Tease Me Page 5

  Finished, he headed down the hall, tiptoeing so as not to wake her. He paused outside her room.

  What was she wearing? Was she naked? Wearing her daisy panties? He pictured her lying on her side, one leg bent, her cheek in the pillow, one perky nipple making a tiny dent in the sheet, ribs swelling and subsiding with her soft breaths.

  He fought the urge to push open the door—already cracked a bit—just to peek, maybe find out if she smelled as sweet in sleep as she did awake, and backed away, toward his room.

  And plowed straight into hard metal—his weight bench, he figured from the clanking. What the hell was it doing there?

  “Ow. Damn. Shit.” He rubbed the back of his head, then the back of his thighs, which had whacked the kick bar.

  “Jackson?” Heidi’s voice was husky with sleep and sharp with alarm. “Are you okay?” There she stood in her doorway, softly lit by his hula-girl nightlight wearing, of all things, his torn-up Hawaiian shirt.

  He didn’t know which was worse—the goose egg forming on the back of his skull or the hard-on in his jeans at the sight of her in that pinned-together old shirt sagging to the middle of her thigh. Just plain begging to be ripped off. All he could say was, “Great pie.”

  4

  “I’M GLAD YOU LIKED IT,” Heidi said, fuzzy-brained from being jolted awake by Jackson’s crash into the weight bench and subsequent cursing. She’d barely drifted off. Even as exhausted as she was, tension about her plight made it tough to sleep. “I moved your bench because it fit better there. I guess I should have warned you in my note.” She’d never imagined he’d back into the room or not turn on a light. “Are you hurt?”

  “You’re wearing my shirt.” He swallowed visibly, still rubbing the back of his head, and blinked at her. Repeatedly.

  “I hope it’s not a favorite.” She’d found it under the dresser, buttonless and streaked with washed-out grease, so she’d been positive he’d used it as a rag. She’d washed it, along with her only clothes, in the tiny washer-dryer combo unit, figuring it would do for pajamas.

  “Used to be my lucky work shirt. I had a vintage car repair shop. It’s just a sweat rag now.” His voice was faint, his eyes transfixed. “On you it looks new.”

  She blushed to her toes, hoping he couldn’t see how easily she’d reddened. The only light was from a nightlight in the hall featuring a topless native woman with a hibiscus in her hair.

  Jackson perused her body, top to bottom, and back again, lingering here and there—her toes, thighs, breasts, then settling on her mouth. Something very male showed in his eyes. Maybe she hadn’t blown it completely with the hot-oil-shiny-engine remark. He sure wasn’t joking now.

  He smelled of bay rum and car leather and cigarettes, a combination that made her think of clinking ice in smoky liquor and dangerous promises made in dark bars. Excitement coursed through her. The narrow hall felt intimate and they were very alone.

  “Sorry I woke you,” he said.

  “Sorry I hurt you.”

  “Mild concussion. Couple bruises.” He shrugged, still looking transfixed.

  “I wasn’t really asleep.”

  “No? Worried?”

  “A little, I guess.”

  “So how about a nightcap? Loosen the tension.” He gestured for her to accompany him. “Come on.”

  Come on. He’d said that to her before, just being friendly, and she’d liked the way it made her feel as though she belonged. This time there was sexual interest in the words, and she felt a thrill. Maybe something could happen after all. Right now. Tonight.

  She followed him down the hall, liking the way her smaller steps echoed his big thuds. In the kitchen, he grabbed highball glasses from the cupboard and went for ice.

  She noticed a heap of cosmetics beside a stack of folded clothes on the table and a key on a note. “What’s this?”

  “Some extra stuff from girls at the club,” he said, not looking at her.

  She fingered the containers. “But this is all new. You bought it for me?”

  “God, not me. I’m not that kind of guy. Nevada picked it out.” He grinned, but he was glossing over his thoughtfulness. “Just drugstore stuff.”

  “That was very sweet.” She picked up the key. “And this?”

  He glanced her way. “For as long as you’re here.”

  She liked having a place until she figured out what to do, even if it reflected poorly on her self-reliance.

