An Offer He Can't Refuse Page 22

  But was he having second thoughts? Téa took a deep breath and inhaled that deep, complex note of bergamot. It was on her arm, it was on his fingers. They smelled like each other, just like that night when they’d made love. Her skin prickled as she remembered going to sleep in her bed with his scent on her hands and in her hair. She hadn’t wanted to wash it away.

  Téa glanced at him over her shoulder. He was watching her again, and gone was all that practiced detachment. This time, she felt him smoldering.

  Catching her on fire.

  Taking another breath, Téa gathered together a selection of albums she liked. “Come look at these,” she said. “Tell me what you think.”

  She’d found a dozen that were not only in good condition, but were in the right tone and color scheme. He grunted at each as she displayed them for his approval. “These are my favorite three,” she said, reaching the last of the group.

  First, the George Shearing Quartet’s Velvet Carpet. On the cover, crystal chandeliers hung over a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in an evening gown, her body stretched out on red velvet. Téa drew a finger across the carpet. “We can echo this color in the armchairs. Maybe not red velvet, but something as deep and rich as this.”

  He moved closer, and she felt his warmth at her back. Good, she thought. He was close again.

  “I like it,” he said. “Nice call.”

  Next, she showed him the cover of Jackie Gleason’s Velvet Brass, which depicted two women in ’50s cigarette skirts and tight sweaters, hips caught in an orgasmic sway while surrounded by the brass instruments apparently responsible for their wild delight.

  Téa shuffled back a fraction, so that her bottom brushed Johnny’s hips. He didn’t move away. Turning her head, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “Do you like this one?”

  He’d removed his sunglasses too, and his eyes appeared almost black in the shaded light. His body shifted—an accident?—the movement pushing him against her bottom again.

  “I like all the velvet,” he said softly. One fingertip found that line of scented oil on her inner arm and stroked, up and down. Up then down.

  Her shiver caused her body to rub against his, just the tiniest bit. His skin temperature went from warm to hot. He reached around her to flip over the Gleason album and reveal the final one she’d selected.

  Music of the African Arab, from Mohammed Al-Bakker and his Oriental Ensemble. The album cover showed an olive-skinned, bare-breasted woman dancing in a red vest and diaphanous harem pants. Johnny stilled, his inner arm pressed against her outer arm. With his other hand, he continued to stroke her skin, up and down. Up then down.

  She licked her lips. “Too risqué?”

  His lips found their way to her ear. “What do you think?”

  She shrugged.

  “Coward,” he said.

  Not today. Maybe not anymore. Temporary diversion. Pure pleasure. She leaned back into Johnny’s body. “I thought it might remind you of our dance.”

  His indrawn breath was quick and sharp. “Is that your answer?”

  She turned so that she was caught between his body and the table of albums. “My answer is yes.”

  How they made it back to the car, she didn’t really remember. Johnny paid for the albums; she was pretty sure, at least, they didn’t steal them. Then he dragged her through the swap meet to the parking lot and stowed their purchases in the Jaguar’s trunk.

  He slammed the lid shut, then leaned against it and pulled her into his arms, widening his stance so that she was nestled against him, his long inner thighs pressing against her outer ones. His mouth was hot and eager and when his tongue sank deep between her lips, she moaned.

  She would never regret this. Never.

  And she would remember that cool was overrated. Because heat was consuming her now—Johnny’s hot mouth, his hot embrace, the passion inside her body that was rising to meet him. It was glorious. It was the way a woman was supposed to feel.

  It was the perfect way to forget everything that was worrying her: the Loanshark book, the wolves, her grandfather’s upcoming birthday and all that his retirement might mean. Johnny was proving to be an excellent, effective distraction.

  He ended the kiss, dragging his mouth off hers. Then he pressed her head to his shoulder and she sagged against him. They were both breathing hard and she reveled in the certainty that they were both as strongly and passionately affected.

  “Contessa?” he whispered against her ear.

