An Offer He Can't Refuse (12 page)

"Yeah, I do." His sexy voice hoarsened, darkened, was that by-the-fire seductive whisper that told the story of naked gypsy girls and wild, passionate dances. His fingertips slid against her cheek again. "And you're not so cold anymore."

More breathlessness. "I'm burning."

His palm cupped her face, his fingertips grazing the ticklish skin behind her ear. "I was going to resist this," he said, with a little frown. "I was going to resist you."

She gulped a breath and the top button of her blouse popped open. There was a tug on the barrette at her nape, and then he gripped the freed mass of her hair with his fist and tilted her face to his.

There it was, his mouth, his lips, waiting for her like the last donut in the box or the final French fry on the plate. And willpower, apparently, evaporated in this kind of heat.

He leaned closer and she met him halfway.

It started smooth and warm. Gentle and civilized. Then he touched her bottom lip with his tongue, a polite request for permission, and she responded by opening her mouth. She had to taste him, didn't she?

Except that meant
he
tasted
her
.

His tongue moved inside her mouth, as strong and sure as he was, and desire cracked like a whip through her body. His fingers tightened in her hair and she arched closer to him, wanting more of everything and anything he had to offer. His mouth moved over hers, his tongue played with hers. She pressed against his chest and had the sudden impulse, no
need
, to get naked.

Only then did the tiny hairs on her skin spring high in belated warning.

She pushed her hand between them and broke free. "What was that?" she demanded. It wasn't a kiss, she decided, aware of her unruly hair, her unbuttoned blouse, the morning air cool on her wet lips. It was some sort of locker-room spell handed down from athlete to athlete to ensnare women who wanted to stay well clear of wanton passion. "What
was
that?"

"Lightning bolt," he murmured, shaking his head.

"Mistake."

Johnny raised dark blond eyebrows. Even the ends of his eyebrow hairs were tipped with gold. "You're sure about that?"

"Of course I'm sure. It's the job I'm looking for, Johnny." Her business, her work, the Caruso name that she wanted so much to make over would be here long after the fizzle and pop of one spectacular kiss—not to mention the man—was gone. "I don't want to ruin that."

He froze. "The job."

"That's why you stopped by, isn't it? To discuss the job? We left that unfinished last night."

There was a pause, then he nodded. "You're right, there's a lot unfinished around here. A lot unfinished between us, too." He stood to pace away from her, running his fingers through his hair.

Téa watched him in growing dismay. Eve would know what to do now, she thought. Eve would know how to pretend that kiss had never happened and bring the conversation back around to business. And then, as if Téa had the power to wish people into her presence, Eve's classic Mercedes pulled up to the curb and both her sisters hurried out of the car.

"What's going on?" Joey demanded as she slammed the passenger door shut with a violent clang, her gaze leaping from flowers, to man, to Téa's hand wrapped in the bloodstained handkerchief.

Téa came to her feet. "Nothing. I had a little accident, that's all. And Mr. Magee happened to be here and, uh, lent his help."

Joey shot him another suspicious glance. "Mr. Magee? Who's he?"

Never let it be said that her little sister was one to pussyfoot around.

"A potential client, Joe," Téa said, a soft warning in her voice. And then, with her sisters' presence lending her an Eve-type talent in man-handling and also some of Joey's own brash brand of bravado, she glanced over at Johnny and took a chance. "A client who, I think, was just about to tell me he's giving me the job."

She held her breath.

His gaze took her in, making her suddenly aware again of her unfettered hair, that unfastened button, the swollen feeling of her lips. The woman that he'd made her.

He looked up at the sky, then back at her. "You really want the job?"

She firmed her voice. "I really want the job."

"Then it's a done deal now, isn't it?" he finally said.

She might have wished he sounded happier about it, but she was glad enough for both of them. Unwilling to let a moment pass without cementing the deal, she reached out her uninjured palm to shake his. "It will be my pleasure."

Both of ours, Contessa, I'll make sure of that, too.

The make-believe Johnny-voice in her mind didn't sound any happier than it had a moment before. She frowned, trying to shake the words from her head as he dropped her hand like a hot potato and reached into his slacks pocket.

"Excuse me," he said, drawing out a cell phone. "I have to take this call."

Eve, Joey, and Téa watched in silence as be walked off to answer the phone. Then Eve looked over at Téa, eyebrows arching above the frames of her black-lensed sunglasses.

"Client?" she asked, skepticism lacing her voice.

"Client."

"Hottie," Joey declared. "Just your type, too."