  “You need a ride to work?” He twisted the ice tray over the glasses, his forearm muscles twining nicely.

  “A bus line goes right by the salon. The stop’s just on Thomas.”

  “I’ve got two vehicles. You can borrow my van, no problem.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Jackson was a generous guy. Probably in bed, too. And sex was an important step in her journey. Lemonade from lemons, right?

  She watched him slide the empty ice tray back and forth under the faucet, his muscles swelling and subsiding. She imagined those arms around her body, those blunt-tipped fingers on her skin. He shoved the refilled tray back into the freezer.

  “Bar’s in the living room.” He tilted his head toward the pass-through, grabbed the glasses, and headed that way.

  She followed him to the tiki bar, pulled out a bamboo stool, which turned out to be fragile and wobbly, creaking wildly as she situated herself on its scratchy surface.

  Jackson set the glasses on the bar, then reached past her to turn on the hula-girl lamp, his finger brushing the bare plaster breasts ever so lightly, a move she felt along her spine. Soon it might be her he touched so lightly…or not so lightly. She shivered.

  To distract herself, she took a prickly pear jelly out of the snifter into which she’d emptied the Cactus Confections sack during her cleanup. Slowly, she munched the tangy treat. The golden light drenching the plaster hula girl made the bar an island of warmth in the intimate dark.

  Jackson ducked behind the counter and rose with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He twisted the lid with a fist and splashed their glasses, efficient as a bartender. He managed a bar, after all. She leaned her elbows on the glass surface, which made the hula girl bobble under her lamp shade. Her painted-on eyes seemed to wink at Heidi: You go, haole girl.

  She intended to.

  “Welcome to Tiki Town,” Jackson said, handing her the drink. He gave the expanse of bamboo and glass a look of possessive satisfaction. “Bought it off a roadie for Jimmy Buffett who hauled it out from Florida.”

  “I’m honored to be here.”

  Jackson clicked his glass against hers, the sound sharp in the middle-of-the-night quiet. “You look right at home, dressed like that.” He looked as if he wanted to swallow her whole. She wanted him, too. This felt like their own private club and it was very, very late. They surveyed each other, energy crackling like heat lightning.

  “I feel like I’ve been shipwrecked on an island…and now it’s just you and me…all alone.” She spoke over the glass, which she held close to her lips. The smoky liquor made her nose and eyes sting. How could anybody drink something this poisonous on purpose? She preferred chocolate martinis or prickly pear margaritas, something that eased the bite with sweetness.

  “Aloha,” he said with a wink and took a quick swallow of the booze.

  She did the same, and it burned like crazy. “Mmm,” she said to cover her gasp.

  He burst out with a belly laugh. “You hated that.”

  “It was…startling, that’s all.”

  “You don’t have to drink like me, Heidi. Go ahead, scrunch up your freckles. It’s nasty stuff.”

  She wished he hadn’t mentioned freckles. They made her seem young.

  He rested his elbows on the bar, leaning close enough that she could see the crinkles around his eyes, the smooth planes of his face, golden brown whiskers just emerging from his jaw.

  He grabbed a jelly and handed it to her. “Wash it down.”

  “I can take it. Really.” She leveled her gaze at him.

 
He came to attention and let the jelly fall into the jar.

  “One of my goals in moving here was to have new…experiences.”

  “Experiences?” His gaze drifted to her mouth and he unconsciously licked his lips.

  “Yes. Like drinking whiskey in the middle of the night with a man I hardly know in a little private bar called Tiki Town.”

  “I see,” he said softly, pulled into her energy, despite the resistance in his posture, the wariness of his shoulders.

  “Drinking whiskey…and other new things.” She leaned closer, making the bar jiggle and rattling the bottles behind the bamboo. The hula girl’s hips swayed wildly. Heidi’s stool squealed in agony, but if she shifted back she would seem to be withdrawing. And she was pushing onward. As far as she dared.

  “What did you…have in mind?” he murmured, eyes gleaming.

