Chapter FOURTEEN
AUSTIN WASN’T SURE if it was the black-eye comment or the mushroom pizza, but from her expression he knew she’d relented. And damn if he didn’t like that look. He could imagine her wearing that look and nothing else.
“Just this once.” She crossed her arms, and the posture accentuated her breasts. He remembered the view he’d gotten when she checked his head wound earlier. Something twitched in his jeans.
They weren’t the D cups Blondie had, and even though Leah’s smaller breasts were mostly concealed, they were more appealing. And… real. Everything about Leah Reece came off as real. And until this moment, he hadn’t realized how damn attractive “real” was.
Then again, he needed to remember why he was here. “I’ll get the glasses.”
She grabbed the wine and moved to the kitchen table.
He brought the glasses and set them on the table, then pulled the cork out of the bottle. “Sit down.”
She lowered herself into a dining table chair and glanced at his computer. “You get your e-mails sent?”
“Done.” He poured her a glass, handed it to her, and dropped into the chair on the other side of the table.
He accidentally nudged the table and the cork rolled off, but he was too busy watching how she caressed the glass of wine to pick it up.
“Do you always work from home?” She ran her finger down the side of the glass as if needing something to do with her hands.
“Unless a client needs me to come to their office.” He sipped from his glass, wanting to get the taste of the lie from his tongue. He watched her twirl her wine, spinning the red fluid in her glass, and then she put her nose to the lip and inhaled like a wine connoisseur.
“This is nice,” she said. “Don’t let me forget to get your bottle out of my car.”
“My bottle?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m replacing the one you gave me.”
“Why? I broke yours. That’s why I gave you this one.”
“Yeah, but you upgraded, so it wasn’t a fair trade.” She took her first taste, and her dreamy expression said she really liked it. She inhaled again. “This is the good stuff. The bottle that broke—that I dropped, by the way—was a hair better than Boone’s Farm.”
He enjoyed the look of pleasure on her face as she sipped again from her glass. “And you don’t like gifts,” he said, remembering, thinking again of puzzles.
She paused as if trying to recall imparting that piece of information. “Right.”
“And why is that?” He leaned back in his chair, just enjoying looking at her.
He saw the shutters go down in her eyes. He’d trespassed on private property—parts of her past she wouldn’t share. She lifted one shoulder as if to make her lie sound more casual. “I guess I don’t like being beholden to anyone.”
Yeah, but why? Who hurt you? He wanted to push, but knew better.
She looked around at his place. “So you moved everything up here and you’re only going to be here for a couple of months?”
“No. This isn’t my stuff. I had a service furnish everything.”
“Everything?” she asked.
He nodded.
“That explains it.” She looked at her wine and took another sip.
“Explains what?” he asked.
She held up the glass. “Why the wine you drink is more expensive per glass than the glasses you serve it in.” She shifted her gaze around the apartment.
He looked at his glass. He hadn’t considered them to be cheap. But, on second thought, they were clunkier than those he had at home—which hadn’t been cheap.
“So you’re an expert on glassware?”
She chuckled. “I’m an expert on cheap. I have the same glasses, bought at the Dollar Store.”
He was trying to figure out how to ask about her reasons for being so cheap, when she spoke up again. “But it’s not just the glasses, it’s the whole place. It doesn’t look like you.”
He looked around. “What doesn’t look like me?”
She made that cute face of hers that had her dimples winking. “The striped sofa. The burgundy chair. The fake apples. The pictures of pears on the wall.”
He hadn’t even noticed what hung on the wall. “So you’re anti-fruit?” He grinned.
She smiled back. “No, but…”
“But what?” he asked, having to force himself not to stare at the sheen of moisture left by the wine on her bottom lip.
“It doesn’t suit you.” She ran her finger over the stem of her glass. What the hell was it about her that seemed… erotic? Innocently erotic. But damn if he wasn’t getting turned on just watching her touch a cheap wineglass. “I’ll bet you don’t have pictures of pears on your walls at your real place.”
