An Offer He Can't Refuse Read online

  With that sobering thought, she decided to get her book and get out of his house.

  She glanced around the covers to see if he’d left it lying about. No luck. Walking around the bed, she searched to see if it had fallen to the floor.

  Not there either.

  “What did you do with it?” she whispered at the back of his head.

  He stirred, his legs stretching wider and one hand shoving deeper beneath the pillow where he rested his cheek.

  Ah-hah. That’s where the book had gone, beneath the pillow.

  All that she had to do was play Tooth Fairy. Heck, she didn’t even need to leave a dollar behind, but she’d be happy to do so if she could get the book and get away.

  She circled to the far side of the king-size bed, where his sprawled body didn’t take up quite so much room. There, she slipped out of her pumps and then kneed her way from the edge of the mattress toward the pillow he was using.

  He muttered something in his sleep. “Don’ go. No.”

  Téa froze as he turned his head on the pillow to face her.

  “No,” he said again, his eyes still closed but his voice sounding anxious again. “Please, no.”

  “Shh,” she whispered, her hand reaching out to caress his hair. “It’s all right.”

  His eyelids fluttered.

  She froze again, not wanting to wake him. Surely he’d be suspicious if he found her sneaking around his bed and stealing under his pillow.

  He settled back into sleep with a sigh, and she let out the breath she’d been holding as well. Then she took another gulp of air, trapped it in her lungs, and slid her fingers underneath his pillow.

  Her hand found the smooth inner skin of his forearm first.

  She kept herself still, not breathing until she was sure she hadn’t disturbed him. He didn’t move, so she dared to again, inching her fingertips along the line of his arm to his wrist and then to his cupped palm. Watching his face from little more than a nose away, she spread her fingers wide, certain to encounter the edge of the bag.

  And only found cool sheet and warm calluses.

  She made another surreptitious search, trying to move starfish-slow.

  His hand clamped down on hers.

  Téa gasped and blinked, but he didn’t seem to be any more awake than before. He’d merely latched onto her hand the way he’d latched onto the Loanshark book in the living room.

  Great. Just great.

  The position was awkward, with her arm trapped beneath the pillow and her butt in the air. Closing her eyes and gritting her teeth, she slowly straightened her legs and then twisted her body so that she was lying on her side on the mattress, mimicking Johnny’s pose. His hand would relax in a minute, she thought. Then she’d slip free of him, find her book, and hightail it out of here.

  Inhaling a long, calming breath, she raised her lashes.

  And stared straight into Johnny’s very blue eyes.

  Johnny gazed at Téa’s exotic face, his heart slamming against his chest, his mouth dry. He was in his bed. Naked. Just awakened from another nightmare. What the hell had happened now?

  He remembered finding her outside the house. Remembered jumping into the pool to sluice off his sweat after working with the landscapers. Then he’d been in the living room with Téa, looking down at her sketches and his glance had snagged on the damn time on her watch. 1:09:09.

  He’d heard popping sounds and been flung headlong into another of those living, seething memories. Shit. Shit shit shit.

  Once again, the sounds, the sights, the smells of the flashback and the nightmare that had followed swirled around the edges of his consciousness, swirled around the very edges of the bed, trying to suck him under once again. His body shuddered.

  Oh, shit.

  Téa scooted nearer, wrapping her free arm around him.

  He dragged her even closer and held on. “This is real,” he whispered to himself against her hair. “This is real.”

  But the Beastie Boys were still playing somewhere in his head and a gun was lifting as his father turned off the ignition and stepped out of his car. Johnny shuddered again, trying to resist the dark lure of the memories.

  “I’m here,” Téa whispered, her warm breath against his face.

  But he couldn’t believe it without tasting her. He had to taste her to be sure that they were both alive. Rolling, he pressed her flat against the mattress. Then he put his mouth on hers.

  Her lips were hot, the wet inside of them even hotter. Johnny thrust his tongue into the heat.

  Yes. God, yes.

