Just One Night: Sex, Love & Stiletto Series (6 page)

“An extra shift, huh?” Riley asked innocently, pretending fascination with the cable bill
that her parents had left out on the white tile counter.
You’re sure it had nothing to do with her suspicion of you having genital warts?

“That’s what I said.” His voice was easy. Clearly they weren’t going to discuss her stunt with the STD pamphlets in front of her mother. Fine with Riley.

Her mother clucked. “Well, that’s a shame.”

“Yes.
Shame
,” Riley said.

Her mother ignored her.

Sam didn’t. “Hey, Ri.”

“Hey.”

“Saw your most recent article. Heady stuff.”

She didn’t let herself respond to the mockery in his tone.

“I’d say I liked it
less
than the whips-and-chains piece, but
more
than the one about the gin-and-tonic-flavored lube.”

Riley carefully let her eyes go sleepy and her lips pouty before giving him a slow glance over her shoulder. “Intrigued, are we?”

But Sam Compton was immune to that look. Which was ironic, considering that he was the one who had inspired her to start practicing it back when she was seventeen and just beginning to understand the power of breasts and eyelashes.

And Sam wasn’t without some looks of his own. His eyes darkened just slightly before he gave her his trademark crooked grin. “Oh, I’ve been plenty intrigued. Some of your tips have proven to be
very
helpful in the bedroom.”

He didn’t bother to dodge Erin’s swat on the back of the head. “Sorry, ma’am, but you know I’m just supporting your middle daughter’s career endeavors.”

Erin gave him an arch look but didn’t rant at him the way she would have at her own sons. “Did you bring the stuff?” Riley’s mom asked Sam, returning to her cooking duties.

“Yup. You sure about this? Does Josh know?”

Riley’s mother waved this away. “He’ll drink it. He’s always been more flexible with international drink than international eats.”

“What are we talking about here?” Riley asked, desperate for a topic to distract her from thinking about Sam in bed. With other women. Between her mother’s presence and his mentioning other bedmates, now didn’t quite seem the right time to ask if she could see him
naked and then write about it.

“Margaritas, baby,” Sam said, coming up alongside her, resting his forearms on the counter and leaning in to see the dinner spread. If he noticed the potatoes, he didn’t say a word.

“Margaritas?” Riley said. “Holy crap, Ma, you’re going all out.”

Erin gave a smug little smile and jerked her chin in the direction of the driveway. “Go help Sam get the stuff. You two can mix a pitcher.”

“I’m sure a big strong man like Sam can carry a little tequila bottle by himself,” Riley said, giving him a cartoon flutter of her lashes.

He fluttered right back. “Yes, but then there’s the Cointreau and the coarse salt, and the limes that went rogue all over the back of my truck. Maybe you can just tuck those between
your
limes to keep shit perky …”

Riley looked at her mother and pointed at Sam. “Ma, you hearing this?”

“Do I hear my son’s best friend talking about my daughter’s breasts? No, I do not. But I
could
use a drink all the same, so hurry along now.”

“These are bigger than limes,” Riley muttered as she slid reluctantly from the stool and checked out her boobs. He didn’t bother to respond. Wasn’t even interested.

She trailed after Sam toward his truck. One didn’t need a car in the Brooklyn neighborhood where they’d grown up. She and Sam had both lived close enough to the F and G subway line that there was no need.

But a couple of years earlier, after Sam had decided that corporate life wasn’t for him, he’d gone and bought himself a distillery up in Greenpoint. Which meant that there was always a barrel of whisky riding around as Sam’s companion.

She just wished it was his
only
companion. Riley picked up a pale pink cardigan off the bench seat of the truck. “Doesn’t this make you look sallow?”

“Angela’s,” he said by way of response. “Get the limes and quit snooping.”

Riley sighed and began retrieving the limes that had rolled every which way in the truck. But only because she really,
really
needed that margarita. “You know, at the grocery store, they often have these clear plastic things … what are they called … oh right,
bags
. I’m not sure, but I
think
you can put fruit in there to avoid adventures like these.”

