An Offer He Can't Refuse (24 page)

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.

"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 in-advertently 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.

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.