The Care and Feeding of Unmarried Men (5 page)

However, she managed to pull away first. Shaking his head, Nash watched her back out and drive off. So much for his hands-on problem solving, he thought, letting out a sigh. It had only left him feeling more frustrated than before.

I
n a Denny's halfway between Palm Springs and Riverside, Eve sat on orange vinyl and stared out the dusty windows. The glass double-entry doors were just a dash away, but she pressed her knees together and curled her toes in her pumps to keep herself in her seat.

Sandy Dailey pushed the saucer piled with plastic thimbles of creamer across the fake-grained table. Eve already knew they were lukewarm and ten minutes from spoiling. She'd take her coffee as black as her mood had been since she'd been forced to phone the SEC investigator. Sandy had agreed to cancel her dinner at the spa the night before if Eve promised to meet with her this afternoon.

“So,” Sandy started. “Why don't you tell us again how it happened.”

“Us” being Sandy and her younger associate, a boy-accountant who looked more like Tobey Maguire than a government investigator. Still, since he was male, Eve should catch his eye and unbutton her jacket or lick her lips or find some excuse to touch him, but she couldn't muster the energy. “I explained the first time we talked, Sandy.”

Under the SEC's questioning, Eve had sung like a canary, still reeling from the double whammy of the discovery of her father's remains and the betrayal of Vince Standish within days of each other.

“Tell us again.” The ten years since high school graduation had honed the bones of Sandy's face to razor-sharp lines. Her gaze was sharp, too, and trained on Eve's.

“Eleven months ago Vince asked me to marry him. When I refused and broke off our relationship, I thought he took it well. I thought we remained friends.”

“Apparently not.” Sandy sounded unsympathetic.

Eve shrugged. “Apparently not. After the merger actually went through, my broker said it was as if I was a hundred and eighty degrees off. Now my new stock—the stock I'd been tipped to invest in—was worth only pennies on the dollar. That's when I figured out Vince had planned it that way.”

“He's not a man who takes disappointment easily,” Sandy replied. “And you still haven't confronted him?”

“Why give him the satisfaction?” Instead, she'd pretended to everyone that her decision to sell off her condo and her Mercedes had been due to her moving up—although she had yet to find the exact right replacements. She'd sold everything she could to pay off the loans, including eBaying a bunch of trinkets and
taking a trunkload of clothes to a designer consignment boutique in a city seventy miles away, where no one would recognize her.

Sandy tapped her chin with a blood-red fingernail. Eve had worn a dress in that exact same shade when Sandy's ex had taken her to Sandy's prom. Eve wanted to ask the other woman if that was what had prompted this little shakedown, but not with accountant Tobey at the table.

“You remember I told you we can put you away for this.”

Eve suddenly felt the walls closing in on her, just as she had the first time Sandy had brought it up. Jail. Prison. No way out.

Darting a quick look at those wide double doors, Eve gripped her fingers together in her lap. “It seems hard to believe,” she managed to say, though she'd done enough Internet research to prove that Sandy's threats weren't empty. “You have all the records. You know I'm now broke.”

“When it comes to insider trading, it's the intent that matters, not the result. The SEC prosecutes all kinds of people, from CEOs to custodians. From winners to losers. We don't want anyone to think they can fly beneath the radar.”

Eve squeezed her fingers together again.
“Have fun,”
she suddenly remembered Nash Cargill saying as she'd prepared to drive away to the meeting, and she choked back a half-hysterical giggle.
Hey, Preacher, are we having fun yet?

“You have nothing to say?” Sandy prodded.

Sadist. “Only that I think it's time I talked to a lawyer.” Though she had no idea how she'd afford one,
unless she went to Bianca or her grandfather. Unless she wanted all the Carusos to know how the inconvenient bastard daughter had screwed up. Screwed up at this time, when her grandfather was preparing to retire and the family was in flux. Wouldn't they be happy she'd brought the authorities one step closer into their lives?

“What made you do it, Eve? On some level, at least, you had to know it was wrong.”

Like stealing boyfriends was wrong? But she hadn't made an extra effort to get Scott Chambers to call her when they were seventeen. She just hadn't hung up on him when he had. As for taking advantage of the insider stock tip…she was a Caruso, wasn't she? Didn't that give her a genetic excuse for her crime?

