Without a Net (7 page)

He should have brought some ibuprofen along, the way he usually did in anticipation of a particularly grueling physical therapy session.
The ice alone wasn’t cutting it. And the two mile trek home, which seemed like such a breeze when he left the house a couple hours ago, was probably going to do him in.

Max gritted his teeth and focused on putting one foot in front of the other, barely noticing the people around him as they wandered in and out of the shops and cafés lining Wilshire Boulevard.

His knee was actually doing better.
It was the rest of the leg that was giving him fits. Eight weeks of non-weight-bearing and another three of only partial weight-bearing had taken their toll. The goal now was to rebuild muscle strength, which was turning out to be an incredibly slow and frustrating process. He was doing everything he could to speed things along: resistance bands, weight training, range of motion exercises, stationary biking, walking. But his injured leg tired quickly, and he was often forced to break up the workouts into several mini-sessions a day. The way he felt now, there was no way he’d be able to survive an entire twelve hour ER shift on his feet.

“You need to ease back into it,” the physical therapist told him.
“Take it slow. Start with half days at first, see how you do.”

Fine for the therapist to say.
He wasn’t the one who’d been forced to go from leading a physically active high-adrenaline lifestyle to sitting on the sidelines and merely writing about it.

Not that Max was complaining.
Or at least, he wasn’t complaining too much. Writing was fun, if he could just get back to doing it. Problem was, he couldn’t concentrate. Instead of sketching out the bare bones of his next medical thriller, he found himself thinking about prickly females. One prickly female in particular.

He wondered what Eva was doing, what she was wearing, whether it was too soon to call.

Technically, she had another two days to work on his website before delivering a draft for review.
In the meantime, she’d tasked him with curating content from the internet, culling material for his future blog and social media sites that might be of interest to potential readers. He tried. But after a few minutes of surfing, his attention would wander.

If he closed his eyes, he could picture Eva, her dark hair gleaming in the overhead lights of the restaurant patio, her fingers tracing abstract patterns in the condensation on her glass.
He could feel the delicate skin of her inner wrist, the frantic fluttering of her pulse, before she’d withdrawn her hand from the table. He could smell the heady fragrance of clean soap and vanilla that still clung to his jacket after she’d slipped it off and returned it.

He’d forced himself to step back that night and leave her on the doorstep of her house.
Even though that one brief taste of her hadn’t been nearly enough. He’d wanted to lick the seam of her lips until she opened her mouth and let him inside. To run his fingers across the delicate line of her clavicle to the hollow at the base of her neck, to bury his hands in that dark spill of hair, freed of all its confines.

But he knew without a doubt that if he’d pressed, she would have slammed the metaphorical door in his face, and that would spell the end to any hope of something more.

So he’d left. And spent the next few hours wandering his house, getting all sweaty in his home gym in a futile effort to ease the ache, and finally taking himself in hand in the shower, working his aroused flesh to the fantasy image of Eva spread out across his bed, her naked skin like alabaster in the moonlight spilling through his bedroom window.

He needed to bide his time, get her to relax around him.
The key was easing her past the hyper-vigilant stage and into a casual acceptance of his presence. Then he’d pull her closer into his orbit, winding the strings ever tighter, until she admitted—or better yet, welcomed—the inevitable.

He was so caught up in his thoughts, that he almost missed it.
There, in the plate-glass window of the Honey Rose Café. The object of his fantasies. She sat at a table near the front, her delectable profile outlined in one of those prim pencil skirts and a scoop-neck top thin enough that he could see the hint of lace demi-bra beneath. A light cardigan hung over the back of her chair. She was leaning forward, eyes closed, lips parted to accept a forkful of cake from some guy sporting a buzz cut and chef’s whites. The sheer bliss on her face as she savored whatever the jerk was feeding her was the exact expression Max had imagined her wearing the other night—that carnal, on-the-brink-of-orgasm look she’d have with Max buried to the hilt inside her.

What the hell was going on?
Who was this joker? And what was she doing sitting there, plain as day, being finger-fed by some asshole who didn’t have the courtesy to keep his hands to himself? Didn’t the guy know she was off limits? Where was that familiar hands-off vibe she seemed to radiate every time Max came within touching distance? Or was it only Max whom she wanted to push away?

He didn’t understand it.
Surely the attraction he felt wasn’t one-sided. He could have sworn Eva had responded to him. The slight quickening of her breath in his presence, the dilation of her pupils before her lashes screened them from his view—they were dead giveaways, weren’t they?

But maybe he was fooling himself, thinking that it was her situation that was making her stand-offish.
What if she simply wasn’t into him? Had it been so long since he’d needed to pursue a woman that he didn’t recognize the signs of disinterest?

Well, he wasn’t going to figure anything out just standing here.
And it wasn’t in his nature to tuck his tail between his legs and slink away at the merest hint of competition. Hell, competition was his middle name. He felt a familiar surge of adrenaline.

Not that his interest in Eva was just about the chase.
Oh, no. He couldn’t imagine tiring of her anytime soon, no matter how many times he gorged himself on her body.

For a moment, Max froze at that realization.
Then he shook his head. He was getting way ahead of himself. There was no guarantee she would even agree to anything with him other than a working relationship. Especially if she had something going with this schmuck who was currently rising, picking up her hand, kissing the back of it like some Euro-trash wanna-be who thought that pretentious manners would get him laid.

