The Wedding Gift (2 page)

Then she took a flowered dress off the top, and he got a glimpse of what was under it.

Black lace panties.

Black satin bra.

His eyes fell out of his head and rolled onto the bed.

NO!

Jan was supposed to wear granny panties and old-maid bras. White cotton; no lace. He was absolutely, unequivocally, certain of that.

She glanced around. “Where's your suit?”

He opened his mouth but no words came out.

“Mick? Hey, are you having an attack? Can you breathe?” She dropped the dress and pressed her ear to his chest, listening to his lungs.

Her cheek seared the skin over his heart.

Curling his hands into fists, he turned his eyes up to the ceiling. “I'm fine,” he got out. “I haven't had asthma in twenty years.”

“Mmm, well, your lungs do sound clear,” she murmured. “But your heart's beating like a drum.”

He took a half step back, away from the yard of soft hair tickling his bare chest like fingertips. His shoulders hit the wall with a thud.

She gazed up at him like he was a doofus. He could see the flecks of green in her root beer eyes. “Don't knock the wall down,” she said, “or we'll both be out on the street.”

And she turned away, oblivious to the emotions storming through his system.

“Where's your suit?” she asked again. “Don't tell me you haven't unpacked it.” She bent over his suitcase, her ass six inches from his crotch, and he snapped back to life.

Bad enough he'd seen her underwear; she didn't need to see his.

Batting her hands away, he closed the lid. “I dropped it at the cleaners. I'll pick it up tomorrow.” He nudged her aside with his hip. “Why don't you suit up? The water's perfect.”

“Okay. I got a new bathing suit. What do you think?”

With that, she dug through her suitcase and pulled out a—
God help him
—bikini.

A sound erupted from his throat. Distress, but Jan took it as derision. Her face crumpled.

“I thought . . .” She plunked down on the bed. “I just wanted to try something different. A new Jan.”

The hurt on her face made him pull it together fast.

“First of all,” he said, “there's nothing wrong with the old Jan. And there's nothing wrong with . . .” He waved a hand at the pink-polka-dotted Band-Aids that passed for a swimsuit. “It just surprised me. You always wear a one-piece.”

“I know.” She met his gaze, her expression earnest. “Maybe I should just—”

“You should just put it on. It's”—
too skimpy—
“cute. You'll look”—
too sexy
—“great.” He faked his best-pals smile. “See you at the pool.”

He did a one-eighty and scrammed.

 

Chapter 2

J
AN WALKED TO
the pool's edge and toed the water. “Perfect.”

“Told you,” Mick called from the float. “Even Miss Narrow Comfort Zone can't complain.”

She flicked water so it spattered across his suntanned chest. Mick was lucky. Unlike her, he never had to worry about burning. He was always browned up from skiing the Rockies or snorkeling in Cozumel.

He worked hard. He played harder.

Now he pointed at two lounge chairs in the dappled shade of a palm. On one, the new Jack Reacher novel; on the other, the latest
National Enquirer
.

He knew her so well.

She dropped her bag on her chair and unfastened the towel she'd cinched around her. But before she could drop it, stage fright struck.

She'd never shown this much skin. This much
white
skin. Whiter than snow. Some of it hadn't seen the sun in all of her thirty years.

Maybe the bikini was a bad idea. She'd picked it up at Macy's along with some bright tops, short shorts, and a few skimpy sundresses. Everything was young and colorful, and like nothing she'd ever worn before.

Dowdy was more her speed. Dowdy was easier. Easier than arguing with her mother every time she went out the door. Easier than looking like a poser trying to imitate the pretty girls.

Dowdy made her invisible.

But she was done with dowdy. She'd hit thirty last month—
THIRTY!
—and it was the wake-up call she needed to jolt her out of her rut. Irrefutable evidence that she wasn't a kid anymore, that she couldn't sit around any longer waiting for her life to begin. It was already under way, and a good chunk of it had passed her by.

Sure, the whole turning-thirty crisis was a cliché. But it was a cliché for a reason.

So yeah, it was long past time for her to discover the woman who was hiding under all those plaid skirts and cotton blouses. Who Jan Marone might've been if her father hadn't died in the line of duty twenty-four years ago, leaving her alone with a mother who'd grown more overprotective with each passing year.

New Jan was inching out of her comfort zone, and being not-dowdy was part of the plan. A part which, frankly, had sounded a lot less traumatic when she wrote it down in her journal.

In real life, being noticeable would take some getting used to.

Glancing around the pool area, she decided this was as low-key an environment as she'd ever find. Mick revolved in a lazy circle, gazing up at the palm leaves overhanging the pool. A German-speaking couple shared a bottle of wine and some quiet laughter. And the thirty-something guys climbing out of the hot tub were holding hands, not interested in anything underneath her towel.

It was a peaceful, mature crowd. All the rowdy spring breakers were lodged down by Duvall Street.