He grabbed at a lime that was under her hip, wrestling it free and tossing it in front of her face before snatching it and giving her a quick grin. “And who’d want to avoid adventures like
these?”

Riley’s breath caught just a little when they made eye contact. It was ridiculous, really. She’d seen his face a million times over the years, and it never, ever got old. Never failed to elicit that usual combination of fondness and frustration and something that might have been horniness, if Riley knew what that felt like.

Not that she was the only woman to get horny from the likes of Sam Compton. It was almost a shame that he’d decided his passion was mashing grains for whisky, because he looked like one of the actors who would get cast as “the good-looking guy” in every possible movie genre.

With blond hair and blue eyes, Sam could have been a run-of-the-mill guy next door, but the genetics lottery had been kind enough to get everything just right. His eyes were such a light shade of blue that they had a sort of chronic piercing effect, made even sexier because they were framed by a set of some seriously killer lashes. And his hair was that ideal shade of golden blond with just enough wave to be, well … sexy as hell.

And the body … 
oh, the body
.

Sam had the lean, muscled build of a man who was used to
using
his body. Which she supposed made sense. He’d gone straight from the football field to a freaking
triathlon
on a dare from Riley’s brother. And she didn’t really have a clue what he did to keep in shape these days, but he did
something
, because his biceps were definitely straining the fabric of those tight T-shirts he wore everywhere, and the jeans revealed nothing but sheer man-butt perfection.

“You checkin’ me out, Ri?”

“You know, I was? Just trying to figure out who caused those wrinkles around your eyes.”

“Well, you know what they say about aging. Men get distinguished and women just get old.”

She snatched the lime out of his hand even though she didn’t know how she was going to carry the ones she’d already gathered. “You’d better invest in some eye cream. Nurse Angela’s not going to like you going all old-man on her.”

“Nurse Angela didn’t go paying much attention to my eyes, if you know what I mean.”

“No, Compton. I have
no
idea what you mean by that blatant sexual reference,” she snapped, sliding out of the truck with the limes cradled against her chest. One fell to the ground,
but since picking it up would mean dropping the rest of them, she left it.

“Hey, I figured you like it blunt,” he called after her, grabbing the rest of the ingredients and coming around the truck. “You’re the one who makes a living off of selling sex.”

Riley’s head snapped back in surprise. “What did you just say?”

He looked a little startled by her expression. “I just meant—”

Riley turned to face him, eyes furious. “I don’t sell sex. I write about it. There’s a big difference.”

“You know what I meant, Ri.”

“Obviously not,” she said, taking a step forward.

His eyes went wary, and he took a tiny step backward.
Smart man
.

She hadn’t felt the need to defend her job in years. She figured the people who couldn’t handle it were either prudes or recently blue-balled.

Somehow she didn’t think Sam was either one of those.

“You know, you’re right, Sam. Maybe I should stop selling sex. Maybe I should go stir grain liquor around in a garage, and then refuse to share it with anyone, much less sell it. Maybe live in a perpetual state of
it’s not ready
?”

His gaze darkened, as their conversation quickly went from casual sparring to heated anger. It inevitably did with them. They’d scratch back and forth, inflicting light surface wounds, until someone swiped too hard and drew blood. Then the other bit back, and, well …

“You don’t know anything about it, Riley.”

“Nobody does,” she muttered, turning back to the house.

When Sam had announced that he was starting his own distillery a few years prior, the McKenna family had done nothing but support him. Unlike his own mother, who’d done nothing but tear him down.

But what had the McKennas gotten for their support and hope for him to succeed?

Stonewalled. That’s what. Other than Liam, and save for one surprise “door-opening” celebration, none of the other McKennas had ever been invited out to the distillery, and not for a lack of fishing for an invitation.

Sam kept saying he was just tweaking it to get it right for tasting, but Riley knew better. The man was scared to death of failing. She knew it because she knew
him
. Years of covertly stalking a man had its benefits.

“What were you and your mom talking about?” he said, following her toward the front door. “Looked like I walked in on something awkward.”

