Crush on You (10 page)

For a nun, Penn thought with irritation as he followed Alessandra from her car to the Knowles’s barbecue, the woman dressed too damn sexy. In Cinderella-blue, the sleeveless dress dipped squarely across her breasts and then fell in petal like folds to her knees. A skinny black belt was buckled around her narrow middle and matched the strappy sandals on her feet. Yes, it was entirely unfair for her to look so good since he’d made—yet another, but this time for good—vow to keep his hands off her.

He took his gaze from Alessandra’s swaying hips and the enticing little flutter of her dress’s hemline to glance around the spacious area behind the sprawling, ranch-style home. There was a long, wide deck running along the rear of the house. On one end, painted wooden steps turned toward a sparkling swimming pool. On the other, a short staircase led to sloped grass that was shaded by big oaks. At the bottom of the incline, water trickled along a narrow creek bed.

After listening to Sally Knowles eulogize her son Tommy the day before, it was impossible not to see the young man on that lush grass, sending a football spinning into the warm summer evening air. He would have crossed the wooden deck with an armful of books, preparing to ace yet another exam. And once it was dark, he would have snuggled close to his little sweetheart, their bare feet tangling in the cool creek water.

Even after he’d gone into remission, Tommy Knowles had been no slacker. He’d enrolled in college. He was getting back into sports. He’d acted as chairman for the survivor’s charity ball put on by the regional chapter of the cancer society. The event had taken place three weeks before the wedding that hadn’t happened.

Sally Knowles had even shown off a picture of the guy, and Penn imagined his blond, crew-cut good looks had been the perfect foil to his fiancée’s sweetly exotic beauty. Alessandra’s beauty.

No wonder the young woman was still devoted to the love of her life. Who was Penn to determine the limits of her grief? The only thing he’d mourned recently was the loss of his self-respect after Lana had taken him to the cleaners.

Still, he thought as Alessandra paused beside a tub of ice to fish out a beer, it was a damn shame he hadn’t kissed her. Wasn’t going to happen now, of course, but the sparks between them would have started one spectacular fire.

She held out a dripping bottle and he moved to take it from her. Their fingertips met and even that small brush put off heat. Her gaze flew to his and he saw it all in her bedroom eyes: the wide mattress, the soft sheets, her tight nipples, and the way her lashes would lower and her bottom lip pout as he thumbed those hard tips and insisted she tell him the truth.
Admit you like me touching you.

She yanked her hand off the glass between them. “Stop it,” she hissed. “Stop looking at me like that.”

He held his hands up, away from his body. “I don’t mean to do anything, sweetheart. It just happens this way sometimes.”

She shot him a suspicious glance. “For you, maybe.”

“With
you
, baby. But I’m officially done trying to get into the hot pants you wear beneath your habit, little nun.”

“Right.” More skepticism.

He used his free hand and started to sketch an
X
over his chest. “Cross my heart and—”

“Don’t.” Alessandra lunged for his fingers, grabbing them. “Don’t finish that thought.”

“Okay, okay.” Hoping to die wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

Remembering why, he withdrew his hand from hers. Sparks or no sparks, he was leaving her alone. Glancing around the party, he decided there had to be sixty, seventy people there, none of whom he knew from Adam. “Go off and enjoy yourself.”

She hesitated, obviously torn between playing Miss Manners or protecting herself from the unwelcome sexual chemistry that bubbled between them like that science experiment he’d botched in senior year Chem.

“You good girls . . .” Penn sighed, shaking his head. “Look. You better keep moving or I’ll renege on my promise and slide my hand under your short skirt to answer that eternal question: thong, boy briefs, or bikinis?”

He’d gone for outrage, and for a long, silent moment he thought he’d got it, but then she laughed. “All right, Penn, I’ll let you scare me off.” She turned to go, but stopped herself long enough to send him a wicked look over her shoulder. “But you forgot one other option . . .”

The Nun of Napa with the devil in her eyes sucked his breath straight from his chest. “Huh?” he managed to choke out.

“Think about it, Penn.” Her voice lowered to a husky whisper. “Maybe under there I’m . . . bare.”

