Josie Day Is Coming Home (12 page)

He was never going to survive Josie Day.

She flirted, she smiled, she leaned over and treated him to
a luscious view of her skimpily covered breasts. She joked, she sighed, she let
her clothes fall
right off her body
without doing a damned thing about
it. Okay, so it was only her tank top strap falling off, but Luke had as much
imagination as the next guy. In his mind’s eye, it was her whole top.

He tried to do the right thing. He concentrated on his
cards, but her sexy laugh lured him away. He focused on the game, but her bare
skin appealed to him more. He iced her sprained ankle until either it—or his
hands—was going to freeze off. Still he felt himself weakening.

Josie was funny and vivacious and sexy. She said exactly
what she wanted to say, when she wanted to say it. Despite the massive
inconvenience of her presence in his house, Luke wasn’t exactly sorry she was
there. As the night wore on, the fact that he managed to hold on to his
cards—much less
see
them—was a testament to the force of his will.

Either that, or he didn’t want to take advantage of a woman
who’d all but immobilized herself by spraining her ankle on a hole in his
floor.

Go figure. It looked as though he possessed scruples.

There was no other explanation for it. Despite his genes,
despite his upbringing, despite everything, Luke apparently possessed the kind
of moral fortitude no Donovan before him ever had. His father would have been
appalled.

But there it was. Scruples, a conscience, whatever you
wanted to call it. Luke was a prisoner of his own stupid principles. They were
keeping him from enjoying the night to its fullest.

“Damned scruples,” he groused.

“What’s that?” Josie asked from her perch on the
couch.

“I said, here’s that TV I promised.”

Having finished off as much poker as he could stand—along
with most of the Ding Dongs—Luke put down the set he’d carried from the
billiards room, an ancient fifteen-inch color unit with a missing power button
and fuzzy reception.

He plugged it in. “There’s no cable in the house itself,
but the local channels ought to come in okay.”

“Super.” She made a face. She nodded toward the
abandoned deck of cards. “Sure you won’t go another round?”

“I’m sure. I’ll put your crutches right here, so
they’re within reach.” Luke propped them against the nearest arm of the
sofa. He held out the TV remote, noticed its furry coating of dust, and rubbed
it against his jeans to clean it. He handed it to her. “If you need
anything, just shout. I left the windows open so I’ll hear you.”

“Where are you going?”

“Carriage house. I’ve got work to do. It’s getting
late.”

“It’s only nine-thirty!”

“Don’t worry. The local programming will knock you out
in no time.”

She frowned. Somehow, even while frowning, she looked kind
of cute. God help him. Another few minutes of this and he’d cave for sure.

“But I’m a night owl,” she said. “Usually I
work until past midnight.”

Midnight
. The time when fantasies ramped up and….
No. Luke refused to weaken.

“I’ll be back to check on you in the morning.”

There
. No harm, no foul. He was a decent guy who
didn’t take advantage of women with sprained ankles. He ought to be proud of
himself.

“Hey, Luke,” Josie piped up. “Knock,
knock.”

“What?”

“It’s a joke. A knock-knock joke. They’re kind of my
thing,” she explained. “Come on. Knock, knock.”

“Oookay.” It wouldn’t hurt to play along. Pausing
beside the sofa, Luke glanced down at her. “Who’s there?”

“Leena.”

“Leena who?”

“Leena little closer. I want that good night kiss we
talked about.”

Surprised, Luke couldn’t help but grin. The joke was corny,
but the thought behind it wasn’t. Neither was the expectant, suddenly
vulnerable look on Josie’s face. She clutched the TV remote against her chest
and stared up at him, every ounce of bravado gone.

Yes,
his mind prodded, but his body was already one
step ahead. Luke knelt with one knee on the sofa cushion, feeling himself dip
toward her. He was tired of resisting this, tired of saying no. One little good
night kiss wouldn’t hurt.

Hell, yes,
his mind urged again, but his body had
already voted to put one hand over Josie’s and brace the other on the back of
the sofa. All the better to be nearer…nearer.

Luke rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, enjoying
the first real sensual contact they’d made. Josie felt good. Soft, warm,
feminine. He smiled at her, and decided right then that he’d been an idiot not
to touch her sooner. He couldn’t remember what he’d been waiting for.

“If this were a real date,” he said, letting his
gaze drop to her mouth, “I’d already have done this.”

“If this were a real date,” she replied, sounding
breathless, “we’d be way behind. You’d better hurry up.”

“Uh-uh. I like to take it slow.”

Demonstrating, he lowered his lips to hers. He kissed
her…once. It was all he could trust himself to do.

When he raised his head, Josie opened her eyes. She lay back
against the sofa cushions, looking dazzled. And irresistible.

“The hell with slow,” he announced, and kissed her
again.

This time, Luke brought his mouth to hers and felt the whole
room spin. This kiss was small, the barest brush of his lips against hers, but
it was enough to make him realize that kissing Josie was probably an even
bigger gamble than playing poker with a showgirl.

For one thing, he was twice as likely to lose his shorts.

“Luke,” Josie breathed. “Luke.”