  He thrust inside her mouth again and she moaned, deep in her throat. At the sound, he pushed deeper, his fingers flexing on her shoulders. This was what he needed. Her kiss, her taste, the feel of her that would keep the darkness at bay.

  His lips slid off hers and slipped over her chin to the fragrant skin of her neck. Shifting for a better angle, his elbow encountered one of the pillows. With a swat of his hand, he batted it off the side of the bed. Then he pulled the other from beneath her head and tossed it away too. Tangling her hair in his fist, he tugged, arching her neck so that he could lick down the side of her throat. Her pulse beat, fast and alive, against his tongue.

  She gasped as he scraped his teeth against the spot.

  Reveling in her, he rubbed his cheek along her satin skin, back up to her mouth to kiss her again. Desperate for more, he slanted his head for a better fit and twined his tongue with hers. The sheet seemed to do the same to his legs, so he kicked it free, then shoved the covers off the bed with his foot.

  With an elbow on each side of Téa head, he cradled her face in his hands and let his mouth grind against hers. Her tongue played games with his, jacking up his need, jacking up the crackling heat between them. She squirmed, the slick fabric of her fastened-to-the-collarbone dress chafing his bare skin. Needing her flesh against his, Johnny curled his fingers over the neckline and yanked.

  Snaps pulled free with an audible rip. Téa gasped.

  Johnny froze.

  The scene hit him like a slap. The bed was stripped, the covers and pillows in a drunken heap on the floor. He was sprawled on it, sprawled over Téa, naked and breathing like a racehorse. She was looking up at him with her dark cat eyes wide. There was beard burn on her chin and across her neck and he saw heaving cleavage between the edges of her dress he’d just ripped halfway to her navel.

  Where was smooth Johnny Magee? She probably considered the one on top of her a madman. He should lift himself away and give her more air, if not a chance to escape.

  Neither thought made him move, however, not when he wasn’t done with her yet. Not when just thinking about not being skin-to-skin drew the ghosts closer to their safe oasis. Even now he could feel their cold breath blowing across the bare skin of his back.

  He was a mess, God knows he was aware of that, but it was Téa who—no, sex that would pull him together again. He couldn’t think about all the whys they shouldn’t be doing this. Because it was sex that would evaporate the memories, eradicate the ghosts, and hold him in the moment. Sex that would bring the ol’ you-only-like-shallow-relationships Johnny back.

  He needed her—it. He needed it bad.

  But he wouldn’t go sex-monster on her again. Instead he’d be the slow and gentle lover that experience had taught him would make it good for Téa too.

  Taking in a long breath, he set out to soothe, drawing the backs of his fingers down her cheek then brushing his knuckles back and forth across her swollen bottom lip.

  She closed her eyes. “Johnny—”

  “Shh. Quiet,” he said, still rubbing against her bottom lip. “You’ll like this, I promise.”

  I need this. Bad.

  He leaned forward and replaced his fingers with his mouth, grazing hers with the lightest, softest strokes. She trembled and he smiled to himself, then slicked his tongue against that same puffy lip.

  She trembled again and a burst of need sped through him like a bullet. But Johnny refuse
d to let it drive him. Gentle, he told himself. Slow and gentle. Bending closer, he pressed a series of featherweight kisses against her mouth.

  Her hands came up to his shoulders. “Yes,” he murmured against her mouth. “Touch me.”

  Her palms caressed his skin, sliding down his spine.

  On the other side of his body, his cock twitched against his belly as if trying to get closer to her touch. But he reminded himself he was a man of style, not speed, and laid another sweet seductive kiss on her.

  She moaned, her fingernails biting into his skin.

  His cock jumped. His temperature spiked. “Easy,” he murmured against her mouth, curling his fingers into fists on either side of her body. “Easy.”

  Her head swished against the sheet and the ends of her long hair slid across the backs of his hands. He tangled them in the stuff to hold her still and took the kiss just a little deeper.

  Téa bit his tongue.

  Heat shot up his back. Without his permission, one of his hands shifted, closing over one of her breasts.

  They both groaned.

