The Affair: Week 1 (7 page)

* * *

It’s not a big deal
, Emma reminded herself later that night as she looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Debbie was there for her shift and had been briefed. Emma was free to go. She was just going to the garage to pick up her car. There was absolutely no reason to be nervous.

If you’re just going to claim your car and it’s not a big deal, how come you put on perfume and eyeliner?
she asked herself snidely. She’d tried to put on some powder, too, to conceal the hated, light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, but eventually washed it off. Amanda could make them disappear when she applied Emma’s makeup, but Emma herself always botched it.

Thinking of the familiar little makeup ritual with her sister made hurt and anger slice through her. She stifled it with effort.

Her brown eyes looked especially huge, whether from anxiety or the eyeliner or the contrast of her pale face and blond hair, she wasn’t sure.

You look like a deer in headlights
.

That’s what she felt like, too.

Annoyed by her uncalled-for nervousness, she left the bathroom and said good night to Debbie. Cristina was still sleeping.

Unlike last night, she could see thousands of stars in the sky when she walked out the rear entrance. Her memory served her correctly. She easily found the hidden garage door behind the grove of trees and shrubs and used the passcode. Her footsteps sounded abnormally loud on the concrete floor of the mudroom. When she entered the huge space, she saw her car parked first in line on the row of vehicles on the right, along with a pair of long, coverall-covered legs and brown work boots sticking out from beneath it. Rock music was playing. Emma looked around for the source of the music but saw no radio. There must be built-in speakers somewhere.

“Hello?” she called out uncertainly.

Montand rolled out from beneath her car on a creeper, catching himself with practiced ease on the bumper with a gloved hand. Emma held her breath as she watched him sit up. He gripped a wrench in one hand. Unlike last night, he was clean-shaven. The goatee had disappeared, but he looked no less piratical. His hair was a mess of finger-combed, rich brown waves. There was a streak of oil on his jaw. His aquamarine-colored eyes lowered over her slowly.

“Hi,” she repeated stupidly. She’d been wrong again.

He was clearly a very big deal.

* * *

He sprung up from the creeper and set down the wrench on a trolley filled with tools.

“She’s all ready for you,” he said, walking toward her. Emma unfastened her gaze from the vision of him removing the work gloves from large, well-shaped, very . . .
capable
-looking hands.

“How bad was it?” she asked.

“Not bad at all. Just needed someone to give it a little attention.”

She grimaced. “That hasn’t been me, unfortunately. So many things have been breaking down recently. I haven’t had the energy to deal with something that wasn’t broken. Yet,” she added sheepishly.

“What else is broken?” he asked, studying her with a lowered brow.

“What isn’t?” she asked with a laugh. “I’ve put in about a hundred requests with my apartment owner for maintenance to come fix my backed-up kitchen sink, the hot-water heater, the icemaker . . . the list goes on, but there doesn’t appear to be a lot of consequences for a landlord who just ignores a tenant’s requests.” She noticed his slanted brows and slight scowl and realized how whiny she probably sounded. “It’s not a big deal. I have a friend who has a dad that’s a cop in Cedar Bluff. He used to work for the Chicago Police Department. He said he’ll walk me through how to file a formal complaint with the housing commission against our apartment owner. Apparently, the owner isn’t the most upstanding citizen. Anyway, I can’t thank you enough for fixing the one thing I
really
couldn’t afford to have broken,” she said, waving at her car. “A hospice nurse spends a lot of time driving.”

“It’s a nice little car.”

Emma laughed. “Seriously? You were working way below your normal standards,” she said, nodding toward the other superexpensive, rare, and luxurious vehicles lined up in the garage. “Like having to eat cornflakes when you’re used to caviar.”

“I hate caviar.”

“Me, too.” She realized she was grinning at him idiotically and looked away. “Even though I only had it once.”

“You’re not missing much,” he said, flicking his gloves against the palm of his hand. Was he impatient to be gone?

“Well I can’t thank you enough, both for this and last night.” There didn’t seem to be a good place anywhere to rest her gaze.

