An Offer He Can't Refuse (32 page)

"Oh Me! Oh My! Oh You!"

Doris Day

Tea for Two
(1950)

Téa barreled out of the front door of her office and into a
man's arms. She gasped and clutched her purse tighter. Not again. She'd just sent one pair of long-lost "cousins" packing and she wasn't yet ready to steady her nerves and steel her spine to face another Italian male who wanted something from her.

She forced herself to look up.
Oh
. "Johnny." Relief sluiced through her, then she remembered the last time she'd been in his arms.
You're drunk on sex
, he'd said.

Just looking at him brought it all rushing back. Face going hot, she stepped away, and tried to tell herself it didn't matter that she was wearing a very casual long denim skirt, cham-bray shirt, and her scuffed clogs. "What are you doing here?"

He blinked as if he wasn't sure of the answer, then forked a hand through his blond hair. "I… wanted to see you."

She gestured with her hand. "I'm on my way out." Before anyone else could corner her in her office. Her mother had warned her the wolves would come sniffing and they had done more than that. Every day a Dominelli or a LaScala or a Pastorino dropped by and then set up camp in her reception area until she made it forcefully clear she wasn't saying yes to breakfast/lunch/drinks/dinner or whatever else they suggested as a way of
conoscerci
—getting chummy. Either her estrangement from her grandfather wasn't widespread news within the ranks of the families of the California Mafia or the dark-haired, dark-eyed men trying to get close to her didn't believe it. "Can we make an appointment for another time?"

"It's not an appointment I want with you." His hand scraped through his hair again.

Huh
? Téa tilted her head, trying to figure out what he meant. Now would be a good time for her mind-reading imagination to kick in. But it didn't, and then, over Johnny's shoulder, she saw a car cruise the street, a black, ominous Escalade. There was no concrete reason—other than her Mafia "cousins" seemed to go more for show than subtlety—for her heart to trip and tumble, but better safe than sorry.

She brought her purse to her chest and crossed her arms over it. "Look, Johnny, I'm sorry, but I really have to go."

"Can I give you a lift somewhere?"

She shook her head. "I'm going to the swap meet in Riverside," she told him, then instantly regretted it. A trip to a swap meet wouldn't sound urgent to him, she was sure, but to her it was imperative that she get out of town for a few hours. She needed a break from the unpleasant sensation of the wolves' hot breath on her back.

Johnny frowned. "A swap meet?"

See? She'd known it wouldn't make sense to him. She licked her lips, and then tried to sound reasonable and professional. "It runs on the weekends as well, but today's the day for the best selection at the music dealer I want to visit.

I'm going on a search for your project, as a matter of fact. He usually brings an extensive collection of exotica LPs."

Johnny nodded. "Rachele showed me your new sketches."

Téa had proposed framing vintage album covers for the room that was going to be his office. "She said you approved the idea."

"I did. I like it."

Then why wouldn't he get out of the way so she could get
on
her way? Something was up with him and she couldn't fathom what it would be. His posture was stiff and he was staring at her mouth as if… as if…

No. She wasn't going to read anything into his sudden appearance or his odd tension. They'd had their "one dance" and that's all there was to it.

That's all he'd said he wanted.

Movement down the street caught her eye and her head jerked right. Damn. The Escalade was back, cruising slower this time. She had to get out of here before she pulled the Loanshark book out of her purse and confessed all to the next mobster who showed up on her doorstep.

"I have to go, Johnny." Okay, so she sounded like a kid with a bathroom issue, but that wasn't so far from the feeling of anxiety building inside her.

His hand took hold of her elbow. "Then we'll go together." Already he was guiding her toward his silver Jag, parked on the street just a few feet away.

"What?" Frowning, she looked up at him. "Why?"

His expression was as indecipherable as before. "I'm the client, aren't I?"

Before she could even think of a way out of the situation, he had her in the passenger seat and was pulling away from the curb. As she gave him the requested directions, she tried to figure out why she felt hustled. And she tried to figure out why he wanted to accompany her to a swap meet, of all places. Johnny Magee wasn't a swap meet kind of guy, not in those European-cut slacks and that collarless shirt.

Sliding a glance his way, she caught him sliding one at her. Their gazes caught. A hot flush washed from her hairline to her toenails.

I want you again. I want you drunk on what I can do to your body.

She swallowed hard and clenched her thighs together. It sounded like Johnny's voice, it looked like that's what his gaze was saying, but it couldn't be. He'd wanted that one time. He'd said so. And she'd promised herself to be content with that. Plenty of women survived one-night stands.

They didn't feel the need the day after, and the day after that, to be in their lover's arms again, his hot palms cupping her bare behind, his hard chest beneath her lips and tongue. She squirmed against the leather seat.

"Did you always want to be an interior designer?" he asked abruptly, his gaze shifting back to the windshield.

Téa blinked. "What?"

"An interior designer. How did you hit upon that as a career?"

Well, that just went to show how inexperienced she was in the ways of men and mornings-after. Or, more accurately, days-after. He wanted to talk about her work. She flounced against the seat, annoyed with herself. It drove a woman to think about starting to date again. Even if it meant more grandsons and great-nephews, at least she might gain a modicum of expertise on this whole man-woman thing.

But the grandsons and great-nephews wouldn't be Johnny and it would be a waste of time, anyway. Her mob past meant she wouldn't be getting serious with anyone.

"Téa?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she muttered.

He shot her another unreadable look.

She pretended not to notice. It was a waste of time trying to interpret it.

"Téa?"

"My job, I know, I know." With a silent sigh, she leaned her head against the backrest and thought back. "Before I even knew anything about a career in the design business, I was driving my sisters nuts by rearranging our bedroom."