He pulled back slightly. Josie put her hand on his chest,
spreading her palm over the front of his T-shirt. He felt the warmth of her
touch and instantly wanted more. Their gazes met. There was something about the
look in her eyes…something as intoxicating as the softness of her skin.

“I can’t believe I didn’t even know you until this
morning,” she said.

“I can’t believe I waited so long to kiss you.”

“Me, either.” She smiled. “So how come I’m
still waiting for a repeat performance?”

As far as invitations went, they didn’t get any clearer than
that. More than willing to oblige, Luke cupped her cheek in his hand. He leaned
nearer. Another kiss, this one—

A blaring horn sounded outside.

Josie jerked. “What’s that?”

It sounded again. Luke glanced up just as a sweep of
headlights lit the room, then vanished. Gravel crunched outside as a vehicle
rounded the drive.

Oh, shit. With a jolt, Luke remembered where he was supposed
to be tonight.

“Gotta run,” he said.

With a hasty final kiss, he left for the carriage house.

Chapter Seven

Happily ensconced on the pool deck of the cruise ship
S.S.
Extravaganza
, Tallulah reclined on her favorite blue-and-white-striped deck
chair. For the past two days, she’d been up to her eyeballs in cocktails,
exotic buffets, and mischief. As far as she was concerned, that meant
everything was perfect.

“How’s that mai tai, Ambrose?”

“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning,” her attorney
said, turning his head on his matching deck chair. He squinted against the
sunlight bouncing from the azure pool. “I’m not drinking a mai tai. I’m
drinking orange juice.”

“You always were an old fuddy-duddy.”

“You always were a busybody.”

“Damned straight.” Tallulah adjusted her
rhinestone cat’s-eye sunglasses. “How else would I know what’s right for
you?”

Ambrose smiled faintly. “Me and everyone else.”

“Exactly. Speaking of which, what did you find out
about our friend, the concierge? You followed up last week as I asked you to,
didn’t you?”

“Yes. She’s very satisfactorily settled in at your
lodge property in Aspen. And before you ask, your psychic advisor is doing
well, also.” Ambrose adjusted his wide-brimmed sun hat and crossed his
linen-pants-covered legs. He grimaced, probably at the tropical heat.
“Allowing her to turn Ernest’s mail order home siding business into a
psychic hotline was an excellent idea.”

“Yes. I knew it would be.”

“Of that, I have no doubt at all. You are never less
than one thousand percent pleased with yourself.”

He was correct, of course. Satisfied with the status of her
latest protégés, Tallulah beckoned a cabana boy. She ordered a second mai tai,
a plate of scrambled eggs with bacon, and a massage reservation at the
Extravaganza
‘s
spa. She wanted to be completely relaxed by the time they reached Barbados—and,
after that, Martinique.

“Oh, and young man?” she added, calling him back.
“Tack on a massage for yourself, too. My treat. You look as if you could
use one.”

His face brightened. “I will, ma’am. Thank you,
ma’am!”

“You can thank me by not calling me ma’am. I am not a
thousand years old.” She made her expression as stern as possible.
“Now, scoot.”

Tallulah shooed the boy away, wanting him gone before she
accidentally broke into a smile. She dreaded the thought of becoming one of
those cutesy little old ladies—the ones who knit booties and wore pastels and
dyed their hair blue. She did everything she could to prevent it.

However, she did believe in rewarding people who deserved
rewarding. People like the cabana boy. Ambrose. Her friends the former
concierge and the psychic. And that redheaded showgirl, the one who’d reminded
Tallulah of herself.

“What was that hotsy totsy’s name?” she asked
Ambrose, gazing critically at her scarlet pedicure as she tried to remember.
“The one who Heimliched me at Ernest’s casino?”

“Josie.” Looking pained, Ambrose held up his copy
of
USA Today
so it shielded him from the sunlight. “Josie
Day.”

“That’s right. The trailer park girl. She claimed her
reward for saving me, didn’t she?”

“Yes. Eventually.”

“Stubborn bit of baggage.” Secretly proud of the
girl for not being grabby, Tallulah paused. She thought about it. Damn it. Her
memory just wasn’t what it used to be. “What was her reward again?”

“Blue Moon.”

“Blue Moon? That sounds like a golden oldie from the
fifties.” She scoffed, extending her arm to admire the clink of her
vintage Lucite bangle bracelets. Once upon a time, she’d been quite the fashion
plate. Still was, if you asked her. “You’re making that up.”

“Your family estate,” Ambrose reminded patiently.
“In Donovan’s Corner. Arizona.”

“Ah. The Grand Canyon state. We must visit there again
sometime.”

Ambrose remained tactfully silent. He didn’t like to travel,
the old codger. He’d rather stay home with his newspaper and his
Wheel of
Fortune
and his dreary dietician-approved meals and never have any adventure
at all.

Recognizing a hopeless case when he was lounging right next
to her, Tallulah let the conversation lapse. She passed the time while waiting
for her next mai tai by watching several men swim laps across the pool. They
were wonderfully distracting, every one of them bronzed and fit and athletic.

