to go plant shopping with Jesse. How could she face him, after that ridiculous lurid dream?
She could at least postpone the inevitable.
When she arrived at Cherry Lane, she greeted Ming-mei, the petite woman at the reception desk. Gracie was off today, so Maura said, “A man named Jesse Blue should be coming in at nine. He’s doing some work on the courtyard garden. Louise arranged it. Tell him to go ahead, please, and call me when he arrives.” Yesterday, she’d noticed that Jesse didn’t wear a watch, and she wondered if he’d be on time—or if he was still tangled up in sweaty sheets with some sexy woman.
At eight fifty, trying to again work on the budget, Maura’s gaze flicked to the time display in the bottom corner of her computer screen, and again at eight fifty-three. She jumped when, shortly after that, her phone rang.
Eight fifty-five, she noted, as Ming-mei informed her that Jesse was on his way out to the garden. She also noted that Ming-mei was completely businesslike. There was no gushing à la Gracie, or sour comments as with Nedda.
Being equally businesslike, Maura opened a new spreadsheet and recorded the date and Jesse’s arrival time. She frowned over what to enter for yesterday. What kind of supervisor was she? She’d been so off balance that she’d forgotten to keep track of his time, but she did recall it had been around six when he left, so he’d certainly put in his full day.
That task done, she allowed herself to glance out the window, sitting some ways back in her chair in hopes Jesse couldn’t see her. He retrieved the tools that he’d tucked neatly under an overhang of the building, and lugged them to where he’d left off work. A moment later, he was busy digging.
BOOK: Body Heat
10.84Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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