He laughed. “So what do you think my real place looks like?”
She tilted her head to the side, reminding him of a curious puppy. “Leather and lots of wood,” she said. “If you have anything on the wall, it’s… masculine. You had cowboy boots on yesterday, so I’m thinking you go with the rustic type of art.”
He was stunned at how right on she was about his place. He actually had an old piece of barn wood with an antique pair of horseshoes hanging above his leather sofa. Not that he’d come up with the idea, but one of Tyler’s cousins was an interior decorator and she’d helped him fix up his place to match his style. He hadn’t thought he had a style, but he’d liked her work.
He raised his cheap glass. “You’re good.” It was a bit frightening that she read him so well.
She shrugged. “Or maybe you’re just easy to read.”
“Maybe.” He took another sip and hoped that wasn’t the case. “So now it’s my turn to surmise why you enjoy good wine, seem to know how to judge it, but drink the cheap stuff, out of cheap glasses, even when I’ve heard vets do well for themselves.”
She did another sniff of her wine. “That’s easy. A couple of years ago, I took a class on wine. As for me being frugal? School loans, owning my own business, and… helping my brother with his college, it… oh, and phone sex, it isn’t cheap.”
He had just taken a sip of wine and it went down the wrong pipe. He coughed.
She laughed. “Sorry, I should have kept that one to myself.” But from the twinkle in her brown eyes, she’d liked surprising him. He liked her liking it, too.
He coughed again. “So you’re into… phone sex?”
She rolled her expressive eyes. “No! Not me, my ex. When he left, he didn’t quite get the fifty/fifty split rule. He thought that meant he took everything we had, and I got to keep the bills.” She took another sip of her wine.
“He sounds like a real champion.” He wondered if this was the guy with the devil doodled by his name in her phone book. He also found it odd that she didn’t seem to mind talking about some things, but others were unapproachable. Then again, wasn’t he like that?
In most cases, he could even joke about the whole framed-for-murder situation, he even made some jokes about losing Cara, but mention his childhood and you’d get shit.
“So no exes in your past?”
“Nope.”
“No close calls?”
The doorbell rang. “That should be our pizza.”
“Or your secret admirer,” she said.
“My who?” He stood up.
She arched a brow. “The neighbor with the store-bought cookies.”
He laughed again and it felt good, too. He glanced back. A tiny little thing, a perfect body, the face of a model, a witty personality, and every inch of her… real. This was the most fun he’d had with a woman with his clothes on in a long time. And damn if he wouldn’t like to see how much fun they could have with them off.
He brought the pizza to the table, hoping the food would up his willpower. They continued to chat about local restaurants, different types of mushrooms, and even her cats. She really loved her cats. And when she brought up him losing his cat, his manufactured lie, he quickly changed the subject to his homemade pizza.
“You really make your own crust,” she said.
“I swear it.” And right then he planned to make her one, but he didn’t say it because he sensed she’d rebel. He hadn’t forgotten her comment, just this once, when she’d relented to have dinner with him.
Somehow, someway, he’d change her mind.
He opened the other bottle of wine and refilled their glasses.
He’d eaten five slices of pizza to her two. He pushed the box toward her to have the last one.
“No,” she said. “I love pizza, but I limit it to two slices. Especially since we didn’t even have anything healthy to counter the bad calories.”
“I could make a run to the store and buy some broccoli,” he teased, remembering their conversation about broccoli. Then he remembered what the conversation had really been about. Secrets.
Her smile came on timid, as if she was remembering their conversation as well. She picked up her nearly empty glass and took a small sip. “So your parents didn’t get a divorce?”
Her question shocked him, but also told him she was as curious about him as he was about her. He enjoyed knowing it. Still, his first instinct was to shut the questioning down, but something told him that if he wanted answers, he should be able to give a few. And why not? In a few days, a week at the most, they wouldn’t see each other again.