"I don't have a type," she protested. At least not one that she'd ever confessed to her sisters.

"Any guy who can muss you up like that is your type, Téa."

She was spared from having to answer by Johnny striding back. "I've got to go, but I'll return this afternoon to… finalize things. Ladies." He saluted the three of them with his forefinger to his forehead and started off, but then turned back. His gaze swept the ground and Téa's cut hand, then lifted to meet hers.

. "We'll settle other things later, too," he told her, and then he was gone.

"What other things?" Eve questioned, brows once again shooting northward.

Téa ignored her, turning to see Joey purse her lips and send a smacking airkiss in Johnny's direction.
That
she couldn't ignore. "Geez! Joey!"

Not-so-innocent big brown eyes cut her way. "What? It was only because
you
wanted to and wouldn't." Then she clucked like a petite, Italian-American chicken.

Téa sighed. "What do you want?" she asked Eve.

'To take you to coffee." When her sister smiled like that, the angels had to be singing in heaven.

Téa was not so soft a touch. At least not with the promise of Johnny returning in just a few hours. "Can't. Have to work. Big job, big
important
job to discuss this afternoon, so now I have to go home and change." She thought of something else that had to be done as well. "And you should be sure to tell Cosimo I don't have time for coffee or an interest in any more flowers, either. Sending gifts or my sisters is not going to work on me."

Eve studied her face, and then, to Téa's everlasting surprise, shrugged her shoulders. "All right, then."

Joey looked at her older sister as if she'd grown another head. "What? Wait—" But Eve, was already dragging her away by the simple, sisterly expedient of grabbing her shirtsleeve and towing her to the Mercedes.

Pleasantly surprised by the quick capitulation, Téa watched after them, smiling. That had gone remarkably well.

Then she turned toward her office, only to face the ruined apricot roses strewn across the concrete. Her smile died and the warm October morning turned chilly.

Or maybe things had gone
too
well. In her experience, nothing came without some kind of price.

"It Had to Be You"

Doris Day

I'll See You in My Dreams
(1951)

Riding in the passenger seat of her father's Ford F-150
, Rachele Cirigliano might as well have been on her way to a Brownie Scout meeting or a tap dance lesson. Her father's meaty hands were in their usual ten and two position, the radio was tuned to Rush, and a quartet of empty 7-Eleven disposable coffee cups bounced around her feet like Mexican jumping beans every time the truck hit a bump on Ramon Road.

Except Rachele wasn't six years old and dressed in a scratchy tan dress or toe-squeezing patent leather dancing shoes. She was twenty-one, and the only uncomfortable thing she was wearing were the several sticky coats of vampire-black mascara and the tiny diamond in the new piercing in her left nostril.

"Thanks again for the lift, Papa. My car should be fixed by four, the mechanic said. Téa will take me there to pick it up."

Her father grunted in acknowledgment without glancing over at her. He never looked at her, not as far as Rachele could tell. Her mother had died when she was four years old and it was probably over-the-top romantic of her, but she figured it hurt her father too much to see the reflection of that love he'd lost in Rachele's face.

Not that her mother had sported eleven piercings and hair freshly colored by a package of Purplesaurus Rex Kool-Aid.

Her boss, Téa, had once gently mentioned that the body and hair adornment might be Rachele's shout for her father's attention. Not hardly. She had her father's attention, all right. She had his overprotection.

But because he never looked at her, in his mind she'd never grown up, and she didn't have the guts to set him straight.

So she wasn't surprised that when he pulled in front of the Inner Life design office he jumped out of the truck to walk her inside. He'd make sure there were no strangers lurking in the nonexistent noon shadows and he'd do a visual sweep to make certain all was well in the reception area, too. Then he'd talk a few minutes with Téa to nail down the exact minute he should expect his only daughter home.

This evening, Rachele would make an antipasto while he grilled steaks. After dinner, she would fold the clothes she'd put in the dryer that morning, then watch TV while turning the pages of a
Jane
magazine. Just another night waiting for whatever force it was going to take to rocket her from her dutiful-Italian-daughter place on the couch and into her own adult life.

'Thank you, Papa," she murmured as he held the office door open for her. Téa looked up from the stack of mail she was sifting through on the receptionist's desk and winced.

Rachele didn't know if it was sympathy for the sore pierced nose or reaction to the muddy-violet hair color. Considering that Téa's personal style icon appeared to be none other than vanilla-flavored First Lady Laura Bush, Rachele didn't let the maybe-criticism bother her.