It had been less than a week after they'd uncovered her father's remains that Vince Standish had whispered that little financial secret in her ear. All sorts of bad memories had been surfacing during those days, and his tip had appeared so harmless. With less than twenty-four hours to act, she hadn't mulled it over long. Truth to tell, it had seemed a piece of very good luck at a very dark time.

But Sandy wasn't soliciting Eve's explanations, she suddenly realized. This was less about rubbing on old rival's nose in her mistakes and more about…

“What is it you want, Sandy?”

The other woman's expression didn't falter. She was quiet a moment, then she shrugged. “Standish has toyed with the SEC rules and regulations before. I want him, and with your help I think I can get him.”

Not that Eve felt very charitable toward Vince at the moment, but
she
wanted something more than him getting his comeuppance. “What do you have in mind? And more importantly, what's in it for me?”

L
ate that night, Nash pushed open one of the French doors leading to the Kona Kai's small lounge, a beer on his mind. His gaze honed in on the babe at the bar, and he slowed his stride. Her back to him, Eve Caruso sat perched on a stool, her blonde hair streaming in soft waves over her shoulders.

It was late, he was irritated after a day of shadowing his sister, and he definitely wasn't ready for another round with the superbeauty. After this morning he'd again promised himself to keep his distance from her.

But he still wanted that beer, so he decided to cross the bar area to reach the front desk through the second set of French doors on the other side of the room. He'd get the person manning the reception area to fetch a draft for him and then he'd escape back to his room
via another route. It wasn't a cowardly move—just cautious.

And as her throaty chuckle wrapped itself around his dick and tugged, he congratulated himself on his quick Plan B.

If only he hadn't then slowed to see who'd made her laugh. If only she hadn't then seemed to sense a presence behind her and swung around.

If only she hadn't been apparently tipsy enough to lose her balance and nearly land at his feet.

Catching her around the waist, he re-righted her just as she let loose another husky chuckle. “Uh-oh. I almost fell for you.” She beamed up a smile at him. “Would you like a drink? I'm buying.” Her voice lowered to a stage whisper. “But only because I get a discount.”

“I thought I was the one you were buying drinks for, Evie,” the man on her other side complained. He appeared to be two times more hammered than “Evie” and four times her age.

She plucked a spear of olives from her martini glass and sucked on the third and last little greenie. The old dude watched her hollowing cheeks with a disgusting intent. Sighing, Nash pulled out the stool next to hers and took a seat. Old habits died hard, didn't they? But the good news was, though she might need a chaperone, she was too drunk to be dangerous to him.

He glanced at the young man who came to stand on the other side of the bar. “Beer,” he ordered. “Whatever you have on draft.”

“And another martooni,” Eve put in. “My dad used to call them that. Martoonis.”

The bartender grimaced. “Eve, are you sure—”

“Of course I'm sure! Vodka martooni, very, very, very dry. With one, two, three olives.” As she held up
three fingers, she glanced over at Nash's face, then stiffened. “Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.”

“What?”

Her valentine lips turned down in a stern frown. “No sermons tonight, Preacher. I've had a trying day, and tonight this party girl wants to party on without interference.”

The bartender slid the beer and the martini in front of them. “She doesn't drink much,” he told Nash. “I've been watering down the vodka and she's still sloppy.”

“I am not sloppy.” She straightened her spine and pushed her hair behind her ears. “You tell him, Nash. You tell him I'm not sloppy.”

“You're not sloppy.”

“And
you're
not sincere.”

Now
that
sounded more like the superbeauty he knew and was suspicious of, so he grinned. “Car work for you okay?”

“Purrr-fectly.” She scooted her stool closer, propped her elbow on the bar, and peered up at him through sooty lashes. “Maybe I should put you on retainer. What's a private mechanic go for these days? And what could I possibly provide as down payment?”

The drunk on the other side of her slung his arm around her shoulders. “I'll pay you, Evie, I'll pay you anything you want. Just come back to my room with me.”

Nash didn't think twice. He gripped the geezer's wrist, removed the offending appendage, and let it drop. “You're done, dude.”

“But—”

“Done.” Putting on his I-crush-cars-for-a-living face, Nash rose and stepped closer to the older man. “The lady doesn't want you or your money.”

Maybe he sounded menacing, too. His only intention had been to get the guy out of Eve's face, but he couldn't say he was sorry to see the man push away from the bar and stumble off. When Nash settled back onto his own stool, Eve slid him a sidelong look and pulled the olive spear she'd resumed sucking out of her mouth again.