“No divorce.” He took the last swig of his wine. Liquid courage. “I was raised in foster care.”
“I’m sorry.” Pity filled her eyes.
He hated pity. “You’re apologizing again,” he said, uncomfortable in his own skin.
“Were your parents killed?” she asked.
He wanted to lie and say yes.
“I’m sorry, you don’t have to—”
“My dad ran off after I was born. My mom made a living taking her clothes off, and she had a liking for drugs. When I was three, she dropped me off at day care and forgot she had a son.” Damn, he hadn’t meant to tell her all that.
Her brown eyes widened. “That’s awful.”
“Nah, it worked out all right.” He set his glass down. “And you?”
From the look in her eyes, he knew she understood exactly what he meant. This was tit for tat? “Or are you sticking to the broccoli story?”
She blinked. The look in those brown eyes told him she’d mentally tossed in the towel. “That picture was taken a week after my mom was killed in a car accident.”
His chest swelled. “Foster care?”
“No. My aunt, my mom’s older sister, took us in. Having kids wasn’t in her… plans, but after she got used to the idea, she made a damn good parent. We were lucky.”
He turned the cheap wineglass in his hand and figured he had to go for it. “What about your dad?”
“Dead.” The way she said it told him that wasn’t the whole story. He glanced briefly at his computer and wondered if it would be more forthcoming with information. What was she hiding? Who had she been afraid of, and who had she called when she’d run out on him and went to her bedroom?
“And?” he asked.
She looked down at her glass. “He…” She stood up, grabbed his glass, and carried them to the kitchen counter to refill them.
“He what?” He wasn’t willing to let her off the hook that easy. The silence reigned as she poured the wine. As she stepped closer, she lost her footing. He saw the damn cork he’d dropped earlier shoot out from under her shoe. Before he could even attempt to catch her, she managed to right herself, but not gracefully. Her arms went up and then down, and the contents of the two glasses of wine shot forward. Right at him.
Right in his face.
The cool red splash hit. The alcohol stung his pupils and he automatically squeezed his eyes shut.
“Oh, damn,” he heard her say. Then she giggled.
He knew why, too. He remembered doing this same thing to her in the parking lot.
“Let me get you some paper towels,” she said.
In seconds, he felt her press a handful of paper towels to his face. He felt her closeness. “I think you did that on purpose,” he said, teasing, and beneath the smell of wine, he inhaled her scent of waffle cones again.
“No, I swear.” She giggled. “Let me wet some towels and that will help.” She moved away. He managed to open his eyes, but barely.
She moved in and pressed the moist towels to his face, covering his eyes. “I think I gave you my shirt.” He lowered the towels. His gaze lowered to her breasts. She stood, her legs apart, straddling his knees.
“Behave.” Humor danced in her eyes, and her hair danced on her shoulders.
She looked just a little bit tipsy. Her cheeks a little flushed. Or was it the laughter?
Whatever it was, she looked sexy as hell. Maybe she wasn’t the only one a little tipsy.
He dropped the paper towels and caught her by the waist. His palms fit perfectly into that sweet curvy spot of her body. He pulled her closer and settled her on his lap.
She didn’t resist. If anything, those last few inches were her own doing. Her weight, so light, came against his thighs. But when her soft ass pressed against all the right places, he went hard. He lowered his head, and through watering eyes, he stared at her mouth.
He wasn’t certain who did it—who closed the small space between them, but their lips met. She tasted like… wine.
Like pizza.
And sweet woman.
All the things he loved.
The kiss didn’t start slow, or hesitant. It went from hot to hotter. Her tongue met his and danced. Her hands moved around his neck, pulling his mouth closer, as if wanting it deeper. Deep was good. He’d kill to be deep inside her body right now.
He shifted his palms up from her waist, and his thumbs brushed against the soft sides of her breasts. Nothing blatantly forward. Just a slight brush. But damn if he didn’t want more.