He frowned and watched Eva pull on her sweater, shoulder her bag, and wind her way through the tables toward the exit.
What, the man wasn’t accompanying her?

Max opened the door just as Eva reached it.

Her eyes flared when she saw him. “Are you following me?”

Yeah, he’d turned into one of those crazy possessive borderline-stalker boyfriends
who seemed to be all the rage these days, at least in a certain type of genre fiction with broody black and gray covers. Except this was real life, and Eva wasn’t his girlfriend. Yet.

“I was taking a walk,” he said.
“You know I live a few streets over?”

“Oh.” She blinked.
“I didn’t realize…”

Why should she, Max
thought. She clearly had other things on her mind. He was apparently alone in his obsessive need to know more about her. Not that he was crossing any legal boundaries. And if checking out her online portfolio, or lurking on a few graphic design internet community sites where she happened to post bordered a little on compulsive, then surely he could be forgiven. He’d gotten some helpful insight into Eva’s tastes and skills in the process. He’d also recognized that his casual dismissal of her abilities when his sister first suggested hiring Eva was both premature and misguided. Eva had real talent hidden inside that glorious outer wrapping.

“Where are you headed?” he asked, falling in step beside her.

“Home,” she said. “I’m still working on your website.”

“That’s good.
I look forward to seeing it.”

She glanced at him and slowed her pace.
“Are you okay without the cane?”

“Yes.”
Of all the things he wanted her to notice about him, the limping gait was not one of them. On the other hand, perhaps her comment was evidence that she cared. Either that, or she was simply being polite. “So, what’s the story with the chef?”

“What chef?”

“The one you were with. Back there.” He flicked a hand toward the café they’d left behind.

“Ian?
He owns the Honey Rose Café.”

“
Are you dating him?”

“He’s married.
Besides, I don’t date clients.”

Between the first statement and the second, Max’s elation wilted.
He studied her as they waited at the corner for the light to change.

If he had to choose one word to describe her, it was
natural.
No line-smoothing Botox, or lip-enhancing Restylane, or gravity-defying implants. In a town full of starlets competing for a place in the spotlight, Eva’s apparent lack of narcissism was a welcome change from the usual melodrama. But it also posed a challenge that was proving harder to overcome than anticipated.

Maybe he was going about it all wrong.
Maybe what he needed was a change in strategy. He touched her elbow as they crossed the street, gratified to feel the slight tremor rippling down her arm in response.

“I think I should find someone else to do the website,” he said as they reached the opposite curb.

“What?”

“Unless you’d be willing to break the ‘no dating clients’ rule and go out with me.”

She stopped and stared at him, eyes narrowed. “You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“But that’s blackmail!”

“I don’t see how.”

Her frown deepened. “You just said that unless I go out with you, you’re going to take your business elsewhere.”

“You misunderstood.
It’s not a quid pro quo—date me and you get to keep my business. I’m simply putting you on notice about my intentions.” His fingers tightened, and he nudged her out of the path of an approaching skateboarder. “I’m attracted to you, Eva. And you’re attracted to me—”

“I’m not!”

He touched a finger to her lips. Her nostrils flared, and a puff of breath caressed his skin. He wished it were her tongue. Tamping down a surge of lust, he dropped his hand. There was a time and place, and one in the afternoon on a busy Santa Monica street was not it. He leaned down, watching her eyes round in alarm, until his lips nearly touched her ear. “Don’t deny it, Eva. At least give me that bit of honesty.”

He felt her swallow, and straightened, putting some distance between them.
She dropped her gaze.

“So,” he said, keeping his voice measured.
“We’ll have dinner. No dancing, I’m afraid, at least not until this heals completely.”

Her eyes flickered to his leg.
Hell, he might as well use it to his advantage. If it got him what he wanted, he wasn’t above playing on her sympathies.

She remained silent.

“What I’m saying,” he continued, “is that it’s up to you how and when. If it makes you feel uncomfortable to date a client, that’s easy to fix. Someone else can take over the website design and marketing. I’ll pay you whatever we stipulated, so you won’t lose any money. And then we can go out.”

Her lips tightened and she started walking again.
“I’m better than any other graphic designer you can find.”

He grinned at the sheer arrogance of the statement.
For someone so seemingly reticent, Eva sure didn’t believe in false modesty.

“In that case,” he said, matching her stride, “it would be a damn shame to lose you.
So how about it? Can you make an exception, put aside the fact that you’re working on my book promotion?”

“You could wait until I’m done,” she suggested.

He sighed. Well, at least she hadn’t flat out rejected him. That was something. “How long do you think it’ll take?”

“I should have the design proof ready for you to review on Friday.
Then, depending on what tweaks you want, another few days to a week to get it finalized. Two-three days for coding, another day or two for you to review it and make any changes. Then a couple days for SEO—”

“SE—what?”

“Search engine optimization. After that, we go live.”

He did a quick mental tally.
“So we’re looking at two weeks?”

“Give or take.”

“You’re really going to make me wait that long?”

She hesitated.
“I’m lining up public appearances for you. Book-signings, talks. And once the website and blog are up, they still need to be maintained. Were you planning on doing that yourself? Keeping up with the content, posting on Twitter and Facebook and the rest?”

He blanched.

“You need to continue offering interesting content to build your brand. It takes an hour or two a day to keep it up. You’re planning to do all that yourself?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”