  “Hmmmm.” She drew it out, every part of her feeling languid and loose, ready for him to mold and penetrate and make his.

  His fingernails bit harder into her scalp and his voice went rougher. Quieter. “Is there some reason a man would be following you?”

  Twenty-six

  “More Than You Know”

  Count Basie Orchestra

  The Jubilee Alternatives (1943-44)

  As Johnny drove back to Palm Springs, Téa made him explain what had aroused his suspicions fourteen times. “There was a man in jeans and a windbreaker. Gray hair, early fifties, maybe. I first noticed him at the sunglasses table, then again when we bought your Rasta hat. He was hanging around the music stall and followed us out to the parking lot. I had the impression he was watching us.”

  On the seat beside his, her knees were pressed together and she held her purse in a protective embrace on her lap. “There is absolutely no reason for anyone to be following me. The idea is preposterous.”

  It was also ridiculous, ludicrous, outright absurd, and ten other adjectives that made clear the notion had truly rattled her.

  The traffic was a bitch in both directions, a typical Southern California rush hour, but Johnny took his hand off the wheel long enough to stroke his palm over her dark hair. It was wavy and wild around her shoulders, just the way he liked it. “Give it a rest, Contessa.”

  She toyed with the new bead necklace at her throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But then she swiveled her head, canvassing the vehicles stacked in the lanes around them. “Did you see what kind of car he was driving?”

  Shaking his head, Johnny sighed. If he didn’t get her back on track, he wasn’t going to get any later.

  And that’s what he was after. Sex with Téa. He’d been honest with her about needing the distraction and she’d seemed willing enough after he’d given her the time at the swap meet to think about it.

  Though her “you’re too good” had almost derailed him. When anchorwoman LaDonna had made the declaration, he’d felt nothing. When his brother Michael had thrown the same comment in his face, he’d shrugged off any remorse. But Téa—when she said the same words they struck him like an accusation.

  “You’re too good” sounded too much like you’re all charm and no substance.

  “You’re too good” sounded too much like you’re unfeeling.

  “You’re too good” sounded too much like you’re uncaring.

  Funny how he’d always considered those last two attributes, and they were, in the business he was in. When gambling, the best mind set was unemotional and completely objective. But when it came to Téa, damn it, he was being sincere. He wanted to have her but he didn’t want to hurt her either. It would only be good between them if they both regarded the relationship in the same way.

  Distraction, diversion, amusement, you name it, as long as it didn’t have an emotional component.

  He smothered the little devil in the back of his head whispering the reminder that he wanted her for another reason as well—the Caruso connection. Fine, there was that too. Shit, maybe he was unfeeling and uncaring, because he wasn’t, wasn’t going to feel guilty about wanting her and wanting her connection to Cosimo as well.

  But he also wasn’t going to be stupid. Aware that she was still looking over her shoulder despite the dark and the unidentifiable headlights all around them, he didn’t head straight for his house.

  She needed time to loosen up.

  So he took her out to dinner. They
landed on Palm Canyon Drive, in the heart of the downtown district, at the Coyote Café. He opted for the patio because he wanted to see her in the starshine of the fairy lights strung around the trunks of the palm trees.

  He hadn’t considered how slow the service might be on a weeknight. But it was high tourist season after all, and he counted them lucky they’d snagged a free table close to the wrought-iron fence separating the outdoor seating area from the public sidewalk. Though the desert night was cool, the day’s heat still radiated from the asphalt and the walls. Patio heaters stood ready, but unnecessary. The scent of tortilla chips in hot oil made his mouth water.

  The waitress brought their drinks quickly. That’s when he learned not to order “large” when it came to margaritas at the Coyote in Palm Springs. His whiskey arrived in the requisite rocks glass. Téa’s tequila and lime concoction came in something sized like a fruit bowl.

  She blinked at the drink when it was first set before her, but it was testament to her ongoing case of nerves that she lifted the salt-encrusted glass with almost eagerness.