  “Exactly what you think.” The husky quality of her voice made her sound more sure than she felt, and that was good. In this quiet moment at Jackson’s bar, she wanted to be a woman who went for what she wanted. Without hesitation, without waiting for him to make the first move…Would he make the first move? Hell, didn’t look like it.

  So she grabbed the soft fabric of his T-shirt, tugged him closer and said, “This,” before she closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his.

  He froze. Shocked, no doubt. He tasted of liquor and toothpaste and his lips were strong, but soft. She pushed the tip of her tongue the tiniest way out, offering it.

  He didn’t move, didn’t reach for her, didn’t meet her tongue, but she felt him start to tremble. At least that. He was holding back, so she’d show him she meant business.

  She tilted her head and kissed harder, pushing up from the stool so she stood on the rung, letting him know she wanted more.

  Abruptly, her lips were ripped from his and her feet slammed to the floor. The stool rung had given out beneath her heel.

  Jackson grabbed her upper arms to steady her. Her stool thudded to the carpet behind her. “Those chairs are kind of rickety.”

  So were her legs. And her ego. Her sexy move had practically become a pratfall.

  “You don’t want this,” he said, low. His steady gaze still held heat and at least he wasn’t laughing.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “One swallow.”

  “Your life’s up in the air. You’re confused.”

  “Not about my…um…needs.” Flames of mortification washed over her. The hula girl, rocking wildly, now seemed to be jeering. You screw up big-time, haole girl.

  “You don’t want me,” Jackson said.

  Yes, I do. She opened her mouth to say that, except her gaze caught on the picture on the wall beside his head—Marilyn Monroe in velvet with full, lovely breasts. To her left, the hula dancer’s endowments jiggled. To her right, a hugely be-knockered model in a bikini smiled from a sports-car hood. Jackson was a breast man. She wasn’t want he wanted. The realization stung her cheeks the way the Jack Daniel’s had her throat.

  “But it is late,” she said, pretending to sigh. “And I’m probably overtired.”

  “You’ve been through a lot.”

  “True.” She bent to upright the stool, then took a backward step. “Thanks for the drink.” She’d left the full glass on the bar. “Good night. Sorry about the head injury.” She turned and moved off, just wanting away from her humiliation.

  “Can I cut you a piece of pie?” Jackson called to her, trying to make up.

  “No thanks,” she called over her shoulder.

  Hightailing it to her room, she flopped onto the bed, glowing in the dark, she’d bet, from the embarrassment. If only she could take back the last five minutes. She could still taste the sting of the liquor in her throat, feel the burn of Jackson’s turndown on her cheeks. Restless, she glanced at the clock. In the middle of a pink breast, the LED display said 3:30. Breasts to the left of her, breasts to the right of her, breasts all around her. What was the deal with breasts? She felt the urge to throw the clock against the wall, but instead she shoved the thing under the bed so it couldn’t mock her.

  She would use her phone as her alarm. Speaking of which, she’d have to buy a charger if she wanted to keep phone service until she’d established an address with a land line. She’d need money to pay the bill, too. Despair threatened. She’d have to ask Jackson for a cash advance.

  If she could even face the man after he’d rejected her. It didn’t seem possible, but somehow she’d made things worse.

  AS SOON AS HEIDI left the room, Jackson sagged against the bar, making the thing rock like a shack in a hurricane. He felt as though he’d just survived one—or maybe an electrical storm and his hair was still standing on end. What a mouth she had. Soft and sweet and wholesome as the peach pie she’d made him. He’d wanted to sink into that kiss, savor those lips, drag her over the bar and into his arms for hours, for all night, for night after night.

  Thank God for that Popsicle stick of a bar stool. Thank God for his ability to piss women off by saying the wrong thing at the worst time.

  He’d hurt her feelings, but it was all to the good.

  And tomorrow he’d steer way clear. Sleep in late and zip out early—play some basketball, visit Heather, his singer friend, maybe drop by Jasmine’s for more blackjack with Sabrina. No way was he hanging around the house to be tempted by the mouth he’d just tasted—those lips, slippery and fleshy, had melded with his like a missing part of his face. He wished he’d cupped her cheek, checked out the rest of her skin, pulled her close enough to run his thumbs over those nipple buds.