A man with faster reflexes would have caught the saucy flutter of her hem and reeled her back. But Penn was paralyzed. He’d met Demanding Alessandra, Angry Alessandra, Vulnerable Alessandra, but Flirting Alessandra—it was a contradiction in terms. And it caused his head to spin. He stared after her retreating figure until someone jostled his elbow.

Stevie Baci was regarding him with interest, looking slim and cool in a pair of formfitting white jeans and a sleeveless tunic. “When my little sister said she’d meet me here, she didn’t mention she had a date.”

“Because she doesn’t,” he replied. “Everybody knows Alessandra doesn’t date.”

“Hmm,” Stevie said, still studying him. “But I don’t think that stops you from wishing she would.”

Just then, the sister in question emerged between two nearby clusters of guests, rushing their way. Her appearance saved Penn from having to answer aloud. Inside, though, he agreed, if by “dating” Stevie meant he’d get to stroke that luscious flush of pink on Alessandra’s cheeks and be the focus of the bright eyes that were right now fixed on her sister.

“Emerson is here!” she said as she came to a stop, her voice breathless. “Stevie, Emerson Platt is here.”

The taller woman stilled for a moment, then she shrugged. “So what?”

“You said the next time you saw him you were going to shove him in a swimming pool. He’s right over there, by the deep end.”

“I threatened that because he doesn’t swim well,” Stevie explained, then shrugged again. “I don’t care enough to murder him anymore, though.”

Alessandra looked indignant. “He should pay. He was supposed to be your happy ending.”

“A man who broke things off by leaving me with the impression he’d merely been slumming with me is
not
my happy ending, Allie.” Stevie reached into the nearby bucket to extract a diet cola, and her chin-length dark hair slid across her cheek, hiding her expression. “I don’t have a lot of faith in those anyhow.”

“You don’t believe in happy endings?” Alessandra echoed with a frown, then looked toward Penn, her expression an unspoken plea:
Tell her
you
believe
.

He opened his mouth, ready to cave on the instant. Then his cynical outlook reasserted itself, and he cut the words off with a snap of his teeth.
Good God
, he thought,
they were right
.
You shouldn’t look her in the eyes
.

“Penn?” she said, once more all irresistible appeal.

He steeled himself. “Hey, don’t ask me,” he said. “My dear old dad made a quick deposit then boogied out of town, so I don’t hold much with the ever-afters, either, honey.”

Her mouth pursed, which on that pretty kisser looked more like a pout than disappointment, and he shook his head at her sentimental streak. Silly kid, clearly she was one of those daydream believers, which chalked up yet another reason to keep clear of her. Why risk tarnishing her bright fancies?

“Alessandra!” From the doorway leading into the house, Sally Knowles beckoned to the young woman.

With a last glance for her sister and Penn, the little nun headed toward the mother superior of the Convent of Saint Tommy. Penn made sure not to look after the youngest Baci this time. He’d promised himself not to indulge.

Popping the top off his beer, he smiled at Stevie. “So, what is it you do again?”

Her gaze was over his shoulder. “I own a limousine service,” she said absently, her eyes narrowing. “You know, airport runs, driving people on tasting tours, that sort of thing . . .”

Her voice trailed off as she tensed. The new alertness sent a bad feeling tiptoeing down Penn’s spine, but he wasn’t going to turn around. It wasn’t any of his business, even if the Nun of Napa was hypnotizing yet another victim or stripping down to her birthday suit.

Okay, fine. The idea of Alessandra naked—
bare!
—had him taking a quick glance back.

Nothing looked out of place. The woman was still wearing that summery blue dress, and if anything she was more covered—she held an oversized, buff-colored envelope to her breast.

“
Christ on a crutch,
” Stevie cursed.

Penn turned back to see Alessandra’s sister’s stricken expression. “Not again,” she said.

“What?” He was a pretty laid-back guy, but her alarm sent another ice cube down his back. “What is it?”

“They arrive out of the blue,” Stevie muttered. “She never sees them coming, and it’s like being kicked in the stomach every time.”

“
What
arrives out of the blue?”

Stevie glanced at him then grimaced. “I’m talking about letters from Tommy. When he was ill with cancer, he wrote a number of them to Allie, commemorating certain special events to let her know his thoughts in case he wasn’t here to share them with her.”