  It was testament to his horniness that watching her lick the rim with her pink tongue brought his cock to full alert.

  He wasn’t going to feel guilty about that either.

  But as he watched her frequent sips of her drink, he wondered if he shouldn’t. She hadn’t eaten a kernel of the popcorn he’d bought at the swap meet, or the hot dog she’d shuddered over later. Her stomach had to be empty, and so far she was filling it with a potent brew that, by the glazed look in her eye, was mostly alcohol.

  Getting her drunk to get her into his bed didn’t lead to blame-free mornings.

  And the way she was looking at him from those smoldering sloe eyes told him the margarita was loosening her inhibitions. She’d let her blouse stay two-button open. She was showing honest-to-God cleavage and it was such plump, centerfold-quality cleavage that he felt his cock twitch in its direction.

  Wearing a small smile, she continued to play with the necklace he’d bought her on a whim. The way her fingers worked over the beads made him think of her fingers working on him, and looking at her flushed face and lips reddened by the icy glass, he had the sudden urge to see how far he could push her. Would she take off her panties if he asked? He drop-kicked his conscience off the playing field and leaned across the table.

  “Téa,” he said, needing to touch her. Needing to feel her vibrancy beneath his hand.

  As his fingers found the back of hers, her chin jerked up. “There’s my mother,” she told Johnny, looking over his shoulder. She waved a wild hand toward the sidewalk that was crowded with tourists gathered in knots around the celebrity plaques that studded the Palm Springs Walk of Stars. “Mom! Over here!”

  Johnny snatched back his hand as Bianca skirted a bronze star on her way to greet her daughter. Her eyes widened as she took in Téa’s relative state of dishevelment and her neon-beaded necklace and then her gaze dropped to the half-full, bucket-sized margarita on the table.

  “You look like you’re having fun,” she said to Téa.

  Téa beamed a smile that was a little sloppy around the edges. “Oh, I’m planning to.”

  Damn. She might as well be wearing a flashing sign declaring “I’m going to be fucked later.” Her mother’s gaze flicked to Johnny’s face and he leaned against the back of his chair, trying to look suave and sinless at the same time. Surely she couldn’t read on his face the sexual dare she’d interrupted. But damn, she was giving him the uncomfortable and indisputable mother-eye.

  “We’ve ordered dinner,” he offered, to prove he wasn’t just trying to get her darling daughter drunk. Then he cleared his throat and poured on the charm, because no badass Vegas gambler was going to let a mama scare him off. “Please. Join us.”

  “No.” The word came out in stereo, as both Téa and her mother spoke at the same time. Téa blushed.

  Bianca shot a knowing look at her daughter, then laughed. “No, I can’t stay, thanks. I’m meeting someone down the street.”

  Téa tucked her hair behind her ears. “See, I knew that,” she said, then ducked her head to take another deep draw from the straw in her margarita.

  Her mother laughed again. “I’ll leave you two alone then. It’s been good seeing you.”

  “It’s been good seeing you, too.” Johnny hoped the devil’s snicker sounding inside him didn’t show on his face.

  Téa’s mother started to turn, then she hesitated, frowning. “You remind me of someone.”

  He stilled, newly alert. His physical resemblance to his father was remote and his coloring completely different. But might she see a similarity? It hadn’t even occurred to him that she could have been acquainted with Giovanni sixteen years before. “Is that right?”

  Bianca nodded her head. “Someone I’ve recently met.”

  “His brother lives in the area,” Téa supplied. “Maybe you’ve seen him.”

  “Perhaps that’s it,” her mother said, and then with a little wave, she was gone.

  Johnny downed the dregs of whiskey, chasing away the last of his tension. Over its rim, he watched Téa use her fingertip to pick up grains of coarse salt from the edge of her glass then bring them to her mouth. Oh, yeah. With her mother out of the picture it was back to the game.