  Forget it. He’d done the right thing. She’d given up fast, gotten hurt in a flash. Which proved how vulnerable she was. And made him certain she’d turn sex into a big, friggin’ deal. He was decent at the deed, judging from his partners’ reactions. He paid attention, mainly, and he knew how to hold back. Ladies first and all that. But the women he slept with were in it for the sex. Period. Heidi’s heart was as tender as her lips had been, he was sure. She’d want more. Much more.

  He finished his drink and took hers into the kitchen to dump. Once there, he noticed that goofy tree she’d brought. It looked a little wilted, so he poured her JD into it. Was whiskey too harsh for the roots? He dumped some water in to flush away the liquor. That damn tree was the only thing the woman owned. The last thing he wanted to do was kill it.

  SHE LOOKED LIKE A HOOKER, Heidi concluded, checking herself out in the bathroom mirror on Monday morning. She wore the closest to a normal outfit she could make from the clothes in the closet and the ones Jackson had brought her—a shimmering white, see-through blouse over a red, spaghetti-strapped tank top and a pair of zebra-stripped clam diggers that almost cut off her circulation. Everything else was cropped, skin-tight or ultrashort.

  The earth shoes she’d worn to drive up here were too casual, so she’d chosen a pair of sky-high platform wedgies in a tiger stripe from the closet.

  At the best, she looked, well, festive.

  She checked her watch. Just enough time to eat breakfast before catching the bus that would get her to the salon by nine.

  She hadn’t seen Jackson at all on Sunday. This relieved and mortified her. He was avoiding her. What did he think she was going to do? Force her tiny breasts into his hands?

  After her Sunday morning shower, she’d walked to a nearby apartment complex to check out availability and price. By the time she’d returned, Jackson had gone, leaving a steamed-up shower smelling of bay rum, a cereal bowl in the sink, and some heavy metal playing on the stereo. He’d obviously been listening for her to go and leaped into action.

  So embarrassing. All because of the Tiki Town incident. Now she felt like an unwelcome interloper.

  Living here was strangely intimate, even with Jackson gone all the time. It was like a relationship without the closeness. Her bathroom served as the main bath, since the pressure was low in the master bath, so Jackson’s toiletries were there and she�
��d had to use his comb, deodorant, shaving cream and one of his disposable razors. It was all so very personal.

  Now she ate a bowl of Jackson’s corn flakes, rinsed the dish, then watered her ficus for luck. If things went well, she would not only have more hours at the salon, but a possible place to stay that got her out of the awkward position of being in Jackson’s debt, inconveniencing him and lusting after him all at the same time.

  The beer-maid clock told her she had just enough time to make it to the bus stop, so she tiptoed out, locked the door and slipped Jackson’s spare key into what passed for a purse—a leopard-spotted nightclub clutch with a rhinestone clasp. It held a pencil and a small tablet for notes and her phone, along with twenty dollars, including change for the bus, which Jackson had thoughtfully left for her last night. The only things that actually belonged to her were her cell phone, her watch, the small gold hoops in her ears, and the bra and panties she’d arrived in.

  From the porch, she surveyed the house where the guys who’d stolen her car might live. She had the urge to march over there, bang on the door and demand info, but that wouldn’t be wise. She would call the detective in charge of her case later today to see if he had any news.

  Besides, maybe it was a good thing that she was nearly naked in her new world. This would be a test of her resolve to make it on her own in the city.

  Throwing back her shoulders, she took a deep breath and started down the stairs, determined to make the best of the situation. This was an adventure, a new experience. Sure, the thrill she’d felt when she pulled up on Saturday was gone, but at least she’d gotten past the horror of running up and down the sidewalk looking for her stolen car. She set off at a strong march, but the stiltlike shoes turned it into a clump-clump. Oh, well. It was the thought that counted.

  The first morning of the rest of her life looked to be a warm one. Already heat burned her scalp and blasted her from the sidewalk and it was barely eight o’clock. Still, with her hopes high, the sun felt warmly encouraging, not hotly brutal, and she clumped downhill to the bus stop and her second fresh start.