An Offer He Can't Refuse Read online

  But would the urbane Johnny she knew play day laborer? Though this didn’t feel like the Johnny she knew. Gone were the easy smiles and the facile charm. This man was a tense, bad-tempered stranger who was looking at her as if he wanted to push her away…and eat her up whole at the same time.

  Her throat closed down, trapping the air in her chest. With panic fluttering in her belly, she grabbed the makeup bag from him. It didn’t matter what he had been doing or what he was doing to her. On Friday night, spooked by her mother’s warning, she’d considered having sex with Johnny so she wouldn’t have to be alone. Dumb. Really dumb. But now she remembered that she had a job to do, that they had a business relationship.

  End of story.

  Clutching the bag to the chest of her basic black shirt dress, she forced in a breath and aimed a polite smile just past him. “I was hoping to get inside and take some measurements this afternoon,” she said. “I warned you that we’d be tripping over each other if you were living here while I worked, but if you want me to come back another time—”

  “No,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “No. You just surprised me, that’s all.”

  “Okay.”

  He hesitated, ran his fingers over his hair once more. “I haven’t been sleeping well. I apologize for…shit.”

  He apologized for…what? For being rude this afternoon? For leaving her on Friday night? For causing her to go home alone and remember the way he’d kissed her, touched her, and then left her with all the unrequited sexual lust that he’d promised in his devil’s voice would be so simple to slake?

  She hadn’t slept well either. So she’d pulled the Loanshark book off her bedroom shelf and paged through it, studying line after line of perfect Catholic schoolgirl handwriting. For the thousandth time she’d considered shredding it or burning it or burying it deep, deep, deep in her tiny backyard, and for the thousandth time she’d wondered if her father might really be alive. If he came out of hiding, he could use the information inside the book for leverage with the Mafia or with the FBI.

  And whether or not she loved him or she hated him, the mob boss’s daughter continued to protect him.

  It was why she’d decided to carry it with her, instead of leaving it in her empty house all day.

  “That’s it,” Johnny suddenly bit out, pulling on the bag-covered book in her hands to bring her toward him.

  “What are you doing?” she said, allowing him to tug her forward because she was unwilling to release the book. But as he drew her too close, she let go and folded her arms against her chest. “What’s gotten into you?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t the hell know. I was just going to…I wanted to kiss you again.”

  “Well, don’t.” Téa flushed. “I mean, I don’t want you to.”

  “I don’t want to want to either,” he replied, glaring at her. His hand slashed the book through the air in a impatient gesture. “But then you show up in the butt-ugly dress and…shit.”

  And I want to strip it off you and lick you from your pretty little toes to your hot little tongue.

  Oh, no, Téa thought. She wasn’t going to let her imagination go wild again. Pretending she heard Johnny’s voice in her head only fueled the sexual fire he ignited inside of her. But she wasn’t going to burn this time.

  “Look, Contessa, the fact is that I’m on a short fuse here, and—”

  “You’re on a short fuse? You’re on a short fuse?” The anger she always tried to keep locked away in her mind was rattling its cabinet doors. Her grandfather was trying to rope her back into the family, her business was always on the verge of collapse or the object of public contempt, dozens of dangerous men were moving into town, all who would eagerly, literally, kill to find the book that was right now in the hands of the one man who had promised her miracles but paid off in misery.

  Sexual misery, the lowest kind of all.

  “I’ll have you understand,” she continued, “that I didn’t ask for any of this. I could have gone along just fine, ignoring this…this so-called chemistry. I didn’t want to know you any better than knowing whether you prefer floor lamps or hanging fixtures. But you’re the one who told me it was ‘simple,’ and that I should stop my self-denial and start eating sugar again.”

  She lunged toward him, meaning to swipe the bagged book out of his hand.

