My Gigolo (4 page)

He tilted his head to one side, his eyes dancing. “That leaves you in a cold, lonely place.”

“No, it leaves me the hell alone, which is how I like it.”

He opened his mouth to comment, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“Okay, okay. At any rate, my sister did pay you for two hours. Since we are absolutely not going to knock boots for any of that time…” She paused, quirking a crooked and slightly smug grin. “You’re going to help me bake. Hope you brought your apron.”

She couldn’t read all of the expressions that crossed his face, but the sheer range and breadth made her smile. At least she’d caught him off guard for once. It may never happen again, but it served him right for so totally putting her off her game from the start.

Finally, he nodded, acknowledging the point scored. His smile was no less devastating for being the first real one she’d seen from him.

“I’m not sure I have the expertise required for this little exercise.”

Flicking on the burner under the butter mixture, she smirked. “I’m sure a man of your talents will find a way to make it an experience, rather than an exercise.”

Her one-up lasted barely five seconds.

“Baking. Hm. It might just become my new favorite foreplay.”

By all rights, he should be bored out of his mind. In the past half-hour, he’d made no progress and hadn’t removed a single article of clothing.

She plugged her MP3 player into a set of speakers on top of the microwave, treating him to a surprisingly good selection of music. He heard everything from Metallica to Meat Loaf and had yet to want to skip a song. She obviously had good taste.

But she carefully directed the conversation away from any of the hints and insinuations he worked in. Her continual avoidance of his trade both amused and chagrined him. She was a tough nut to crack, but he became more and more determined to enjoy the treat inside that seemingly impenetrable outer shell. By now, it was a matter of pride.

The unstated challenge was what kept him from committing metaphysical
seppuku
as he watched her form dozens of little balls of filling and then dip them in chocolate. Over and over. Stab the little ball. Dunk it in melted chocolate. Turn it this way and that until all the extra chocolate runs off. Drop it on waxed paper. Fill in the little hole with more chocolate. Smooth until no sign of the hole remains. Repeat repeatedly.

Her attention to detail alone should have sent him tearing out his hair in boredom, but he couldn’t help thinking about drizzling her with some of that chocolate, then licking it back off, paying as much attention to his job as she did to hers. He liked chocolate.

“Have a Coke, if you like. They’re in the bottom of the fridge.”

And every now and then, she remembered that he was, for all intents and purposes, a guest in her home and offered him some comfort or other. It was…endearing. Not something he was used to.

Of course, watching someone putter around the kitchen wasn’t exactly in his job description, either.

“Are you hungry?” Finally finished with a veritable armory of little chocolate-covered cannonballs, she slid the works into an empty shelf in the refrigerator. “I can make you a sandwich or something before we tackle the cookies.”

He smiled, bemused. “No, I’m okay. I was supposed to be otherwise employed at the moment, so I ate before I drove down. To keep up my strength, you know.”

She didn’t take the bait. “All right, then. Would you get into that cabinet to your left and find the baking soda and vanilla? I think I have everything else out already.”

As he watched her toss ingredients into a bowl and stir, he grudgingly admitted that Mike may have been right. He might not be able to sweet talk this surprisingly fascinating slip of a girl into bed. She seemed completely uninterested.

He really didn’t think of himself as a vain man, but something about her turning him down chafed. He’d never had a problem talking a woman into sex, even before he became a hired man. He knew he was good-looking and charming. His mirror and countless women’s sighs told him so.

So why was she baking while he stood here like an idiot and watched?

He tried not to scowl at the silent question. Just as he really started chafing about her inattention, he heard the opening lines of a song he hadn’t heard in nearly a decade.

The cheesy techno-mambo beat. It was perfect. Who knew “Mambo No. 5” could ever come in handy? Grinning widely as he watched her sway to the jaunty track, he made a snap decision and stepped up behind her, took her by the upper arm, and spun her around into a classic dancing pose.