In their wake, a lone woman in a swim cap breast-stroked
slowly. Her wrinkled face glistened with water each time she bobbed upward. Her
arms were crepey, her skin freckled, her suit a practical black. She completed
seven laps, each one wobbly but effective…each one solitary.

Go faster,
Tallulah urged her silently.
Catch up
.
But before long it was too late. All the men finished their laps. They climbed
out of the pool and stood laughing on its tiled deck while they toweled off.
None of them noticed the woman. Alone in the pool, she went on swimming. One,
two. One, two.

Tallulah looked away.

“Ambrose, you’ve had too much sun,” she announced,
grabbing the newspaper from her startled attorney. “You look like a
lobster. Let’s head over to the sing-along piano bar and see what’s
shaking.”

Despite what Luke had told Josie about the house being
important to him, most of his time at Blue Moon was not spent there. Most of
his time was spent in the carriage house, the big square building about two
hundred yards south of the mansion at the edge of the weedy lawn. It wasn’t
perfect. Hell, when he’d arrived there the place had been barely standing. But
Luke had commandeered it anyway, and had never looked back.

The top half—formerly an apartment for the family’s
driver—became his living space, stripped down to its basics and filled with a
few pieces of furniture he’d salvaged from the main house. The bottom
half—formerly parking for the family’s long-gone buggies and Buicks—became a
garage, outfitted with as many tools and as much mechanical and diagnostic
equipment as he’d been able to shoehorn in…and afford.

Some of the items were castoffs liberated from Donovan &
Sons’ tax-deductible donations pile, like the drill press and the hydraulic
motorcycle lift. Others were contributions from friends, like the gas welder.
Some of the tools he’d owned for years; a few were straightforward junkyard
refugees. Luke didn’t care. The important thing was that the whole setup belonged
to him. It was the key to his future.

“Ha! Your dad would freak out if he could see you
now.”

At the sound of that familiar voice, Luke glanced up. Just
as he’d expected, his buddy TJ Hardison stood at the bottom of the carriage
house stairs. His gelled-up hair looked as though it had seen the wrong side of
a blender. His eyebrow ring glinted in the light shining through the open
carriage house doors. His Spiderman logo T-shirt was about as mature as the
wiseass grin on his face.

He shook his head. “How the mighty have fallen.”

“Bite me, Hardison,” Luke said cheerfully.
“The only thing that’s ‘fallen’ around here is your IQ.”

“Ouch.” Chuckling, TJ meandered past a pair of
half-rebuilt Indian Scouts and a prime ‘77 Harley-Davidson XLCR. He gave both
motorcycles admiring looks. “You, my friend, are a grumpy asshole in the
morning.”

“Beats being a dickhead all day.”

They both grinned. With their usual greeting out of the way,
Luke squinted at the front shock he’d been disassembling. It belonged to a BMW
cycle TJ had delivered last night. He’d towed it here from L.A. on the
brand-new trailer hitched to the back of his brand-new pickup. Luke should have
been expecting him, but he’d been otherwise occupied.

That was probably obvious, given the way he’d bolted out of
the main house to meet TJ last night. He hadn’t wanted his handyman cover
blown. But aside from a curious glance at the lights on in the mansion, TJ
hadn’t asked for details, and Luke hadn’t volunteered any.

That was what women didn’t understand, Luke thought as he
jimmied the bottom of the shock casing and removed it. Well, that and the
crucial importance of NBA playoffs. Not everything needed to be talked to
death. Take TJ. He stood munching a corn dog he must have found upstairs,
occasionally dipping it in the gallon jar of mustard he’d football-carried in
with him. But did Luke ask him why? Hell, no. He didn’t care.

Blinking against the tang of mustard filling his nostrils,
Luke examined the shock. He nodded toward the tool bench. “Hand me that
9mm wrench. Whoever owns this bike beat it all to hell and back again.”

“I know,” TJ mumbled around a mouthful. “It
belongs to one of those motorcycle club weenies in the corporate office. More
money than smarts. He’s practically wrecked the thing—that’s why I brought it
to you. I know you like a challenge.” Using the corn dog as a pointer, he
indicated the BMW cycle. “If you can’t fix that bike, nobody can.”

“Enough with the pep talk, Lombardi. Hand over
the—” Luke stopped, suddenly realizing what TJ had said. He gave him a
sharp look. “You told him you were bringing it to me?”

“What do you think I am, stupid?”

“We’ve already covered that.”

TJ flipped him the finger.

“Fine.” Luke held out his oil-smeared palm.
“Wrench?”

“Get it yourself.” TJ swabbed at a mustard drip on
Spidey’s screen-printed leg. He gave up with a shrug. “I’m not your
freaking assistant.”

“I know. You’re my dad’s freaking assistant.”

“Freaking
spy,
” TJ specified, his wiseass
grin in place again. “I’m Daddy Donovan’s eyes and ears, reporting in on
his former pride and joy. Remember?”

“I remember.” Luke frowned. He didn’t want to
think about what TJ was
supposed
to be doing here in Donovan’s
Corner—keeping tabs on Luke, then reporting everything he discovered back to
Robert Donovan. “But I don’t think
you
do. The wrench is that long
silver thing over there. See?”