Dangerous Ladies (22 page)

But it had been years since Brandi had considered Tiffany capable of giving her anything, especially comfort.

Brandi’s attitude didn’t help their relationship, but what was she supposed to do? She’d tried to fake it, and all that had gotten her was hurt looks.

Taking a breath, she dialed her mother’s home number. It rang and rang; then Tiffany’s answering machine picked up. “I’m sorry I’m not home to receive your call. . . .” Brandi dialed her mother’s cell. It rang and rang; then the voice mail picked up. “I’m sorry I’m not on the cell phone right now. . . .”

Where was she? At the movies? Somewhere with bad cell service?

Brandi tried Kim again, but of course she didn’t pick up.

Nonno knocked.

Brandi put her phone in her purse. She slipped on the maroon velvet robe with the hem that exposed the ruffled hem of the nightgown. Walking to the door, she opened it two inches and peeked out.

It wasn’t Nonno who inexorably pushed the door open; it was Roberto. He pushed her backward until he could look her over, and his smile blossomed.

Damn him. He didn’t look amused. He looked . . . he looked the way he had when she’d finally put on the lacy nightgown and paraded enticingly before him. His black hair was tousled as if he’d just removed a cap. Tousled, with a lock that hung over his forehead that enticed her to push it back. His brown eyes held a kindling flame, and his lips . . . his lips were so very talented.

Not the best moment to think of that.

She fell back a step.

He followed.

She touched the buttons at her throat to make sure they were fastened. They were. She swallowed and asked, “Toothbrush?”

“Here.” He pulled the plastic package out of his shirt pocket and handed it over. “I risked life and limb getting it for you. I deserve a reward.”

“I risked life and limb going to lunch with you, so I’d say we’re even.” She cockily flipped the toothbrush into the air.

“So we both deserve a reward.”

“None of that!” She waltzed backward, but somehow it seemed he was as good a dancer as she was, for she found herself wrapped in his arms. Driven by an inner rhythm, he moved her backward until, with a shock of pleasure, she felt his heated body before her and the cool wall at her back.

Burying his head in her hair, he inhaled as if the scent of her intoxicated him.

“Your grandfather would not like this.” But
she
did. Oh, she did.

“I’m not doing anything except holding you.” Roberto’s voice caressed her.

“And sniffing me.” Her body curved, settling into his as if it recognized its home.

He chuckled, a warm breath against her forehead. “I love the way you smell. Nonno would understand that.”

Closing her eyes, she inhaled in her turn, but carefully, so Roberto wouldn’t notice. He smelled like fresh air and rich passion, but something was missing . . . the scent of her on his skin.

“Besides, you like the way I smell, too.”

Damn.
He’d caught her. “Nonno warned me against men like you.”

“Did he?” He touched her cheek with his lips. “He should know. He
is
a man like me. Besides, who do you think sent me up with the toothbrush?”

Lifting her head, she frowned into his face. “Why would he do that?”

“He likes you. He wants me to settle down.”

“Settle down?” Her breath caught. “Like marriage?”

“It’s his fondest wish to hold his great-grandchild before he dies.”

“You’re damned calm about this!” In fact, Roberto was still holding her so that every inch of their bodies touched.

My God. Marriage.
Who did Nonno think she was? For that matter, who did Roberto think she was?

“Nonno knows we respect him too much to go too far in his house.” As he spoke, Roberto slipped his knee between hers and pressed until she rode it in a slow rhythm.

She hated the thrill that slid up her spine. “A good matchmaker knows the first and most important element of bringing people together is a common background and common values.”

“Like you had with Alan?”

“What a despicable thing to say.” She dug her fingernails into his shoulders. “I told you that in confidence, not so you could fling my failure into my face!”

“It’s not a failure.” Roberto smiled, a slow, warm lift of his lips. “If you loved him, then it would be a failure.”

He made her madder than Alan ever had. Ever could. “But I don’t love you, either, and I’m not marrying a jewel thief.”

“I haven’t asked you.” And Roberto kissed her.

Her hurt—if it was hurt—melted under the talented application of his lips and his passion, and the slow, relentless rise of her own desire.

How had this happened? At least in the matter of their affair, they’d behaved sensibly all day. He hadn’t pressed her. She hadn’t said too much. She’d been able to fool herself into believing they could work out their situation without squabbling. Now she knew the truth. Whether acknowledged or not, the passion between them irrevocably simmered and, with the slightest touch, came to a boil. She balanced on the edge of orgasm. . . . If he would only stop the motion of his knee, she could hold herself back. . . .

He didn’t, and she couldn’t.

He muffled her cries of fulfillment in his shirt against his chest, and held her when she had finished and melted against the wall. When her knees could support her weight, he let her go. Leaning down, he picked something up off the floor. Taking her hand, he placed it in her palm and closed her fingers around it. His velvet voice whispered across her cheek. “Good night,
cara.
”

She stared after him in a daze as he walked out the door. Looking down at her hand, she saw her toothbrush . . . with the imprint of each of her fingers in the plastic packaging.

A
s Brandi led him down the corridor to her apartment, Roberto stalked after her and wondered if she could feel his heat at her back.

“The place is a mess.” She jingled her keys as she walked. “I moved in last week.”

She displayed a charming skittishness, pretending that her explosive climax of last night had never happened.

And how dared she? Why wasn’t she looking at him with adoration? Why didn’t she demand the chance to wrap her long legs around his hips and ride him until they both burned to cinders?

“What is the number of your apartment?”
Three eleven, three twelve . . .

“Three nineteen. Why?”

