An Offer He Can't Refuse (34 page)

"Yeah." He spun back around. "Of course. Let's find those albums you're looking for."

Lauer's Music, thanks to Murphy's Law, was set up in the farthest corner of the swap meet. On other visits she'd browsed through the files of vintage albums just for fun, never with today's particular intent. Johnny's sudden dark mood didn't make her job any easier. He stood off to the side, arms crossed over his chest, watching her flip through the albums.

The stall was sheltered from the sun by a blue tarp that, combined with her new sunglasses, darkened her vision. She pushed off her hat and put it aside with the glasses as she continued her search for albums in the musical subgenre known as "exotica."

It referred to a type of music from the 1940s and '50s that was a fusion of instrumental pop, Latin jazz, and unusual percussion. It was also known for its sophisticated, sexy album covers. They epitomized the slant she was taking with Johnny's mid-century modern design. His wasn't going to be a sterile, industrialized type of home, but one with clean lines and deep colors that said unique, urbane, and very sensual.

Like Johnny himself.

And she wanted him.

Despite all the reasons she shouldn't, Téa suddenly decided that this good girl wasn't going to deny herself any longer either. Instead, she was going for it. Why shouldn't she take of him what she could get? Johnny had given her enough confidence to accept his proposition to be each other's amusement, diversion, pure pleasure. She only had to remember that's all it was.

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 tini-est 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 risque?"

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?"

"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 Cafe". 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.