Penn winced. “Morbid.”

“Or romantic,” Stevie said with a shrug. “That’s what Tommy’s mom thinks anyway. Though I think Tommy’s dad, Dr. Knowles, objects, Sally follows instructions and hands the damn things over to Allie. It’s hard to know what my sister feels, but she can’t exactly refuse to accept them.”

Penn glanced back again, to see the Nun of Napa spin away from Tommy’s mother and push through the crowd in the direction of the sloping grass and the oak-shaded creek. One tight fist clutched the buff envelope.

Stevie groaned. “Damn! I guess I’ll have to go after her. I never know what to say.”

Chivalry wasn’t a quality Penn aspired to, so it came as complete surprise to hear himself murmur, “I’ll do it.”

“Really?” Stevie gaped. “You’ll go?”

And hell, he was going, Penn thought as he actually found himself trailing in Alessandra’s wake. He couldn’t articulate why, not even to himself. When it came to this girl, impulse was the best explanation he had—which only underscored the problem. He wasn’t an impulsive kind of man, and didn’t want to become one, especially after the debacle that was Lana.

Sighing, he kept his gaze on Alessandra’s retreating figure and threaded through the partygoers, brushing past them until a hand caught his sleeve.

“Penn Bennett!” a man said. “Small state and all that. Though ever since Coppola arrived, there’s been plenty of entertainment industry types enjoying the fruits of the vine up here.”

Penn blinked, trying to place the face of the one who’d halted his progress. “Rocky Reed.” He was a game-show host, a DJ, and a notorious collector of Hollywood gossip, the juiciest of which he shared with listeners on his syndicated and very popular Top 40 radio show.

Short, blond, and fox-featured, he was practically licking his lips as he looked up at Penn. This wasn’t good. Did Rocky have something on him? Little asshole.

“Have a drink with me,” the other man said, tightening his hold on Penn’s arm.

He shook Rocky off. “Busy,” he said shortly, already striding away. “I’m after someone else.”

The someone he’d explicitly vowed not to pursue, Penn remembered with a belated sigh. But there she was, standing near the creek bed, one slender, golden shoulder propped against the trunk of an oak, her head bent over the missive from beyond the grave.

Christ on a crutch,
as Stevie would say
.
His feet came to a stop as he realized he didn’t know what he could do for Alessandra, either. Maybe he should back away, even go have that requested drink with Rocky Reed. This was not Penn’s problem, and he’d had his one disaster with a problematic woman.

He was commanding his feet to retreat when suddenly Alessandra looked up and he blinked in surprise at her expression. What had he expected? Tears, he supposed. But her face was flushed, not tear-stained. There was a bright, almost manic light in her eyes. Even from eight feet away he could see the slight tremble in her limbs.

“You,” she said, her voice husky. “It’s you.”

Then she was rushing toward Penn. Without even thinking, he opened wide his arms—who wouldn’t, knowing about that letter?—but when she came up against him, the comfort-hug he expected to provide didn’t happen. Looking into his eyes, she rose to her tiptoes and then was kissing him.

With hot, demanding desire.

Jesus.
He went hard quicker than she could thrust her tongue into his mouth and if there was desolation in the kiss he didn’t taste it. He just tasted Alessandra, sweet and juicy and fresh, like an unfamiliar fruit from a just-discovered land.

At some Beverly Hills party, a drunk model/reality star/ celebrity stylist had tried explaining to him the basis of physical attraction. Had she claimed pheromones? Or was it facial symmetry?

He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter.

Though at some level he knew this was wrong, that surely it was a big mistake, those concerns were swamped by sensation: the softness of Alessandra’s lips, the heady flavor he found between them, the strength of her arms as she clung to his body and sucked on his tongue.

She broke the kiss before he was near done. They stared at each other, chests heaving. His hands cupped her ass; hers were tangled in the hair at the back of his neck. He watched her open her mouth. This was it, he thought. They’d shared the kiss that had been in the air between them since they’d met. Now she’d kick him to the curb and he’d be glad for it.

“Penn Bennett,” she said, her voice low but fierce. “I want to have an affair.”