She moaned, and her pelvis shifted ever so slightly against the hardness pressing against his jeans. Blood shot to a certain body part, and he became harder still.
He slipped his hand up under her T-shirt to her bare back. He memorized the feel of her skin, silky soft, and instinctively he went for her bra clasp. One tiny twist and it fell open. The slightest weight of her breasts landed against his chest. His right palm found its way back to her front, to the soft supple flesh. He held her breast in his hand and brushed his thumb over her nipple. Her pelvis shifted against him again, only harder, a sure sign that she was with him. He imagined her already wet, and he ached to feel that dampness. Yearned to slip inside it.
Lowering his hand to the button of her jeans, it took nothing to free it. He tucked his hand inside to touch the silk of her underwear. She did another slight rocking motion against him. His hand slipped deeper, to the moist place between her thighs.
She moaned. And did another rock motion against him.
All he could think about was getting her clothes off and getting inside her. She slipped her hand inside his shirt. That sweet touch, her soft palm against his chest, sent all sorts of warning bells ringing.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
He was here for information, not…
He hesitated. She bolted off his lap.
She was breathing hard. He wasn’t breathing. He couldn’t. Everything hurt.
They stared at each other. Her nipples pebbled against the soft pink cotton of her blouse.
And her lips, still wet from his tongue, and his hand, still wet from her desire, gave him all sorts of fantasies. He throbbed with the memory. He wanted her back in his lap, now, minus the jeans and panties. He wanted her naked on his lap. He wanted to take her in the chair.
She shook her head and took another step back. “This… this can’t…” She turned to leave.
“Wait.” He jumped up. His crotch throbbed. He got between her and the door. “I’m sorry.”
He heard the shakiness of her breath. Or was that him now trying to get air?
He raked a hand through his hair and flinched when he hit his wound. “It’s too soon, too fast. I… I’m sorry.”
Her wide eyes filled with a wild look of passion. He knew he probably had the same in his eyes.
“I told you that you should go to the neighbor,” she said. “I can’t—”
He exhaled. “I… don’t want the neighbor.” I want you. Those three words echoed inside him like a mantra. He wanted her. This was so not what he had planned to happen.
She shook her head. “No. This isn’t—”
“I said I’m sorry. I meant it. I won’t—”
“Won’t what?” She rolled her eyes and then shook her head. “Now who’s apologizing? And what are you apologizing for? I’m the one who kissed you.”
“Okay.” He held up a hand as if to calm her down. To calm them both. “That’s… that’s good to know,” he said. “I wasn’t sure who’d done what. But… I’m sure it’s still my fault.”
“How?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” He met her gaze again. Her lips looked swollen. Her hair a little disheveled. Damn, she was beautiful. “For being irresistible.” He shot her a smile, hoping humor might help.
A laugh bolted out of her. He laughed with her. It was cathartic. It was good.
“This is why you can’t walk out of here and be… mad.”
“Why?” she asked, the humor lessening from her eyes.
“We make each other laugh. What just happened probably shouldn’t have happened… but this…” He waved a hand between them. “This is good.”
There wasn’t even the tiniest thread of untruth to his words. Letting her walk away knowing she wouldn’t want to see him again felt so damn wrong, and not because he needed information so he could bring down her low-life half brother. Not because he needed to bury himself deep inside her so badly his teeth hurt. It wasn’t about sex.
He needed… As f*cked up as it sounded—and yeah, he accepted he was a little drunk—he needed her smile. Her laughter. The way his hands fit around her waist. The way she felt on top of… Okay, maybe it was a little about sex, but not all about it.
“No,” Leah said. “I can’t. I’m not open to…” She put a hand to her head. “How many glasses of wine did I have?” She started for the door. “I’m leaving.”
He wanted to stop her so bad it hurt.
His door shut with a click that echoed inside him. She hadn’t slammed it. It hadn’t been loud, just a sad sound.
His chest gripped with something that felt like loss. Like the seven or eight times different foster parents walked out, leaving him behind with a social worker.