Skintight (22 page)

There was an moment of stunned silence. Then Jax rose to his feet and said with cool courtesy, “My apologies. It wasn't my intention to make fun of your dog. I only meant—”

“No, I'm sorry, Jax,” Carly interrupted and sighed. “I had no right to go off on you like that. Buster
is
a Dr. Seuss kind of dog, aren't you sweetheart?” The mutt thumped his tail agreeably, and Carly went down on one knee beside him to sling an arm around his neck and give the wild tufts between his ears an affectionate noogie. “Hell, I've said it myself—he's so ugly he's cute.”

That satisfied Jax, but Treena, who knew her friend better, wasn't fooled by Carly's sudden breeziness. “What happened?” she demanded.

“Huh? Nothing.” She climbed to her feet, dusting dog hair from her palms, and gave Treena an innocent look. “So what's for breakfast besides bacon?”

“Pancakes. What happened, Carly?”

Her friend's jaw tightened and she simply stared at her for a moment. Then with another sigh, she slumped. “I met my new neighbor this morning.”

Uh-oh. It clearly hadn't been a positive experience. “And?”

“If I kill him, Treen, will you help me hide the body?”

“Absolutely,” she promptly agreed. “There must be a million places out in the desert to dispose of one annoying man.”

“Whoa,” Jax said, taking a giant step back from them, his hands raised, palms out, as if to ward off trouble. “Remind me never to piss you two off.” A look of uneasiness suddenly chased across his expression but before Treena could decipher its meaning he turned to ask Carly incredulously. “How bad can a guy you just met be?”

“Plenty bad.” Her pretty features were stiff with remembered affront. “Trust me. He's a buzz-cut, stick-up-the-butt, dog-hating jerk.”

Treena zeroed in on the pertinent information in her friend's rant. “He didn't like your dogs?”

“Oh, boy,” Jax murmured under his breath, obviously already attuned enough to Carly to realize there was no bigger offense in her book.

“He kept calling Rufus
Dufus
! And he wanted to know why the hell I didn't get him under control.” With an indrawn breath that appeared to be one part oxygen and nine parts indignation, her breasts swelled to threaten the stretch of her tank top's fabric. “As if I haven't been knocking myself out trying to do that very thing!” Then she exhaled loudly. “Well, screw him. If that man tries messing with my babies, I don't care if he does have the steeliest buns I've ever seen—he's going
down.
”

Hello.
Treena went on alert, even as she slung a comforting arm around her friend to lead her to a stool.
This is interesting.

She would have sworn there wasn't a guy born who could attract Carly's attention once she discovered he wasn't an animal lover. So the fact that she'd noticed the buns of a man bad-mouthing her dog suggested some
serious
chemistry between her and this Jones character.

Treena, however, knew better than to raise the point in Carly's present condition. Instead she settled her friend in her seat and squeezed her white-knuckled hand. “You just take a couple of deep breaths and have some pancakes and bacon with us. Then I want you to do your best to forget that clown. Maybe he just had a bad day. Or maybe he's always a jerk. Either way, these things usually have a way of working themselves out.”

“
Death
has a way of working things out, too. And really, it's not as if it would be murder, or anything. No, no, it would be euthanasia, a genuine mercy killing, considering the man's too stupid to live.”

“Be a shame to deprive yourself of a view of that butt, though.”

“Yeah.” With a regretful sigh, Carly laid her head down on her crossed arms on the countertop. “There is that. It's the only downside I can think of, though.”

 

M
AN TROUBLE SEEMED
to be in the air. Backstage in the dressing room that night Jerrilyn, whose most recent boyfriend was the World Poker fan who had recognized Jax's name, listened to Carly's rant against her new neighbor. Then the other dancer nodded in total sympathy.

“Wolfgang Jones,” she said, nodding. “I know who that is—he's in security, right? I don't think I've ever seen him smile. Great butt, though. And did you get a load of the six-pack abs on him?” She waved the question aside without waiting for an answer. “Never mind. Personally, I don't believe some guys deserve a second chance—much less a third or fourth one.” She straightened her fishnets. “Despite that, I gave Donny several, but frankly the boy had nothing going for him but his
ability in bed. So, really, I had no choice but to dump him.” She shook her head. “I'm sure gonna miss those sessions between the sheets, though.”

Eve nodded. “I swear, sometimes, that's the
only
thing men are good for. If I come home from work and find one more stinking pair of socks laying next to the bed or a wet towel tossed on the bathroom floor, my Jeremy is going to be one sorry son of a bitch. Is it too frigging much for him to carry his dirty laundry to the basket?”