  Finesse, Johnny, he reminded himself desperately. Don’t forget finesse. But the bra she was wearing was some stiff cage of a thing that didn’t come close to giving up what he wanted. What he had to have.

  He yanked the sides of her dress apart, spotted the front clasp of her bra, tripped the damn mechanism and then, God—oh my God—her bare breasts spilled into his hands.

  A man with his kind of polish and years of experience shouldn’t have been stunned. A man who’d lived in Las Vegas for the last decade had seen hooters aplenty, after all. But Johnny could only stare at the most beautiful, absolutely perfect, how-the-hell-did-she-hide-them-away? pair of knockers he’d ever seen in his life. The tennis dress she’d worn on Friday night had not done them justice either. Only nakedness perfectly suited these beauties.

  That speeding bullet of desire shot through his nervous system again as he tried to hold them in his hands. They overflowed his palms, their warm weight soft and fragrant. Her aureoles were a dusky pink that turned to raspberry as he ran his thumbs over her nipples. His cock twitched again as they tightened to his touch.

  Her fingers circled his wrists. He glanced at her face and saw her eyes were wide and nervous again. Gulping in a breath, he gentled his touch but didn’t take his hands away. “So pretty,” he whispered, not wanting to spook her. He ran slow thumbs over the stiff crests. “So damn pretty.”

  Keeping his gaze on hers, he bent to suck one into his mouth. At the first touch of tight nipple to the flat of his tongue, her eyes closed and her face flushed.

  The sign of her desire sent him hurtling over the edge once more.

  Forgetting finessing, he sucked her into his mouth. Sucked hard. She made a sound of pleasure and he closed his eyes too, giving himself up to her generous flesh. Heat suffused his body as his tongue circled her nipple, and he played with the other between his fingers. Téa moved one of her legs and his erection had a happy meeting with her outer thigh.

  Switching his mouth to her other breast, he pressed himself against her, his hips rolling in the same rhythm that he used on her nipple. She gave another pleasure-moan and one of her hands drifted across his naked chest. Desire surged through him again and he ground his cock against her leg.

  Her fingernails grazed across his chest. He bit her nipple and shoved his hand beneath the skirt of her dress.

  Then he touched her panties and found them wet.

  A hot shudder burned down his spine and he ground harder against her outer thigh.

  “That’s it,” he choked out, lifting his head. “It’s now. You’re ready, and if we keep this up I’ll come on the side of your leg.” He barely heard his hoarse voice utter the words and decided he’d be appalled by them later.

  There were condoms in the table on Téa’s side of the bed. To pull open the drawer, he leaned across her body. She licked his chest.

  His hand fell off the drawer pull.

  Her little tongue stroked him again.

  He managed to hang onto the metal knob the next time, gritting his teeth against the raging lust that her tongue incited so that he could locate the foil-wrapped square with fumbling fingers. Even as he rolled back, he was using his teeth to rip open the package. His hands were shaking, but he covered himself with the condom and French-kissed her at the same time.

  For a man in need, it was quite a feat.

  Then he kneeled between her legs and went back to her breasts. But those wet panties and what was underneath them couldn’t be ignored, so he pushed up her skirt and pulled down the silky undergarment. He only got it as far as her knees before he was distracted by the plump folds, already opening for him.

  The uncivilized man that Johnny was today didn’t wait for a second invitation. Holding the base of his cock, he insinuated the tip between those wet folds and then pushed home.

  She gasped, arching into him with her eyes closed and her mouth half-open. He filled that too, pressing his tongue between her lips. Heat rocketed up his spine.

  He rocked between her legs.

  It was so good. So damn good.

  In a minute he’d slow down. Find the finesse again. Use all the little slow and gentle touches that would please her. He’d know-how her into the most mind-blowing orgasm of her life.

  But first…but first—

  His hand found her breast. The nipple poked into his palm and he slid it between two of his fingers and squeezed it in the same rhythm that he squeezed himself in and out of her tight hold.