Because I’m keeping track of the numbers on the doors as we pass. Once we’re inside, I’ll press you against the wall and kiss you until you again fall apart in my hand. Then I’ll take you to the floor and make passionate love to you until at last
I
am satisfied.

She must have read his mind, for her voice trembled slightly. “While I was gone this weekend, these guys came and—”

“Ah. Yes.
This
weekend.”

“What?” She glanced behind her and jumped to see him shadowing close on her heels.

“Now we are going to discuss this weekend.”
Three fifteen, three sixteen . . . Only three more doors . . .

“N-no. No, we’re not. Remember? Yesterday we agreed that if our relationship as lawyer and client was to work, we’d have to, um”—she turned and walked backward as if that somehow would stop him from leaping on her unaware—“concentrate on being professionals.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that.” But he did remember her riding his leg last night, and the soft cries she made as she came.

Memories like that had kept him awake far into the night . . . and gave him a hard-on big enough to warrant a line at the Navy Pier amusement park. He’d been confident he could taunt and tease her until she clawed his back in desire, and it was a tough realization that, where she was concerned, he had no restraint. He wanted her as desperately as he intended her to want him.

She’d turned the tables—and she hadn’t even tried.

She stopped and glared at him. “Well, you did.”

“Did what?”

“You agreed that we should act like professionals.”

He was in no mood to be reasonable. “Are you trying to challenge me?”

“I’m
trying
to behave like a rational human being.”

“Because I am definitely rising to the challenge.”

He was pleased to see he’d left her speechless. With his hand in the small of her back, he turned her and propelled her toward her apartment.

“I am so tired of you guys pushing me around!” She hurried to get out of his grasp.

You guys?
Jealousy caught at his throat. He caught up with a single step. “What
guys
are those?”

“You and your grandfather.”

“Ah.” His relief was huge, out of proportion, and another blow to the fragile structure of his self-control. Taking her keys from her fingers, he inserted them in the lock.

On the other side of the door, someone jerked it open.

Brandi screamed and leaped backward, slamming into his chest, knocking the air out of him.

A tall blond woman stood in the doorway. A tall, blond, toned woman who looked like a slightly—very slightly—older version of Brandi.

He recognized her.
Tiffany.

“Mother!” Brandi quivered as her rush of tension dissolved.

“Darling, are you all right?” Tiffany held out her arms.

Brandi walked right into them and laid her head on her shoulder.

Roberto’s drive to sexual satisfaction died an instant death. This was
not
the time.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Tiffany walked backward, holding Brandi in her embrace. She gestured for Roberto to follow.

Roberto shut the door behind him, fascinated to see Brandi’s display of weakness and her collapse into her mother’s arms.

“I knew something was wrong—a mother’s intuition, I guess—and don’t yell at her, but I nagged Kim until she told me what happened.” Tiffany rubbed Brandi’s back in a slow, comforting circle. “Alan’s a fool, darling, and you deserve better!”

Brandi lifted her head. Her eyes were slightly teary and she dabbed at her nose with the back of her hand. “I know. I’m not crying about him; it’s just been a rough week.”

“Well, don’t you worry about anything anymore.” Tiffany’s voice was low and vibrant, with a dollop of a Southern accent and pure sex appeal. “I’m here to take care of you.”

“Oh. Yeah.” As if Tiffany had said the magic words, Brandi straightened her shoulders and stepped away from her mother. “Sure.”

Despite Roberto’s callous dismissal, he knew Alan’s rebuff had hurt Brandi. She’d been told she wasn’t good enough, and while Roberto
took pride in his part in restoring her self-esteem, nothing could take the place of a mother’s succor. Obviously Brandi loved her mother; why didn’t she take what Tiffany offered?

And Brandi’s rebuff clearly hurt Tiffany. She dropped her gaze and put her fingers to her trembling lips. For one unguarded second, she was the picture of dejection.

Then she recovered. Looking up, she smiled at him and extended her hand. “I’m Brandi’s mother, Tiffany Michaels.”

Taking it in both of his, he cherished it, offering his comfort and appreciation. Bending, he kissed her fingers. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Michaels.”

“Tiffany, please.” The color came back into her cheeks as she warmed herself in his masculine admiration.

“You must call me Roberto.”

“Mother, this is Roberto Bartolini. He’s my client at McGrath and Lindoberth.” Brandi gave them a disgusted glance, then went into the kitchen visible over the half wall.

“I’m delighted to meet you, too, Mr. Bartolini.” Tiffany briefly tightened her grip, a gesture of thanks.

Up close, he could see the faint lines around her eyes and mouth, and the skin on her hands was thin and marked by slight spots. She had to be in her mid-forties, yet she was a beautiful, vibrant female who understood the art of flirtation as few American women did. And she liked him. He would bet she liked his entire gender . . . except Alan.

He observed Brandi as she moved around the kitchen. Grabbing a Kleenex, she blew her nose, then stood indecisively. With a sudden display of determination, she opened the trash, flung the Kleenex in, and slammed the lid back down. Very violent for such a soft, inoffensive bit of paper.

He glanced at Tiffany. She watched Brandi, too, two lines between her finely tweezed brows, and the lines looked settled there, as if she worried more than seemed reasonable about such a sensible, studious daughter.

“Roberto, are you taking care of my little girl?” Tiffany asked.

“No, Mother, he’s my client at McGrath and Lindoberth,” Brandi called.

“I’m taking very good care of your little girl.” He ignored the irritated flash of Brandi’s sapphire-blue eyes. “And she’s taking care of me.”

Tiffany’s gaze cooled. She took her hand back and stepped away. “That must be true, since you spent the night with Brandi.” She was a mother demanding the explanation she considered her due.