  “Now, where were we?” he asked softly.

  She froze, her lips around the end of her forefinger. Her gaze met his and the flickering light on the table showed the new flush washing up her face.

  Though it was obvious she hadn’t wanted her mother to join them, it was up to him to remind her why. Reaching out, he took her hand from her mouth, then brought it to his own. He sucked in her wet finger.

  She made a little sound. “Johnny,” she whispered. “Johnny, I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.”

  He licked the end of her finger and released her hand. “I’ll pay the bill.”

  She nodded, then drew her margarita closer to take another big gulp of the frozen drink.

  Johnny closed his eyes. Damn it. Damn Téa’s mother, his mother, his boring but unbreakable Main Street upbringing. All three of them were conspiring against him. “We need to eat first, Contessa. You need food.”

  Thank God the waitress was at that moment bearing down on them with enormous platters, an enchilada combination plate for him and a spinach-and-cheese quesadilla for Téa. They’d eat, they’d leave, they’d fuck. Since he was giving her food, his conscience had nothing to complain about.

  It didn’t take long for the meal to affect Téa’s mood. Gone was the dizzy look in her eyes. She pushed the margarita away though it was still one-third full. The sexual flush on her face faded and she stared at her plate instead of at him.

  Johnny cursed his own scruples.

  “Second thoughts, Contessa?” he asked. It looked as if her earlier acquiescence was gone and that he’d be going home to an empty bed. He didn’t want to think how difficult it would be to get to sleep tonight.

  She looked up. “What? Uh, um, no. Not really.” An embarrassed blush bloomed on her cheeks and she clapped her palms over them. “This feels so awkward.”

  Second thoughts would have killed him. Awkward, he could handle. Smiling at her, he leaned forward to take one of her hands in his. “Maybe I should have gone ahead with my first inclination. I promise you wouldn’t be feeling awkward right now.”

  She narrowed her pretty dark eyes. “What inclination was that?”

  He lowered his voice. “I wanted to dare you to take off your panties during dinner.”

  Her fingers bit into his. “Johnny.” She sounded scandalized.

  Almost tempted.

  “Téa,” he countered. “Would you have agreed?”

  Her primo ass squirmed against her seat. “Of course not.”

  “No one would have to know,” he whispered. “Just you and me. Our little, sexy secret.”

  She squirmed more. “Nooo. No.”

  He grinned, certain that panty-less or not, she was feeling t
hat way right now, as if she was naked beneath her skirt and that he was the only other one who knew it.

  “You’re evil.” She frowned at him.

  “I try.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Come on, Contessa, do it.”

  She hesitated. God, he almost had her.

  “It’ll be our sexy little secret,” he whispered again, sliding his fingers along the smooth insides of hers and shutting his conscience away for good. Tonight he’d have her in his bed, tomorrow he’d talk his way into an introduction to her grandfather.

  Biting her lip, she looked away. “Speaking of secrets,” she said. “I have to be honest with you about something.”

  What? Honesty? Now?

  Johnny sank against the back of his chair. “We don’t need to talk any more tonight.” His gaze darted around the courtyard, looking for the waitress so he could signal for their check.

  “This is important, Johnny. It’s…it’s about that man who might have been following us.”

  He wanted to stand up and kick the table, the chair, his own butt for mentioning the man to her in the first place. His assumption had been the guy was a bodyguard type sent to watch over Téa—retired newspaperman Stan had warned him of how protective Cosimo was of his granddaughters—but apparently it was without her prior knowledge or approval.

  “You need to know what you’re getting into when you get involved with me, Johnny.”

  You need to know what you’re getting into when you get involved with me. Shit. The devil in his head and his guilty conscience were both laughing their asses off at him now.

  “If this has something to do with your grandfather and your family—”

  “It has everything to do with them and everything I won’t do to cooperate with them.”

  “Huh?” Johnny had thought he already knew what she was going to say, but this wasn’t it. “What do you mean?”