"You shared?"

"Always. My mom's idea, I think, as a way for the three of us to feel, no, to
know
we were sisters. Equal sisters. When Eve came to live with us, my mother accepted her with her whole heart and she wanted to make sure that none of us ever forgot that."

"Special woman, your mother."

"I see that now, of course. But the truth is, I don't remember a time without Eve, so whatever difficulties there were at the beginning—if there were any—I don't know." Because though her mother
was
special, she was private, too. They all kept their pain and their secrets well hidden, every single one of Salvatore Caruso's women.

"So you were shoving beds and dressers around the room from the tender age of—?"

"About nine, I'd say. And also sewing curtains and bedcovers whenever a new whim struck."

"You
sew
?"

She shot him a baffled look. "It's not a disease."

He was shaking his head. "You don't strike me as the sewing type. Women who sew are… I don't think I've ever met a woman who sews, actually."

"I feel a stereotype in the offing," she said dryly.

Though his attention was still directed out the windshield, he grinned. "Sorry. But my idea of a sewing woman is a plain-Jane homebody wearing pincushions on each wrist and who spends her nights with one of those dressmaker dealies instead of a date."

"They're called dummies. Dressmaker dummies." She owned two. One in the plus size she used to be and one with the more streamlined curves she now laid claim to. And, as humiliating as it would be to admit, she
was
a plain-Jane homebody. Though Johnny didn't seem to think so.

She sat up a little straighten "So I, urn, don't fit your image of a woman who sews, is that right?"

"Contessa, you made your very own mold the night you danced in my arms."

That hot flush once more warmed her skin. Again, she wiggled against the leather seat.

"Stop doing that," he said softly, "or I'll go insane."

Téa froze. What did that mean? Her eyes swiveled his way, but his gorgeous face might as well have been carved in stone. "I can see why you're good at poker," she murmured under her breath.

They were on the freeway heading out of the Coachella Valley now, and he set the cruise control then looked over at her. "What did you say?"

She cleared her throat. "I, uh, asked if you always wanted to be a—what did you call it?—money manager?"

"I… well…" Johnny hesitated, one hand reaching up to rub his chin.

All at once, there was a new thread of tension between them.

"You don't have to tell me," she offered quickly. "It's none of my business."

"No," he said. "I want you to know about my work. Maybe you'll think I should have told you about it before."

Téa frowned, alarmed and curious at the same time. "Really, Johnny. As long as your checks clear, that's good enough for me."

"It's nothing illegal."

She already felt a thousand times better. Not that she'd really believed he was involved in criminal activity, but hearing him say it was a relief. Given her family history, who would blame her?

"I told you that my playing in poker tournaments is a hobby."

"I remember. I have a friend who holds a monthly girls' poker night and she's always inviting me. Maybe I should get you to give me some lessons first."

He smiled, this one creasing a sly dimple in the side of his cheek. "It would be a pleasure. It
could
be a pleasure." His voice held that dark undercurrent that always sent her imagination soaring.

She cleared her throat, trying to rein it in. "But you were saying… ?"

"Poker's my hobby. Gambling's my job."

"Huh?" She blinked, trying to understand. "I don't get it."

He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. "Let me go back for a minute. Have you ever heard of the group of MIT students who cleaned up in Vegas several years ago?"

Not that she wanted to admit to it, but she'd caught a
Dateline NBC
rerun last summer when she was home on a Saturday night spending time with—what else?—her dressmaker's dummy and her sewing machine. "Maybe…" she said, trying to sound uncertain. "Didn't they have some sort of card-counting scheme?"

"Yes. And if you use just your brains to win at the game, that's not illegal either. But the casinos don't like their clientele so smart. They finally sniffed them out and put their photos in the Griffin Book—an encyclopedia of sorts used by the biggest security firm in Vegas that the casinos hire to catch not only cheaters, but habitual winners. Whenever someone in the book shows up at one of the places they protect, the transgressor is politely, or not so politely, shown the door."

"So you were part of this group from MIT?"

He shook his head, then shot her a little grin. "That group was caught. I was part of a different group from UC Berkeley. It's how I made my seed money to invest in the syndicate I now run."

She supposed she admired his youthful talents, but she still didn't understand about this syndicate. "Which means you do exactly what?"

"I'm no different than any other kind of fund manager, meaning I direct the dollars of our group of highly capitalized investors. Rich men. But instead of investing the money in mutual funds or stocks and bonds and betting we'll turn a profit from them, our group bets on the outcome of sporting events. Usually the three biggies, football, basketball, and baseball."

'There's real money to be made doing that?" According to the Loanshark book, there was only debt and more debt. Many of the men—and women—her father had given money to had needed the high-interest loans to meet their gambling obligations and then to make more of them.

"There's big money to be made doing that,
if
you know how."

"And you do," she said it slowly, trying to determine what she felt about the revelation.

"I do, with the help of brainiacs like Cal who provide statistical analyses and a whole team of what we refer to as 'legs'—the people who walk up to the casino windows and actually place the bets. Believe me, it's very profitable. I'm on the IRS's list of favorite sons. The business's quarterly checks could fund a small country."

An unusual occupation, but not an illegal one. He regularly paid his taxes. Okay. "But why are you telling me this?"

He sent her another of his unreadable glances. "I want you to know more about me before I suggest something else."

"Suggest what?" She had no clue.

His long-fingered hand rubbed over his chin once, then moved back to its calm grip of the steering wheel. "Moving the business and my primary residence is more… stressful than I expected. I think I could use a distraction from my obligations and responsibilities. I'd like something in my life that's just pure pleasure." His eyes glinted as he aimed one of those sly-dimpled smiles her way. "And I think, Téa, that could be you. Interested?"