“Do you want to see some of my cars?”

“Okay,” she said. Had he realized she was uncomfortable and tried to distract her from her embarrassment? That was nice, but somehow even more embarrassing. She fell into step beside him as he began to walk between the two rows of cars.

“You look pale,” he said bluntly. “Is everything okay?” He sounded stiff asking. With a flash of insight, she realized he wasn’t cold. Not really. He just wasn’t used to being solicitous.

He’d slowed down next to a gorgeous, shining ivory-colored vintage car.

“I . . . kind of had a rough night, that’s all,” she said shrugging, stopping because he’d stopped.

His blue-green eyes raked over her face. “Fight with your boyfriend?”

She exhaled in disgusted disbelief. She was either the most transparent person in the world, or those eyes of his really were X rays. “As it turns out, I don’t have a boyfriend anymore.”

“
What?”

To her horror, she felt emotion tighten her throat. Had it lain in wait this whole time, ready to spring up on her at the moment she least wanted to feel it? She laughed to hide her sudden discomposure and looked away from his intent expression.

“I walked in on my boyfriend with . . . someone else last night.” She hadn’t breathed a word of the truth to anyone, why Michael Montand, of all people? “We’ve been together for two years,” she added lamely.

He muttered a muted, yet blistering curse.

“It’s okay,” she said, avoiding his stare. She feared she’d see pity on his bold features—or worse, impatience or bemusement at her personal admission to a near stranger. “I probably should have called things off between us a long time ago.”

“Why didn’t you?” Montand asked.

“Because he was a safety net? Because I’m a coward?” she asked, a bark of hysterical laughter popping out of her throat.

She couldn’t stop herself from meeting his stare.

“You are
not
a coward,” he said quietly. As in many things he said, it was a proclamation. He stepped toward her, and her heart leapt.

“Come here,” he murmured.

Her feet moved as if of their own volition. His arms surrounded her. Her cheek pressed against the thick fabric of the cotton coveralls and his hard chest beneath them. The thought struck her that the sensation of the cloth against her cheek was familiar—his scent was—but then the dreaded emotion rose higher in her throat, and she turned all her resources into tamping it down.

She made a strangled sound and shuddered in humiliation. His arms tightened around her, the sensation divine and awful at once. She contained her misery, but just barely. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t told him about what was really bothering her—about
who
she’d found her boyfriend with—that she managed to not break down. Or maybe it was that he felt so amazing next to her that was distracting her so much. He opened his hand at her back and made a soothing motion against her spine, his fingers curving around her waist. His body felt so solid . . . so
good
. She’d never been pressed against someone so hard. He seemed like the most solid of things in a world spinning off its axis. His hand cupped her hip. Her thoughts fractured and shot off in a million directions when she felt his body stir. Hers replied in kind.

“Emma?” he asked tensely.

She leaned her head back and met his stare. His hand rose to cup her face, his thumb feathering her jaw. He felt it, too. It was right there in his eyes. The shared knowledge of their mutual need seemed to throb in the air between them like some kind of naked, shared heart.

“Yes,” she whispered her answer, parting her lips.

And his mouth was covering hers.

Look for THE AFFAIR Week Two, on sale 9/23/14.

Keep reading for an excerpt from

PARADISE RULES

Available now from Berkley Heat

Lana Rodriguez’s eyelids narrowed suspiciously as she watched the buxom blonde in the minuscule bikini follow their surf instructor to a back room. She thought she recognized the expression of sly excitement on the young woman’s face. Undoubtedly a man with their instructor’s looks—the annoyingly potent, flashing grin and abundant, gleaming muscles—had female tourists throwing themselves at him with the consistency of a perfect Oahu day. Irritation bubbled up to the surface, an irritation that went far beyond her presence in Waikiki and taking a stupid surfing lesson.

Lana slammed the skin suit back into place, causing a brisk clang of the hanger against the metal rack. Her personal assistant and longtime friend’s face fell at the evidence of her pique.