“For me it's the damn whiskers in the sink,” Michelle said. “There's a whole stack of Dixie cups right next to the faucet—how hard can it be to use one of 'em to rinse his mess down the drain after Gordie's done shaving? But
does
he ever? Oh, no.”

Everybody seemed so depressed and anti-men as they left the dressing room for the wings that Treena almost felt guilty for not feeling the least bit down herself. But things with Jax were so great she was still kind of vibrating.

Of course, she didn't have a clue what was going to happen when the tournament ended next week. Would he simply pack up and take off for the next tour in who knew what far-off exotic location?

And if so, would he want her to go with him?

What would she do if he did? As much as she loved him, she'd spent the majority of her life with one goal—to provide herself with financial security.

Not that she was doing so well in that department at the moment, but at least she was drawing a steady paycheck.

And hopefully would still be doing so after this week.

So if she passed the audition could she actually toss
her need for security to the wind and follow a gambler from city to city? Could she simply abandon not merely the only career she'd ever known but her dream of establishing her own studio some day?

It wasn't as if the studio was even a remote possibility any longer. So who had the more stable life now—she with her steady paycheck, uncertain future employment prospects and no savings, or Jax with his multi-thousand-dollar wins and losses? Neither of them struck her as overwhelmingly stable.

But that was all smoke and mirrors. She had a feeling that, secure financial future or not, she'd follow him in a heartbeat if he asked her to.

Which of course was the real issue. For when had Jax ever said the first thing to indicate she meant more to him than a Las Vegas fling on this leg of his tour? She honest-to-God felt sometimes that he genuinely did care for her, perhaps even as much as she did for him.

But that was all it was—a feeling. He'd certainly never said one word to indicate it was actually the case.

Well…shit.

She could have gone all night without thinking about any of this. Now she was as depressed as everyone else backstage.

Dancing was suddenly the last thing she felt like doing, but the music introducing the next act swelled out in the orchestra pit. So with a resigned sigh, she pulled herself together and headed for the stage.

J
AX COULDN'T BELIEVE
what a charge he got out of doing housework. Of course he knew that was because of Treena. Doing damn near anything with her was what got him all jazzed. And since this was her Monday off, he'd offered to help with the weekly cleaning of her condo so they they'd have more time to play outside before her dance class later that afternoon. The equinox had brought weather too beautiful not to take advantage of after the long, hot summer.

They'd decided to divide the final two chores to speed things up, so as soon as he finished dusting the floor in here and she was done in the kitchen they'd be ready to take off.

He was working the duster around the back of the toilet when something bumped the backs of his knees. His legs buckled beneath him and with a grunt he braced his free palm against the top of the tank. Then strong, soft-skinned arms wrapped around his waist.

“Hey there, big boy.” Treena rubbed her breasts side to side between his shoulder blades. “Long time no see. So when did you say your birthday was again?” Her voice sounded innocent in his ear, and her body felt like pliable, fragrant heat against his back.

Bracing the duster against the wall, he unwound her arms from his middle and turned. “Why, I believe I told you it was—” grasping her hips he lifted her onto the counter next to the sink and leaned in “—the thir—no…no…wait. Come to think of it, I don't believe I mentioned the actual date at all.” Running his hands down to her thighs, he pulled them apart and stepped between them.

“Damn!” Biting back a smile, she thunked him on the chest. Then she gave the abused pectoral a little rub. “But at least I've got a clue now. You said the
thir.
So, the thirtieth, then? The thirteenth? The third? Or crap, it could be the third pick-a-day-any-day of the next couple months, couldn't it?”

He grinned. Treena was constantly trying to wheedle his birthday out of him and it had now become a game of sorts. He might break down one of these days and actually tell her, but for the moment, he was having way too much fun waiting to see what ploy she'd use next in order to discover it for herself. He bent his head to kiss her.

“In your dreams, pal.” Jerking back, she slapped both hands to his shoulders and shoved, holding him at arm's length. “Don't even think you have a shot at getting lucky now. In fact you may
die
before you ever get any again.” She shot him a smoldering glance from beneath her lashes. “Unless, of course, you want to cough up a date. Then we'll talk.”

He trailed his fingers down the side of her throat, smiling slightly when her eyelids went heavy and a soft breath shuddered out of her throat. “Wanna make a small wager as to who can hold out the longest?” he
murmured, even though he wasn't all that certain that was a bet he had any hope of winning.

“Nope,” she said cheerfully, and slid off the countertop. Then she simply stood there, making no move to get out from between the vanity and his body. She nodded toward the dust mop he'd leaned against the wall. “You about done with that?”