If ever she was going to leave old Jan behind, now was the time. This was the place.

Taking a deep breath, she dropped her towel.

M
ICK ROLLED OFF
his float and sank like a stone to the bottom of the pool.

Unbelievably, Jan's bikini looked even tinier on her body than it had in her hand.

Peering up through the water, he watched her walk to the pool's edge. Her image was blurry and fractured, but not so much that he couldn't tell what was what. The pink part was suit—
not enough
—and the silvery part was skin—
too much
.

His shorts shrank two sizes.

As she started down the steps, one slender foot at a time, he turned and stroked along the bottom to the deep end of the pool, dribbling out the precious oxygen he held in his lungs, determined to stay under until the last atom was gone.

Sixty-five seconds was his record, set in his junior year at Penn State. Today he beat it by four, breaking the surface with a gasp.

“What're you doing, dummy?” Jan called from her end. “Your lips are turning blue.”

No, that would be his balls.

She'd paused halfway down the steps. The ripples he'd caused when he surfaced lapped at her thighs.

Her creamy white thighs.

He turned his head away, but his eyes didn't make the trip. They stuck to her like glue as she pushed off, gliding toward him in a graceful breaststroke.

Jan was a nymph in the water.

She stopped an arm's length in front of him, treading water. “This is great. I could stay in here all day.” She tipped her head back, wetting her hair, then slicked it back with one hand, sleek as a seal.

He eased away from her until his shoulders bumped the lip of the pool. “Sun's a lot stronger in the tropics,” he said, the voice of authority. “You should cover up or you'll burn to a crisp.”

“Nah. I brought the world's strongest sunscreen. But I couldn't reach my back. Will you do it for me?”

Jesus. What next?

“Bring me the lotion,” he said gruffly. No way was he getting out of the pool with this boner.

He squeezed his eyes shut as she climbed the steps, but couldn't help peeking as she dripped her way to the lounger. Her bottoms had ridden up—of course they had—and she did that thing women do, where they hook a finger under the elastic and snap it down over their cheek.

Jesus.

Then she was in the water again, heaving herself belly down onto the float, paddling toward him. When she got close, she turned ninety degrees and the float bumped his chest broadside.

“I did my legs and shoulders,” she said, “so you can just do the rest.”

That's all. Just the rest.

He shook the tube and squirted white stuff onto her lower back.

Bad idea. Really bad.

Biting the inside of his cheek, welcoming the pain, he flattened a palm in the white stuff and smeared it around, discovering six freckles in roughly the shape of a heart.

He freaking loved freckles.

Gritting his teeth, he dipped his pinky under elastic, a hairsbreadth from the crack of her ass . . . He got out of there fast, sliding up, up, under her strap, sweeping from side to side, covering everything, missing nothing.

Higher he stroked. She twisted her hair in her hand, moving it out of the way. More freckles dotted the dip between her shoulder blades.

“Squirt some more,” she said.

For Christ's sake.

He shot some into his hand.

More freckles hiding in the short hairs at the nape of her neck. He'd seen these before, all twelve of them. He could find each one in the dark.

And then it was done. He snapped the lid down, dropped the tube beside her, and gave the float a shove. She lifted her face from the crook of her arm.

“Thanks, Mick. You want me to do you?”

Another woman would have said that with a wicked little smile. Not Jan. She was so damned innocent. Oh, she'd get it if he pointed it out. She wasn't completely naïve. But unlike most people, her default wasn't set to innuendo.

“No, thanks. I'm getting out for a few.” He levered up onto the side, keeping his back to her until he had his towel in hand.

Bunching it on his lap, he stretched out on the lounger, flipped open the
Enquirer
and tried to focus on the latest alien abduction. But his gaze kept flicking to Jan. Her cheek rested on one arm. Her eyes were closed, pink lips smiling sweetly. Her hair, long and shining, trailed in the water.

She looked happy. Relaxed.

Fifteen years ago that would've been his signal to sneak up and flip the float. Today, he simply enjoyed the view. Long, slim legs. Round cheeks barely covered by her bottoms. And all that soft, silky skin. He'd had his hand all over it.

Bringing his palm to his nose, he breathed in the scent—coconut laced with Jan.

Not helping his erection problem. At. All.

Her hand fanned the water idly, turning the float in a lazy circle. When she drifted to the shallow end, practically under his nose, he closed the
Enquirer
and stood up. “I'm heading inside.”

She opened her eyes, squinting up at him. Then she rolled off into the waist-deep water. “I'm sorry, I'm hogging the float.”

“No you're not,” he said, instantly distracted by her breasts. In the past, he'd caught a rare glimpse down her one-and-only V-neck sweater. Now they were literally under his nose, pale and pretty like the rest of her, with the added bonus of being breasts.