“Jeez, you weren’t kidding when you said you hated Waikiki, were you?” Melanie pulled her skin suit’s top down over her bathing suit. “You really
didn’t
have to come, Lana. And you certainly didn’t have to agree to take these surf lessons with me. I’ve taken vacations by myself before, you know.”

Regret immediately lanced through Lana’s flash of temper. Melanie was in the midst of a soul-scarring divorce that had already gone on for two years more than it should have. Sure, Melanie might have gone on a few vacations by herself before she married that sleazeball David Mason. Still, there was no way in hell Lana was going to allow her friend to be alone when she was still raw and hurting from her soon-to-be ex-husband’s latest underhanded courtroom maneuver to get full custody of their fouryear-old daughter, Shawna.

She gave Melanie an apologetic grin. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to go diva on you.”

Melanie laughed. “Girl, if you ever showed a
hint
of the diva gene, I’d have abandoned you years ago.”

“Your shirt is too loose, hon.” Lana chose a shirt that read
Jason Koa Surf Schools, Waikiki
over the left breast and handed it to Melanie before she picked one for herself. The tight long-sleeved shirt would partially protect them from the shearing Waikiki surf and the friction burn of surfboard against bare skin . . . as well as ensure that a woman’s bikini top would stay in place.

Melanie shrugged out of the top and took the one that Lana handed her. “Why
do
you hate Waikiki so much?”

“Too touristy.”

Melanie eyed her. “You seem really tense. And on the plane—jeez, Lana, I thought a few times you were going to have a panic attack like you used to have before you went onstage, back when you were still a kid.”

Lana waved her hand impatiently. “Flying to Hawaii is worse than flying to Europe. I should have asked my doctor for something to help me sleep.”

For the whole damn trip, she added to herself.

“Are you afraid people will recognize you? You could be anybody under that hat and ginormous pair of sunglasses.” Melanie’s blue eyes dropped doubtfully over her friend’s figure. “’Course . . . there’s not much I can do about disguising your body when you’re wearing a bikini. The boring, baggy clothes I usually buy for you just won’t work in Waikiki. Even the homeless people wear swimsuits.”

Lana was only half listening. Her gaze had wandered back to the corridor where their surfer-dude instructor had disappeared with the blonde on his tail.

“I’m not worried about being recognized. People don’t care about the blues in Waikiki,” she said grimly.

“There are blues and jazz lovers everywhere, Lana, and you know it.”

Lana scowled. She hadn’t actually been referring to a genre of music. “Waikiki is all surface and no substance—a flashy whore decked out in skimpy designer clothes, a perfect tan highlighting a perfect boob job . . . It’s so fake.”

So vicious. So primed to use the poor and underprivileged to serve the tourist industry’s endless greed, she thought privately.

Melanie’s eyebrows rose. Lana realized she’d allowed her bitterness to show and immediately made her face settle into impassivity.

“Well, it’s certainly a happening spot,” Melanie said. “I needed someplace with this kind of energy and excitement after what David has pulled over the past month. A secluded tropical island just wouldn’t have done the trick.” Melanie stretched the dark blue fabric over her generous breasts. “I need the distraction of a party atmosphere. And these native guys are phenomenal. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice how gorgeous our surf instructor is. He’s a walking god. He could be the inspiration for a tropical drink—Hawaiian Wet Dream.”

“He’s awfully tall to be a Hawaiian.”

Melanie paused in the action of readjusting her bikini top.

“You don’t think he’s Hawaiian?”

Lana shrugged negligently. “Sure, he might have been born here and have some roots. I just meant there are few pure Hawaiians left. He’s part Anglo. And he’s got some Filipino influence, I’d guess, in addition to Hawaiian.”

“Well, the combination is one hundred percent phenomenal.” Melanie’s blue eyes sparkled mischievously. “I’d
love
to have him help me forget about David on this vacation.”

Lana smirked.