  He held onto it. “Maybe I was wrong—”

  “Maybe you were wrong?” She tugged at the book, but he wouldn’t let go. “Then maybe you should have figured that out before backing me up against my front door Friday night and then leaving me feeling…feeling—”

  Realizing what she’d been about to give away, she broke off and went back to yanking on the Loanshark book.

  Johnny tightened his grip. “Leaving you feeling what?” he prompted, his voice turning softer. Silkier. “Tell me, I want to know.”

  “Look, let’s just forget about it, okay?” Now that he was gazing at her instead of glaring at her, she wanted to drop the subject.

  “Perhaps we should just be honest with each other instead.”

  “You want honesty?” How ironic the notion was when they were holding her shameful secrets between them. But she managed to stare him straight in the eyes. “Go ahead, Johnny. You start.”

  He hesitated. For several long, tense moments.

  She laughed as his hands relaxed and she was able to pull the makeup bag from his grasp. “It’s not as easy as it sounds, is it?” With the book in her hands, she could breathe better. She tucked it back in her briefcase, stuffing it deep, then took pity on them both by doing the same with the personal turn of their conversation.

  She stuffed that deep too, and returned to her professional responsibilities. “I’d like to show you some sketches I’ve prepared. They’re preliminary, of course, but I want to make sure I’m on the right track with what you have in mind.”

  “Fine.” He took a deep breath, let it out. “Sure.” With another deep breath he strode to the front door and held it open for her.

  It was pleasantly cool inside, but their footsteps clattered in the emptiness. Apparently he’d added no more furnishings besides those in the master bedroom, and she couldn’t understand why he’d want to live with all the eerie echoes. “I have a few pieces in mind, a chair and a love seat, that I could get in here in a day or so, if you’d like—and if you like them,” she said, glancing over at him.

  He shrugged.

  She crossed to the seat-level fireplace hearth, pushing aside a tall stack of newspapers to make room for them both. “They’ll make you more comfortable.”

  “I doubt it,” she thought he muttered, but then he said more loudly. “Would you like some coffee? A soda? I have sugarless.”

  So he was backing her no-sweets habit now. Téa ignored the little stab of disappointment and shook her head. “Come sit beside me and let me show you my sketches.”

  “Just a sec.”

  He disappeared through the front door again. She heard a splash and peered through the glass wall at the pool. But he was out as quick as he was in. In another two minutes he was back in the living room, his hair wet and a blue-and-white striped beach towel wrapped around him from hip to knees.

  Certainly he still had on those low-riding Levis, right?

  He seated himself on the hearth beside her. She leaned down to pull her sketchpad from her briefcase, her gaze sliding over to his long legs and the damp golden hairs already springing away from his tanned skin. She stared, fascinated, as a lone drip of pool water worked itself from somewhere above and rolled over his knee and toward his ankle.

  A flush of corresponding heat rolled over her, and she jerked upright, pulling from her briefcase—the makeup bag.

  “Your sketches are in there?” Johnny asked, glancing down at her lap.

  “No, no.” She dropped the bag like a hot potato and grasped the spirals of her sketchpad instead. With a quick flip, she located her first drawing.

  She tilted it to gi
ve him a better view of the quick sketch she’d made of the house as seen from the courtyard surrounding the pool. “It’s preliminary as I said, but what I propose is to return the exterior and interior walls to the sand color called for in the original plans.”

  “You know I don’t like things around me to be boring.”

  Like her clothes. Like her? Was that why he hadn’t brought her back home on Friday night? Téa pushed the thought from her mind. “The color will come from the furnishings and from the outside environment. As a matter of fact, I want to take my cue when it comes to color from the outside environment.”

  He scooted closer as she flipped another page. Her arm, bare beneath the short sleeve of her shirt dress, brushed his cool skin. Setting fire to hers.