She blinked up at him, surprised, so he took advantage and led her into a quick-stepping little mockery of a tango around the kitchen. She stumbled over her feet for the first few steps, then picked up on his rhythm and joined in with a smile. Her eyes glowed with fun as she let him swing her out to arm’s length and then pull her back in. They spun and laughed, quick-stepped and jitterbugged. No choreographer in the universe could have recreated the hodge-podge half-swing/half-mambo they concocted.

Even the listing of names in the verse was oh, so appropriate. Her eyes twinkled with laughter at the irony, and he couldn’t stop grinning. Didn’t want to.

Leering cheerfully at her, he blessed Lou Bega and all his ancestors. She laughed back at him, crashing into his chest when he pulled her in before he again flung her out to arm’s length. They’d gone from not touching at all to cavorting in each other’s arms, dancing badly in a kitchen, of all places. She didn’t seem to notice the discrepancy as he pulled her close and dipped her back over his arm as the last chords trumpeted out of the speakers.

She even kicked up one knee so he could grab under her thigh and complete the pose. He held her almost like he was paid to, and she laughed up at him with no restraint…and no sexual attraction at all. Apparently, she was just having fun.

And now he actually wanted her.

She must have seen some of that want in his eyes because her laughter stilled, her smile faltering. Her body went from yielding in his arms to trying to gently remove itself from his grip. He held on a little longer, lowering his face closer to hers, hoping she’d take the hint and let him kiss her.

She didn’t. “I need to add more flour or I’ll forget later.”

It wasn’t exactly a set-down, but he grudgingly gave up the ground he’d gained and stood her up straight, his hands holding on until the last possible minute. She grinned nervously, not meeting his eyes as she pulled away and brushed by him to get back to her blasted cookies.

Silence fell between them, even as another song played in the background. For the first time, he was actually uncomfortable in her presence. Surely, she hadn’t been unaffected by his touch. He would have sworn that she leaned up to him just the slightest bit before pulling away again. But she had still pulled away.

And then she chuckled, bringing him out of his scowling thoughts but conversely making him feel worse.

“That was the weirdest mambo
ever.
”

He was too smooth an operator. She didn’t quite know what to make of him. One minute, he all but oozed sex and looked as smug as any man who knows he’s getting laid. The next, he laughed like a real person and led her into an impromptu dancing conglomeration that had her breathless with fun. And the next—

She didn’t want to think about that. No way would she let his schmarmy charm roll her. He was a male prostitute, for God’s sake. And one that her sister—her sister!—had paid for. It was just too much to take.

So, why was her stomach all fluttery? Why could she still not catch her breath? She wasn’t out of shape by any stretch. She worked through a thirty-minute Tae Bo tape four days a week. No way would a few minutes of dancing and laughing leave her so breathless.

And why couldn’t she stop sneaking little glances at him?

And why not get Mike’s money’s worth?

The question sideswiped her out of nowhere. Her eyes widened and the empty chocolate chip bag slipped from her suddenly lax fingers. Why not, indeed?

She immediately listed all of the excellent reasons why not. She didn’t know him. He was a male prostitute. She didn’t want to accidentally get pregnant. She didn’t want to accidentally get a disease. She didn’t have any condoms, though she never stopped taking the Pill. He was a stranger. She didn’t do casual sex. Her sister had
bought
him, for God’s sake.

But…why not?

Sure, those were all excellent reasons, but what did they matter? She was twenty-seven years old—twenty-eight in a few days—and very single. He obviously had her sister’s approval, and that was nothing to sniff at. Mike was about as easy to sway as a giant sequoia. Also, she’d never allow anyone with a disease near her little sister.

Plus, Gabe doubted any self-respecting, professional sex fiend would go anywhere without at least one condom on hand. While a condom and the Pill still weren’t one hundred percent protection against pregnancy, only abstinence was better.

And of course he was a stranger. He was a
gigolo.
On the plus side, she’d never have to see him again. She wouldn’t have to deal with his moods and his quirks and his underwear on the bathroom floor. She wouldn’t have to argue with him or placate his ego or worry about his extravagances.