“Don’t give me that look, Lana. Not
you
—of all people. No one knows better than me how single-minded you are when it comes to men. Surely you wouldn’t deny me the pleasure of a few rounds of sex with a gorgeous stranger when you’re such an expert on the activity.”

Lana shrugged and leaned down to put on a pair of surf shoes. “You’re right. I’m here to see that you have a good time, after all, and I’m going to make sure it happens. No better way to celebrate saying sayonara to that louse husband of yours than steaming up the sheets on your vacation. Hell, I’m only too happy to do the same.” She nodded toward the back room. “Just don’t count on doing it with our hunky surf instructor, though. It seems he’s otherwise occupied.”

Melanie checked her waterproof watch. “Jeez, he’s already twenty minutes late. If he doesn’t hurry, we’re going to be rushing to make the luau I scheduled.”

Lana clamped her back teeth together. “You have yet to learn about
Hawaiian time
, hon,” she muttered with a scowl.

Melanie laughed. “Care to explain how you’re such an expert on
Hawaiian time
? I’ve worked for you since you were a nineteen-year-old kid recording your first album. That was ten years ago, and I’ve never heard you mention Hawaii
once
in that time period. Did you spend time here before you came to the states from Mexico?”

“You know, this loser is really starting to bug the shit out of me,” Lana said, choosing to ignore Melanie’s questions. She dropped her beach bag on the floor and stalked toward the dim corridor at the back of the facility. “He’s a little old to be playing irresponsible surfer dude, don’t you think? I’ve got half a mind to report him to his boss.”

“Lana, maybe you should just hang loose . . .”

But Lana ignored her friend
.
The familiar Hawaiian phrase made her clench her teeth even tighter.

She turned into a large room that contained several surfboards on tables in the process of being repaired or waxed. Her eyes immediately found the figures of the tall man and the curvy woman, despite the dim light. He leaned back casually, one foot propped against the wall, his hands tucked behind a pair of tight buns that Lana hadn’t failed to notice as he strutted around, giving instructions about preparing for the lesson earlier. He looked down at the blonde, a half-amused, half-irritated expression on his shadowed face. His profile was as arresting as the rest of the package. That straight, bold nose had immediately pointed out his Caucasian heritage to her, along with his height.

“Excuse me. My friend and I have a schedule we’d like to keep. You would think you did, as well, considering the fact that between the two of us, we’re shelling out four hundred dollars an hour for your services.”

The woman started and gasped in surprise. Her hand jerked, and she hopped back with a guilty glance at Lana.

Lana was glad that she wore the dark glasses so neither of them saw how wide her eyes went. He had the nerve to not even hurry as he lowered the pant leg of his board shorts, covering a long, shapely, semi-erect cock. Even with his shorts lowered she could still perfectly make out the outline of it next to his thigh.

It was far from being the first cock she’d ever seen, and it wouldn’t be the last. But that quick glance informed Lana it was the most beautiful. A flash of pure, primal heat surged through her along with a lightning bolt of irritation.

She was comforted by the fact that she knew her face gave nothing away.

“Four hundred dollars an hour should help you get over your discomfort. If you start doing your job now, I’ll agree not to tell your boss about your negligence, Mr. . . . ?”

He didn’t move from his lazy pose against the wall. She couldn’t really make out his eyes in the dim room but sensed his stare boring into her. She’d noticed earlier that his eyes were a singular color—dark gray with flecks of green and amber.

“Koa. Jason Koa. And I’ll be happy to reimburse you for the half hour of your lesson and still give you the full two hours.”

“Good,” she replied briskly, unmoved by the fact that he was apparently the owner of the two-bit surfing school. She started down the corridor, only to notice that he hadn’t moved. “Well? Aren’t you coming?”

“That gives me another eight minutes. I’ll be with you in a moment, undoubtedly more comfortable and better prepared for teaching what I don’t doubt will be a challenging lesson.”

Lana stiffened when he reached for the giggling blonde. She thought of where she’d like to tell Jason Koa to stuff his insolent attitude and gorgeous smug face, but then she thought of Melanie. She imagined her friend’s look of disappointment if Lana marched out there and self-righteously informed her that they were leaving.