  She tilted her hips to take him deeper and then did something with her inner muscles that had the hunger in him screaming for mercy. “Fuck,” he said, because it was the only thing on his mind, in his mind, the only thing that Mr. Style and Polish could manage to say at the moment that he…

  …came.

  “Fuck,” he said again, his hips pumping to wring out every last drop of pleasure from the best climax he could remember.

  He collapsed onto her warm body, his face buried in her Téa-scented hair.

  He’d been right, he thought minutes later, as one cylinder of his brain started functioning again. He’d been a mess, but sex had put him together again. Sex with Téa had most definitely planted him back in the present because he couldn’t think of anything beyond her sweet heat and how he was going to get his next breath into his lungs.

  Téa.

  God, Téa. He’d done the selfish sex-monster thing and finished without her. It was something he hadn’t done in more than a dozen years, thank you God and the very vocal Linda Bowers, who’d taught him about female anatomy and the joy of giving good sex.

  He pushed up, then rolled off Téa. “Contessa. Honey,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten you. Just give me a second and I’ll—” He broke off as he took in the aghast expression on her face.

  She wasn’t looking at him. She was staring up at the ceiling.

  Johnny glanced up to see what had horrified her. It wasn’t one—or more—of the etched figures in the mirror, though. Her place on the bed hadn’t put her in any of the many possible compromising positions.

  Her reflection just showed Téa, her face still flushed, her hair spread around her, a mass of riotous waves. The top of her dress was unsnapped, her stupendous breasts thrusting through the opening. The hem was pushed up toward her hips, showing her splayed legs, pretty sex, and a pair of nude-colored panties circling one knee.

  It was enough to get him hot again and his cock started on the rise.

  “Contessa,” he murmured, running a finger up her thigh.

  Her legs came crashing together, rejecting his touch. Her gaze jumped from the ceiling, to his face, to a blank wall on the other side of the room. “I’m a mess,” she said, her movements a blur as she jumped off the bed. “A mess.”

  In the blink of an eye she was gone. He heard the front door slam.

  Mess.

  He’d wanted to pull himself together from the mess he’d been.
He’d wanted to anchor himself firmly in the present.

  And in doing so, he’d somehow just messed up everything between him and Téa.

  Nineteen

  “I’ve Been Too Busy”

  Sammy Davis, Jr.

  Mr. Wonderful (1956)

  Later that afternoon, Johnny did what any self-respecting older sibling would do—he decided to take his lousy mood out on his younger brother. He brought Cal along with him to Michael Magee’s bar, The Bivy, in nearby Half Palm. The forty-five-minute trip was much too long a time to be alone with his own thoughts and the man who he glimpsed in the rearview mirror. Johnny didn’t recognize himself anymore.

  It wasn’t yet five when he pushed open the front door of the plain stucco building. This bar wasn’t the favored watering hole of the Coachella Valley’s wealthy set, it was the place where climbers from around the world relaxed after a day scaling the massive boulders in Joshua Tree National Park or the granite peaks of the San Jacinto range.

  A lean, dark-eyed, dark-haired man with a stubbled jaw looked up from behind the bar as they walked inside. He crossed his arms over the ratty T-shirt that he wore with equally ratty jeans and raised a brow at Johnny. “I think you dudes have the wrong joint. Go back out the parking lot, turn left, and your first country club will be on the right, about thirty miles due south.”

  “We’ll take a couple of bottles of Corona first,” Johnny replied, hitching up his khakis to slide onto one of the barstools. “If there’s a clean glass to be found in a dump like this.”

  “Only pussies drink their nondraft beers from a glass,” the bartender said, plunking a couple of sweating bottles in front of the two men. “So then it must really be you, Johnny.”

  “It’ll be just like old times to kick your ass, Michael.” Johnny smiled at his younger brother, his mood beginning to lighten. “I can’t wait.”

  Then they shook hands, each trying to outgrip the other. The battle lasted for ninety seconds before they broke apart, both of them grinning.

  “Dog,” Michael said, leaning across the bar again to smack Johnny on the side of his arm. “Took you long enough to get over here. I thought I was going to have to mail out an engraved invitation.”