  She hugged her elbow to her ribs and swallowed hard. “Most of the wood floors in the house can be refinished, but the one here in the living room needs to be replaced. What I was thinking was mimicking the pale turquoise of the pool in a ceramic floor tile for this room. Not only would it visually extend the pool setting into the interior, but it would be cool in the hot months. In the winter, the reflection of a fire in the fireplace against the tiles would be spectacular.”

  “Spectacular,” he murmured. His body shifted again, and his towel-covered thigh pressed against her hip.

  “Well?” she asked, glancing over to find him gazing not at the sketch, but at her face. “What do you think?”

  I think I want you, right here, right now.

  The voice in her head matched the look in his eyes. “Johnny…” Her body seemed to sway toward his and, cursing her imagination, she snapped her spine straight, forcing herself upright. With a breath, she focused back on the pad and the pieces of furniture she’d drawn there.

  “I can get a couple of vintage pieces from a local shop I know.” She pointed her forefinger at the page. “A slat back sofa like this one and a van der Rohe lounge chair similar to this. If you like them, I can have them delivered in a couple of days. Would that make you more comfortable here?”

  He traced the back of one finger down her cheek, and those gypsy violins started singing again. She saw the firelight reflected on the blue tile floor and their bodies entwined on a velvety area rug.

  “I’m beginning to think only you can make me more comfortable here,” he said, his voice husky and low.

  “I thought we agreed to take this back to business only,” Téa whispered. That’s what she’d decided, right? That’s what he’d made clear by leaving her alone on Friday night. By not calling on Saturday or Sunday and by barking at her on Monday afternoon. She should have known better than to think that sex would be simple, anyway.

  “Business only?” he mused, his finger rubbing against her skin.

  Making her look at his skin, miles and miles of golden male skin on this golden male who had told her surrendering to their mutual chemistry would be simplest for both of them.

  “Business only?” he repeated.

  Hearing it again woke her out of her partial hypnosis. She blinked, then looked away from his chest and the six-pack of muscle disappearing into the blue-and-white striped towel. Averting her face, she avoided another of his seductive strokes.

  His hand dropped away.

  She cleared her throat and waved the sketchpad in his direction. “So what do you think? To be honest, my concern is that I’m making the look too retro. It’s mid-century modern, what you asked for, but does that really suit? You told me you’re a man who lives in the present and looks forward to the future. It sounds as if the past might not really be your thing.”

  He was silent, looking down at her sketches. He stayed silent, and it was then she realized he was staring at her digital watch and not at her drawings at all.

  “Johnny?”

  He didn’t answer. Téa put out a hand to touch him, then hesitated. Though she’d wanted their relationship to return to the impersonal, his attitude seemed much more than that. She didn’t think he was hearing her, seeing her, or that he was even aware she was still in the room.

  In the tense silence there was only his harsh breathing.

  And then new sounds.

  Pop.

  Pop. Pop.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  Eighteen

  “With My Eyes Wide Open”

  Dean Martin

  Dean Martin Sings (1952)

  At the gunshot-like sounds, Johnny started, his body twitching so hard his bare foot jerked, kicking over Téa’s briefcase.

  “What’s that?” he said, his voice low and harsh. “What’s that?”

  It sounded like backfire to Téa, most likely from one of those clunky old trucks belonging to Guerroro Gardening. She leaned forward, reaching for the makeup bag, which had once more slipped out and onto the ground.

  Pop.

  Pop. Pop.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  “No.” Johnny groaned the word.

  Téa straightened, clutching the slick black nylon in her hands as she stared at Johnny. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  His eyes looked dazed, and there was a new sheen of dampness on his face, chest, and arms. “No,” he whispered, still not blinking.

  “No, you’re not all right,” she agreed. “What can I get you? Water? Coffee?”

  He blindly reached out for her hand, found the Loanshark book instead and closed his fingers over it. “I’ll be okay,” he said. “I’ll be okay in a minute.”

  Then he stood, with the movement scooping the book from her lap. He started walking, his hands still clutching her property.