She doubted her sunglasses disguised the glare of pure loathing she threw him before she turned away.

* * *

He set down the board in the grassy area near the beach. “Okay. Which one of you ladies is up first?”

Jason was glad when the blonde with the round face and nice smile stepped forward. He’d have to work with her man-eater friend at some point, but he was still steamed by her insulting display of arrogance back at his shop. He wasn’t sure why her bitchiness had gotten to him so much, but it had. He’d been so preoccupied by her frigid superiority that he hadn’t been able to concentrate when pretty little Katie eagerly resumed her hand job.

Not that he’d really been interested to begin with. Katie had taken a lesson from him three days ago. He’d taken her up on her blatant offer of her body that night, but he’d quickly become annoyed by her pursuit of him. Her California-girl good looks, large breasts, and curvy hips and ass went a long way to making him forget his rule not to get involved with customers. He’d been irritated when she followed him into the back room today and thrown herself at him. His cock had responded to her eager hands but not with much enthusiasm.

Still, if she’d kept it up, he would have grudgingly let her finish him off. He was just a guy, after all.

But then the man-eater interrupted and ruined a little afternoon delight. He’d pushed Katie’s industrious hand away after the woman left and made small talk with her about her job as a financial analyst. Apparently Katie had a hell of a head on her shoulders. That was the vacation mentality for you. Jason seriously doubted Katie was in the habit of throwing herself at males in the everyday business world, but give her the tropical breezes and the sensual rhythms of the island, and she was suddenly shameless.

He’d made his customers wait the full eight minutes, which caused him to feel a little guilty, he realized, as he positioned the blonde named Melanie belly-down on the board. Melanie was obviously nice and excited about her lesson. It had been rude of him to make her wait longer just because she had shit taste in friends.

Five minutes later, after he was satisfied that Melanie had the basics of paddling, kneeling, positioning herself in a standing position in the center of the board, and falling in the safest way, he suggested that she go and pick out a board from the beginner rack he kept on the beach.

He gave Melanie’s silent friend a bland look. “You’re up.”

“I don’t need instruction on the basics.”

“Is that right?” he asked mockingly.

He glanced down over her. He had to admit she had the body of an athlete. It wouldn’t surprise him if she knew exactly what she was doing. He’d immediately taken note of the casual manner in which she took off her sundress earlier in his shop. She was as used to baring her body as the female swimmers he knew—as most native Hawaiians, for that matter.

He hated to admit it, but she had excellent reason to be comfortable stripping down in public. She had a jaw-dropping body—strong and supple, but soft and feminine, too. And even though she wasn’t tanned, her smooth skin held a golden hue that promised to soak up the sun thirstily. If she stayed on the island for two weeks, she’d probably be ready to contend in a Miss Hawaiian Tropic contest.

“I’ll be the one to decide whether or not you need instruction. Get up on the board, and show me the basics.”

Her muscles stiffened. For a second, he thought she’d refuse, which would be fine by him. He’d be more than happy to leave her on the beach.

She surprised him by stepping up on the board, however. He stopped her with a hand on her elbow when she started to go lie down on her belly.

“Take off the hat and glasses.”

She started. Despite her frigid nature, her skin felt warm and satiny beneath his appreciative fingers.

“Why? What difference does it make?”

“I like to be able to look into the eyes of my students. Got a problem with that?”

He felt her stare on him from behind the dark glasses.

“Look, Waikiki isn’t Waimea in March—or even Sandy for that matter,” he said, referring to a few Oahu advanced surfer beaches. “But it ain’t the wave pool at the water park, either, lady. Those waves can pound the hell out of you. If you don’t do what I say, it can be dangerous. Call me an ass, but I tend to like to know what I’m dealing with before I take responsibility for you out there. If I can’t look into your eyes, it makes it a little difficult for me to know what you’re made of. Play by my rules, or don’t play at all.”