“Yeah. Let me just run it over the spot I missed over there by the tub, then I'm good to go.” Grabbing the duster by its long blue handle, he completed the chore even as he stated his intention.

She flashed him such a brilliant smile that his chest constricted. “Great. We're finished, then,” she said. “If you'll go put the duster away, I'll slap on some makeup and we can head out. Be careful, though,” she warned. “That closet is pretty much a catchall, so it can be a little treacherous to the uninitiated. In fact, just stick it in the front of the closet and I'll put it away later.”

“What do you think I am, an incompetent boob? I'll have you know I've got reflexes like a cat. I'm the smoke in the mirror, babe, the shadow in the night, the fog in the—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You're the guy whose machismo has just been impugned.”

A smile tugged up the corner of his mouth. “Got it in one, sweet thing.” God, he loved this woman.

Everything inside of him stilled. Loved? He was in
love
with her? At the same time that he told himself he couldn't be in love, that it simply wasn't smart given his ulterior motives, he knew it was true. He felt it on a gut level so deep there was no sense denying it.

Even if he didn't have the first idea what the hell he
was going to do about it. He stepped back and indicated the mop. “I'll go put this away and leave you to slap on your war paint.”

She laughed. “You are such a smooth talkin' guy.”

His heart thumping uneasily, he carried the dust mop to the living room closet and opened the door. “Holy shit,” he murmured, amazed at its jumbled interior. “Catchall was a euphemism, I take it.”

This was full-out chaos, the universe after the Big Bang. Treena's tidy gene clearly stopped at the door to the coat closet. He snorted. Interestingly named space, considering coats were probably the least represented article in the deep, narrow cubicle.

It was filled from floor to ceiling with all sorts of crap—or so it appeared at first glance, anyway. He wouldn't have thought it was possible for Treena to have more shoes than he'd already seen on her feet or in her bedroom closet, for instance, yet several pairs of leather boots were lined up beneath the coats. And not one of them, as far as he could see, was of the useful variety. Hell, you could probably aerate a dozen lawns with the heels on most of these puppies, but step in one pile of dogshit wearing them, and the shoe in question would no doubt get tossed in the nearest garbage can so fast it'd be nothing but a streak of light to the naked eye.

Shaking his head, he looked at the boxes stacked in the back and intermittently along the right wall.

He could barely see the hook on the back wall through all the junk in his path so he started picking his careful way between the piles, trying to avoid precariously mounded odds and ends beneath the hang rod on
his left. He veered too near a stack of boxes on his right, and when his biceps brushed against a loose object he felt it shift and fall from atop the stack. Dropping the mop, his hand shot out with more instinct than forethought, and he caught a furled travel umbrella with a bent spoke before it hit the floor. Carefully restoring it to its place upon the top box, he blew out a breath at the near miss and was happy to see that the area directly in front of him opened up to something actually resembling floor space. Retrieving the duster, he took a careful step toward the open area, only to promptly crack his elbow on the sharp corner of something sitting atop the pile to his left.

Things immediately began slip-sliding in the unstable heap and Jax dropped the dust mop once again and grabbed the Plexiglas box that had started the avalanche, slapping it against his stomach to keep it from tumbling away. Swearing under his breath, he braced his shins against the bottom of the pile and managed to rearrange a few things with his free hand. His efforts seemed to halt the mad rush toward the floor, and it wasn't until he was pretty sure he wasn't going to be buried up to his eyeballs in Treena's junk that he actually looked down at the object that had nearly disabled him.

He jerked in shock. The movement caused the pile he'd just saved to flow like lava from its shifting base, but he paid it no heed as he stared down at the collectible that had brought him into Treena's life.

After a moment he roused himself and bent to retrieve the duster and clip it into its holder. Then he simply stood in the recesses and studied his grandfather's baseball in what little light managed to filter back into the corner.

The ghostly echo of his father's voice immediately started issuing orders in his mind.
Goddammit, Jackson, those were easy pop-ups! Pay attention out there—all you have to do is stay sharp in the outfield and you'll start catching them.
He stared down at the ball in its clear box, sick with feelings he'd struggled long and hard to eradicate. Inadequacy, insecurity and a crawling sensation of shame and worthlessness clamored for his attention. The 1927 World Series ball represented the majority of his youth.

And, God, he despised the fucking thing.

So smuggle it the hell out of here today and hand it over to Sergei. Then all your problems will be over, right?