  Téa couldn’t let the Loanshark book get far. She didn’t think she should let Johnny get far either. He was moving like a sleepwalker, his head oddly still as his strides ate up the empty floor.

  She caught him at the front door, curling her hand around his elbow. “Not there, Johnny.” The way he was acting she thought he might walk himself straight into the pool. As a precaution, she tried prying the makeup bag from him, but he was white-knuckling the thing, so for the moment she let him keep it.

  “Don’t go,” he suddenly said, his head whipping toward her. “Please, please don’t go.”

  “I won’t,” she promised. But she wasn’t sure he was seeing her. His eyes still had that dazed look in them and the sweat was now running down his face. She linked her arm with his and turned him away from the front entrance. “Let’s get you cooled off.”

  Too much sun? A sudden flu? Maybe a sudden attack of schizophrenia, although Téa didn’t believe for a second that Johnny was crazy. She thought about running to get Cal from his bungalow, but leaving Johnny alone for even that short a time didn’t seem like a good idea.

  His breath came in short, harsh breaths as she led him toward the master bedroom. With each of his long strides, the towel around his hips slipped. The tail came loose and she inadvertently stepped on it, pulling the material completely away from him. She stumbled over the fallen towel and bumped right into Johnny’s backside.

  His cool-to-the-touch, bare-assed naked backside.

  Her stomach dipped, but he didn’t appear to notice his nudity, so she swallowed down a breath, steadied herself, and continued guiding him into the bedroom.

  “Why don’t you lie down?” she suggested, drawing him toward the big bed in the corner of the room. He was a bed-maker she noted with approval. The satin coverlet was military smooth and the pillows uncreased.

  She pulled back the covers and the linens smelled like detergent, dryer sheets, and that tangy scent that belonged to Johnny. With a little shove, she managed to maneuver him onto the mattress.

  As she pulled a sheet over him, he found one of her hands with his free one. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s all right.”

  “Of course.” She smoothed the sheet over his chest and could feel his heart pounding against her palm. A heart attack? “But maybe I should call a doctor.”

  “No!” He found her fingers, squeezed them again. “Don’t need a doctor. Water. Need water
. Need you.”

  She brushed her fingers through his damp hair. His forehead was clammy. “I’ll get you water,” she promised, then hesitated, staring at her book still squeezed by one of his big hands. She’d get his water and then she’d get her book.

  In the attached bathroom, it took her a few moments to get her own breath back. She hadn’t made it this far on her first tour, so she hadn’t known about the sybaritic tub or the orgy-sized shower, both of which were surrounded by the same kind of mirrors that made up the bedroom ceiling.

  Turning her back on the etched X-rated figures, she filled a water glass then wet a washcloth and wrung it out. With one in each hand, she returned to the bedroom.

  There she found Johnny rolled onto his stomach, the sheet stretched diagonally across one hip and buttock. Asleep.

  The Loanshark book nowhere in sight.

  Now what?

  She put the glass down on the floor then touched his face, turned in profile against a thick pillow. His skin was warmer now, no longer damp, and he was definitely sleeping, his breath easing in and out in a regular rhythm. His lashes were bristly stubs of dark gold against his cheeks and she could see shadows on his lids and under his eyes. He’d said he hadn’t been sleeping, and now that she was really looking at him she could see that it was true.

  But even when he was exhausted he looked beautiful.

  Her gaze moved from his dark blond hair down the shallow valley of his spine to the tight, round butt that only men possessed but didn’t deserve. She put out her fingertip and pressed—just to make sure the muscles were as hard as they looked—and then flushed. Joey would call the action a BL—a body liberty—and Téa had watched Eve take them dozens of times. Little pats on the butt, fingertips sliding inside the open neck of a collar, a proprietary set of nails scratching along the back of a man’s hand.

  Téa had never thought much about the little maneuvers, had never wanted to pet the men she dated.

  But then, she’d never dated a man like Johnny.

  And probably never would again.