He tore his gaze away. “I mean, yes, you're hogging it, but I was going inside anyway. Gotta shower. We've got dinner in a couple hours.”

She grinned. “Seriously? You need two hours to primp?”

He tried a smile. It felt plastic. “You know how punctual Julie is.”

She cocked her head. “You look a little pasty. Are you feeling okay?” She climbed the steps, water sluicing off her smooth skin.

“I'm”—
losing my shit—
“fine. I just want to”—
jump you—
“take a shower before you use up all the hot water.” His smile was partly genuine this time. She was famous for long showers.

“Har har.” She—
finally—
wrapped herself in her towel and plunked down on her lounger. “Thanks for the new Reacher, by the way.”

He shrugged. “Figured you needed your tough-guy fix.”

She smiled, putting the sun to shame. “I've got a tough guy right here, Mr. Medal-of-Valor.”

His face heated. “Cut it out.”

“Seriously, Mick. I'm really proud of you.”

That meant a thousand times more than the medal the mayor pinned to his chest. It also embarrassed the hell out of him, because he knew he didn't deserve her admiration. Not when he was coming apart at the seams.

“You should stay in the shade,” he said, and got out of there.

Back in their room, he dropped his sopping suit in the sink and schooled himself, hard. “You need to calm the fuck down.” He glared at the mirror. “Man up. Get over shit. Forget the fucking fire.” And as for Jan, “For fuck's sake, keep your filthy mind out of the gutter, and your filthy hands off her panties.”

Well, shit. Where did that last part come from?

He forked a hand through his hair. Wrestled with his conscience. Convinced himself a quick peek couldn't hurt. Her suitcase was on the bench, closed but invitingly unzipped. He snuck up on it, flipped up the lid.

And there they were, jumbled together, a loose knot of black satin and lace.

He shouldn't touch them, but he did, running them through his fingers, breathing in her light, familiar scent.

Separating one pair from the rest, he spread it across his palm. There was nothing to it. It was practically see-through. He pictured it on her ass, her creamy white ass . . .

Then he dropped it.

He was a pig who couldn't be trusted with her panties, much less her body.

Which was exactly why he'd never make a move on her. He was one short step up from a sex addict, while she was pure and unspoiled. Delicate and petite.

If he ever got his hands on her, he'd break her to pieces.

J
AN CLOSED HER
book and eyed Mick as he strolled into view, hair damp from the shower, cheeks freshly shaved.

He'd dressed for dinner in lightweight chinos and an indigo shirt that darkened his eyes to midnight blue.

He looked great. But that was Mick. Even in firefighter gear he was mouthwatering. Especially when it was peeled down to his waist after battling a five-alarm blaze, his face streaked with soot and sweat, hair matted from his helmet.

Thanks to his heroics, his hotness was now a matter of public record. When he strode out of that inferno carrying the little girl he'd pulled from a fully engulfed basement, the Boston news channels had eaten him up. The medal was the least of the fuss. After the footage went viral, he could have had the keys to the city and a contract with the Gap.

But Mick hated the bullshit, which only made everyone love him more.

Now he stared moodily at the pool, a bottle of Sam Adams dangling from his fingers.

“I was assembling a search party,” she said.

His lips turned up in a smirk. “Did I cut into your shower hour?”

“Look who's talking, Mr. Metrosexual.”

“That's me, all manicures and shit.”

She laughed, because it couldn't be further from the truth.

He swigged his beer, scanning the sky, studying the foliage. Looking, she realized, everywhere but at her.

She glanced down at her stomach. Could she be any whiter? The glare probably blinded him.

Damn it, why hadn't she invested in a spray-on tan? Not that she expected to impress Mick. But if her best friend couldn't look at her, what luck would she have with other guys?

And she really wanted to get lucky. Sex was the next phase of the New Jan Plan. College was a long time ago. Eight years, to be exact.

Eight years since she'd had sex.

Oh, she'd made out a few times. Been felt up. Propositioned. But casual sex with some guy from the neighborhood just wasn't going to happen.

First of all, she'd have to see him again.
Embarrassing!

Second of all, it was sure to get back to her mother.
Unthinkable!

But time was marching on. She was thirty. Thirty! If she didn't get into circulation soon, she'd dry up like a prune.

Key West was the perfect place to get her feet wet. A thousand miles from Boston; a world away from her humdrum life.

And who better to help her find her mojo than Mick? If the stories were true—and they were too numerous and consistent to doubt—he was a sex god. Or a sex machine. Or a sex maniac. Depending on who you listened to.

She'd long theorized that he exuded some kind of bionic pheromone that was catnip to women. Fortunately, having been exposed to him since toddlerhood, she'd developed immunity.

Not that she didn't get an intoxicating whiff now and then, but she didn't start drooling and unzipping her jeans. Instead, she simply took a good long look at him, and a good long look at herself. That sobered her up fast.