“Nice subject change,” she said, using her toe to open the front door she’d left cracked. “And it
was
awkward. My mom wanted to know if my most recent BDSM article was based on personal experience.”

Sam whistled. “Whew. Go Erin.”

“Speaking of mothers, how’s yours?”

His easy smile vanished. “Fine.”

Riley tilted her head and gave him a look. “Don’t
fine
me. I know you.”

He rolled his shoulders. “Okay. She’s nasty and mean and still hates my guts. Good enough?”

“Sam—” She set a hand on his arm, but he jerked back.

“Drop it, Ri.”

Riley saw the pain in his eyes and was desperate to hug him, but she knew better. He wouldn’t push her away, but the emotional wall he had around himself would grow even thicker.

Instead she forced a smile and returned them to safer territory. “Aren’t you going to ask?”

His brow furrowed, his expression still wary. “Ask what?”

“About the spanking. If it’s based on personal experience.”

To her surprise and dismay, he laughed. “God no. I don’t need to ask.”

It was her turn to frown. “Because you don’t care one way or another?”

His gaze flickered and his smile faded. “Well, for starters, your brother would kill me if he knew I even so much as glanced at one of your articles. But mostly I don’t need to ask because I already know the answer.”

He edged by her, heading through the hall toward the kitchen.

“You do not!” she called after him.

Sam turned around, walking backward with a little smirk. “Ri, most of the
city
knows you have more bedroom experience than the average Las Vegas showgirl. But don’t worry. I won’t tell your brothers. Or your dad.”

He turned back around, disappearing into the kitchen, and thank God for that, because letting Sam Compton see her tears was one path she was
never
going down.

But beneath the tears threatening to overflow was something else. Something deeper and
darker.

It was the desire to tell Sam just how wrong about her he was.

Sam Compton already knew what would kill him one day: Riley McKenna.

Or more precisely, it was keeping his hands
off
Riley McKenna that would kill him.

Because a heterosexual man didn’t spend a decade in the company of a woman who looked like Riley without touching her.

Not unless he wanted to die a slow, torturous death by sexual frustration.

Riley, on the other hand, was blissfully unaware of Sam’s plight and was quite likely to die as the hottest old lady on the block, completely blind to the fact that she’d killed ol’ Sam Compton simply by being the most gorgeous woman alive.

But it wasn’t just her killer body that would do him in. Oh no. It was the entire package. Because Riley was a serious pain in the ass.
His
ass.

Also?

He was a jerk. A first-rate shit.

Just days after telling off his mom for calling Riley a whore, he’d all but done the same thing.

He hadn’t meant that crack about her job like that.
At all
.

But still …

He was an ass. The biggest.

And now, ever since they’d fetched the margarita fixings from the truck, she’d been avoiding him. That wasn’t normal.

He didn’t like it.

“Hey, does Riley seem weird to you tonight?” Sam quietly asked Liam as the two of them tag-teamed dish duty.

Liam gave him a look. “You’re asking me if I think my little sister is weird. That’s like asking the pope if he goes to mass on Easter.”

“Kate and Megan aren’t weird.”

“Sure they are. Did you not hear Kate go on for twenty minutes on Nietzsche’s perspective on dichotomy? I couldn’t keep up with that shit even without the margaritas.”

Sam took the wet dinner plate Liam held out and dried it, his eyes never leaving the kitchen table, where Riley sat reading a story about a friendly blue ferret to her niece.

The effect of them together, the gorgeous woman with the little girl … unsettling.

Five-year-old Lily was the spitting image of her aunt. There was no sign of her mother’s dark red hair, nor her father’s dirty blond. With the little girl’s tilted blue eyes and long, shiny black curls, he could have been looking at Riley twenty years earlier.

And the sight of the mini Riley on the real Riley’s lap looking very mother-daughter did something treacherous in the vicinity of his chest.

Do not go there, Compton
.

The self–pep talks sometimes worked. Most of the time they didn’t.

“Kate has a philosophy exam on Friday. She’s entitled to be preoccupied,” Sam replied, jerking his attention back to the conversation with his best friend.