Frowning, she stirred in an extra dash of flour to the already stiff cookie dough and then spooned big dollops onto a cookie sheet. Instead of talking herself out of this fiasco, she was talking herself further into it. Not good.

But he was certainly nice to look at. Strong, too. She hadn’t been unaware of the flex of hard muscle under her hands as they danced. She also hadn’t disliked the way his eyes lightened from emerald green to the color of an old Coke bottle in the sun when he laughed.

Worse, she hadn’t missed the twitch of…
interest
…while she was bent over backward in his grip and pressed against his groin. She might still be the skinny, gawky little sister she’d always been, but his body hadn’t seemed to mind. Maybe that was another perk of being a gigolo. Instant interest.

She shoved the first batch into the oven and closed the door, still frowning. Thankfully, he left her alone, apparently deep in his own thoughts. She needed to think without having to cross mental swords with him. Right now, she could only get herself into trouble that way. She was a sucker for witty, buff guys with dark hair and green eyes.

No one but Mike would ever know. Actually, even Mike didn’t necessarily need to know. It wasn’t like she
had
to tell her sister that her birthday gift had been received in every sense of the word.

And it had been a really,
really
long time.

Two batches later, she scraped the bottom of the bowl and felt no closer to an actual decision than when she began considering the possibility. He still hadn’t interrupted her thoughts, but a few stolen glances assured her that he wasn’t ticked off at her, at least. She had surprised a slight frown in his forehead once, but he quickly wiped the expression away when he noticed her noticing. Maybe he, too, was having second thoughts.

Sighing, she slid the last batch into the oven and counted all of her fine reasoning for naught. He was probably bored out of his mind and glad that she didn’t seem to want him. He was probably used to acting out fantasies and “escorting” beautiful women with big boobs and a ravishing hunger for his body. He was probably used to better. She couldn’t do this.

But when he pressed up against her back as she scooped the last cookie from the hot sheet and moved it to the cooling rack, she didn’t pull away. He wrapped his arms around her waist and bent to lay his cheek against hers, swaying their bodies slightly, and she let him, wondering exactly when she had lost her mind.

“Where’s your bedroom?”

“The loft. Upstairs.”

“Take me there?”

She did.

The house wasn’t a true two-story. The loft at the top of a quaint, wrought-iron, spiral staircase was homey and fairly neat, despite the clutter of books and NFL paraphernalia. He’d have to remember to ask her about that last later. He loved football.

For now, he just needed to keep her walking toward the bed.

She didn’t resist as he slipped his hands under her T-shirt and slid it up, running his fingers up her sides, then up her arms when she obligingly raised them. Pleased that she stayed leaning back against him, he traced a light touch over the rise of her small breasts on the way back down, then simply wrapped his arms around her and held her against him, smelling clean woman and the warm vanilla scent of her neck.

Her curls tickled his nose, so he nuzzled deeper until he reached bare skin and brushed his lips against her nape. She shivered.

“Don’t.”

It was a bare whisper, but her body stiffened, so he stopped. She gasped a little laugh and raised her hands to rest them on his forearms.

“Sorry. I just don’t…”

He nodded against her hair and leaned forward to kiss her jaw and cheek. Her body loosened again, settling back into his arms.

Lowering his tone, he whispered in her ear. “How do you want me?”

She didn’t stiffen this time, but her body tightened with new awareness, almost bracing with it. Her fingers gripped his forearms, but not to push them away.

“Would it ruin the mood to say hard and fast?”

A surprised chuckle escaped him. “Really?”

She craned her head around to look him in the eye, perhaps to judge his mood. “Is that wrong?”

Shaking his head, he turned her to face him and slid his hands down her back, settling them on the comfortable curve of her butt. She blushed, but didn’t pull away.

“Nothing you ask me for is wrong, Gabe. It’s just not what I usually hear.”

Her cheeks pink, she lowered her eyes for a moment, then put her hands on his chest and looked up at him with an adorably crooked grin.

“That’s how I like it. The last guy could never get it right.”

Smiling softly, he squeezed both hands and dragged her up against him. “You’ll tell me if it hurts?”