Sure, if he didn't mind the fact he'd be stealing from the woman he loved. If he didn't care that his betrayal would no longer be merely one of intent but firmly rooted in actuality instead.

Shit.

Still, what other choice did he have? He had to turn the baseball over to Kirov.

But he didn't have to do it today.

Jax carried the ball in its Plexiglas container back to the stack of boxes and carefully set it behind the umbrella. Picking up a scarf from the floor, he released the fingers he'd pinched it between and watched as the satiny fabric fluttered down to cover both items.

Then he shook himself. He still had until after tomorrow night's tournament. Maybe by then a way to tell Treena the real reason he'd first inserted himself into her life would occur to him.

“Hey,” her voice suddenly called, and he heard her
footsteps crossing the living room. “Did you get lost in there?”

He rammed his fingers through his hair. “No,” he called back. “It's like deepest, darkest Africa, but I think I'm finally approaching the Serengeti.” He turned and picked his way out of the closet, then stood blinking in the bright light that bathed the living room. When Treena walked up to him, vibrant in a turquoise tank top, matching casual skirt and strappy low-heeled sandals, he draped his arms over her shoulders and bowed his head to rest his forehead against hers. A feeling of peace bloomed within him as all the negative feelings resurrected by the ball's discovery faded away.

“I wasn't sure if I'd ever see you again,” he said, and to his chagrin there was a very real catch in his voice. He cleared his throat.
Keep it light,
coached the part of him that had spent a lifetime instructing him in ways not to care when someone he loved found him a huge disappointment. “What with, uh, all the booby traps in there and all.”

She started to pull back as if to examine his expression, but he laced his fingers together through the soft cloud of curls at the back of her head. He didn't want her looking at him right this moment, since he wasn't at all sure he had his poker face in place.

She didn't fight his hold but rather rolled her forehead against his and smoothed her hands over his chest. But her voice held a hint of concern when she asked, “Are you okay, Jax?”

Tell her. Tell her now,
demanded his accountable adult self.
Maybe she'll understand.

But maybe she wouldn't, and his self-protective side had been active since he was a kid and was much
stronger than his conscience could ever hope to be. So he merely said, “Sure. I was just thinking about Treena Sarkilahti's secret life of sloth.”

“McCall,” she corrected as she always did when he used her maiden name and this time she did raise her head. She poked him in his abs. “And I'll have you know, Gallagher, that I'm usually pretty neat.”

“Uh-huh. Sure you are.” He slapped on a look of cool cynicism even as he realized what should have been a no-brainer from the beginning. The reason he never called Treena by her married name was because he couldn't bear the thought of her being wed to his father. He couldn't face the idea of her lying in the old man's arms the way she'd lain in his, all flushed and warm and satiated from his loving.

Pushing the image away, he said, “That closet was a revelation, babe.” Then without giving her an opportunity to reply, he indicated the front door with a jut of his chin. “So, you ready to ride?”

“I was born ready,” she retorted, and he laughed. She touched his lower lip and said, “Let me just grab my tote. I've got my sunscreen in it and a bottle of water.”

He let her slip away and half of him was pleased he'd eased around a potential land mine. The other half had a different take on the matter, but he stuffed down its objections with the rationalization that blurting out his real identity today would do neither of them any good. They both had a big day tomorrow. She had the audition she'd been working so hard toward, and provided he played well tonight, he'd have a seat at the tournament's final table. Upsetting her now would merely screw things up for both of them.

He knew he had to tell Treena the entire truth, no matter how damning, and he
would
do it tomorrow, just as soon as everything was over. No more excuses, no more prevarications.

Still, that gave him a twenty-four-hour grace period. And until it was up, he intended to avoid
anything
that might put a look of betrayal on her face.

 

M
ACK KNOCKED ON
Ellen's door promptly at five-thirty that afternoon.

“So what are your thoughts on prime rib?” he demanded the moment she opened it. Then he took her in from head to toe and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. She wore a simple black suit with sheer black hose and sensible black pumps. Beneath the jacket, however, was a silky little purple top. Its satiny sheen made the moisture dry up in his mouth, for it looked like fancy underwear, like something forbidden that offered him a glimpse of cleavage when her suit jacket pulled back as she swung the door open wide to admit him.

“I'm all for it,” she said with a smile.

He jerked his attention back to the subject at hand. “I only ask because I made us a reservation at Lawry's The Prime Rib, and if you've ever been there you probably know you can have anything you want—as long as it's prime rib. So in case that doesn't hit your hot button I also made a reservation at Austin's Steakhouse over on Texas Star Lane.” He shook his head and stared at her again. “Damn, you look good!”