“I could have taken care of that myself, Preacher. I'm not one of your Farrahs.”

That reminded him. He had to ask the front desk to make a 3:00 a.m. wake-up call to his little sister, with Nash's compliments. “Can't we forget about that? The Preacher and the Farrahs?”

That sent her back to her martini glass for another gulp. “Absolut-ely! Get it? Absolut-ely. As in the vodka. Tonight we're here to forget.”

“I'll bite.”

Her blue eyes went innocent-wide and her voice breathy. “Promise?”

Shaking his head, he laughed. “You
are
sloppy.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“A few martinis and you lose your subtlety, darlin'.”

She stared at him, obviously indignant. “I do not.”

“I'm afraid so. Too much vodka and the vamp is way overdone.”

Her jaw dropped. It made him focus on her puffy bottom lip and the wet texture of her pink tongue. “I've never overdone anything in my life.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I say I'm right.” She slapped the top of the bar. “I've been wrapping men around my little finger—with subtlety and without an ounce of ‘vamp,' mind you—since I was a toddler in petticoats and a pinafore.”

Oh, he could see it. Pink ribbons, too. “Maybe you're getting old, then. Stale.”

She blinked. She blinked again. “Huh?”

“You know, used up. Your wiles, your charm. Maybe they wear out or something.” A smile was struggling to break free. This was the most fun he'd had since he'd entered the record books five years ago with the longest monster-truck jump in history. He gestured toward her. “After a few years, your tits sag and trying too hard sets in.”

She stared another second longer at his face. Then she glanced down at her spectacular chest, then up at him again. “Take that back. I'm only twenty-eight years old.”

If she'd been sober, he wouldn't have had a prayer of survival. He knew that. But God, he felt as if he was taking a few points back for every male she'd slain from toddlerhood until today. “But going on twenty-nine, right?”

He braced—okay, barely—for the insulted superbeauty's next reaction. In her vodka-induced state, he figured she was virtually harmless.

So when she slid to her feet and stood between their seats, he only grinned, despite the fact there was nothing the least bit funny about her stiletto heels, denim worn as tight as a suntan, and T-shirt that was tickling the belly ring in her navel. When she gripped one of his knees to swivel his stool to face her, he didn't protest.

It was only when she stepped between his veed thighs that he felt his smile die. The inner leg seams of his jeans kissed the outer seams of hers as she moved closer. Her naked-except-soap scent filled his head. “That sounds like a dare to me.”

Christ. Even martooni-d she was a force to be reckoned with. He breathed in another gulp of that wet-flesh perfume of hers and forced himself to hold still as she slid her arms around his neck. By pure instinct, his hands cupped her bottom, and now that they were there it would have been a waste not to appreciate the round, firm curves.

Wasn't there anything about this woman that wasn't all-out, over-the-top, more-than-her-fair-share spectacular?

His cock battled his zipper to answer that one.

And she glanced down as if she knew. Of course she knew, he thought, watching the satisfied smile that curved the corners of her mouth. “You are trouble,” he murmured.

“But not too much for you to handle, right?”

This was a game to her. But hell, he'd started it, so he squeezed her butt. “I seem to be handling it just fine, don't you think?”

“Let's put that to a little test.” She pulled his head closer.

He resisted. Frowning, she tugged harder, but he was as strong as a bull and didn't budge.

Her sky-blues met his eyes in surprise. “Don't you want to kiss me, Nash?”

“No.” It was the honest truth.

“No?—” She broke off as her gaze jerked over his shoulder. “Oh, God.”

In his arms, he felt her body tremble. “What?”

“Oh, God,” she muttered. “Oh, God, can this day get any worse?”

He tried turning his head to see what she did, but she caught his jaw in one very cold hand. “Listen to
me,” she said, all signs of tipsiness gone. Her voice was clear and crisp, as if she'd been slapped to alertness.

“All right.”

“In a minute, you're going to kiss me. Then you're going to pick me up and walk me out of here. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars, do not pay any attention to the pair of men loitering in the doorway.”

“Which one am I specifically not paying attention to?”

She didn't question how he knew. “The younger, dark-haired one who is channeling his inner Chili Palmer.”

So it was a gangsterish, Travolta look-alike he was shielding her from. And
shielding
was the operative word, he knew, because another tremor shook her body.

“On the count of three,” she whispered. “One…two…”

Hairs leaped high on the back of Nash's neck. He didn't wait for three.