Lime Ricky (Romantic Suspense)

by Jill Winters

  "An enigma or a what?" Rick pressed now, obviously expecting her to finish her sentence.

  "Um... I don't know, I just meant... well, you and Brett seem so different."

  "We're definitely different," Rick said. When he didn't elaborate, Gretchen pressed for more. He shrugged. "Well, growing up he always took more interest in the family business."

  "Your dad's restaurant," Gretchen supplied.

  "Yeah," he said, with a momentary look of surprise that she'd remembered that detail.

  "What, you weren't interested in the restaurant? I mean, because you don't like to cook?"

  "No, it wasn't just that. I don't know. It just didn't do it for me," he said, slouching casually in his seat. "But I was a real punk as a kid. I was always getting into trouble—probably the last thing on my mind was working in the restaurant."

  "Trouble?" she said curiously.

  Again he shrugged. "Stupid stuff—fights, suspension, you know."

  "Not really," she said, recalling what a good girl she was in the technical sense (but then, quiet, nonsmoking loners often were).

  "I was definitely a punk," was all Rick said.

  "You, really?" she said, eyes widening in surprise, though she didn't know why it should surprise her. He did have that kind of aloof I-shrug-all-authority-except-my-own way about him; his rebelliousness as a kid made sense.

  "Why are you surprised?" he said, half grinning.

  "I don't know. I guess I'm not. But you just seem so... "

  "Mellow" was the wrong word; he was way too intense to be called "mellow."

  "Guarded" would be a better way to describe him, but she wasn't going to say that, either. He might start to freak that she was trying to strip away his emotional male armor. (God, men were annoying with that.) So instead she said, "Reserved. Like you tend to stay out of the fray."

  "Yeah, well I'm older now—thank God," Rick said with deprecating humor, a simple kind of honesty. "There's not as much to prove. But I was always pulling sh—stunts... and then I ended up getting arrested when I was seventeen."

  "What!" Gretchen almost knocked over her drink on that one. Arrested? Did he mean to tell her that she was sitting across the table from a real-life ex-con? Wow. Across the table from a felon and all she could seem to think about was slipping off her high heel and rubbing her stockinged foot between his legs, stroking his cock, making him hard, watching his expression change, darken, and his eyes hood with desire. (But if it wasn't broken in Flashdance, why fix it?)

  Tapping her glass, she used her other hand to wave him on and to say, Come on, details please.

  "Vandalism," he said by way of explanation. "It was so dumb. Me and my buddies thought it would be fucking hilarious to break into this locked-up area behind the post office—oh, forget it. Why am I telling you this?"

  "Why not?" she said, afraid he'd stop when she was finally getting some more pieces to his puzzle.

  He shrugged. "It's not exactly my best moment. And it was so long ago. I was just a dumb kid—really—I was dumb as hell."

  "Well, how long did your rebellious period last?" she asked, realizing only after she'd said it that she sounded like a clinical social worker.

  "Wait a minute now. Let's get to you. I take it by your shocked expression that you were a good girl, huh?"

  There was something about the way Rick said it. Something flirtatious, suggestive. He leveled her with a smoky gaze, and she pressed her thighs together and squirmed a little in her seat.

  Struggling not to encourage him, she took a sip of wine, let it slide warmly down her throat and burn soothingly in her chest.

  "Well?" Rick said, pressing her with his low, rough voice and melting her bones with his blue gaze.

  "Yes, I guess so" was all Gretchen could say on the good-girl topic. Well, sure, she wanted to keep flirting, but telling him about her puny sexual history wasn't exactly what she had in mind. She leaned across the table and touched his hand as though it were a casual gesture, but when his eyes dropped down to it, she knew he felt the thrum of heat between them, too. "So don't skirt around it," she said. "Come on, finish your story."

  "What story was that again?" he said. With his free hand, he took a drink.

  "The story of you," Gretchen said with a smile.

  He looked at her for a few long moments; he seemed to be studying her in that maddening but thrilling way. What was he thinking? And what did he think about her?

  "Okay, so let's see... the story of me... Growing up I—well I already told you—I was a punk. I thought I knew so much, but actually I didn't know shit—I mean, spit."

  With a giggle she said, "It's okay. I grew up in Connecticut, not Walnut Grove."

  "Still, I'm gonna try to clean myself up around you."

  "So you were the troublemaker type in high school?" she said. "I would've thought you were more the football player type."

  With a faint smile, Rick shook his head. "Not at all."

  "So go on."

  "Anyway," he continued, "I used to fight with my old man a lot. All the time. He never thought I had my head on straight—especially after I got out of jail. I still had this big smart-ass attitude. Here I was, two months shy of my eighteenth birthday and my dad's wondering, what the hell's this kid gonna do with himself?"

  That's right, jail, how could Gretchen have lost that thread a minute ago? Maybe she was drinking her wine too fast, or maybe she should've gone with Merlot instead of Shiraz. "How long were you in jail?" she asked now, suddenly getting a little wary of the idea. (Boy, her trip to the dark side hadn't lasted long, had it? But the thing was: The idea of Rick getting arrested was kind of sexy, but picturing the day-to-day realities of him in the orange jumpsuit... well... not so sexy.)

  "It was the longest ten hours of my life," he said, and she let out a breath of relief "Looking back, he should've let me sit there for at least another day," Rick added with a dry laugh.

  She gave his hand a gentle squeeze before sliding her fingers back onto the table. He watched her hand the whole time, then looked right into her eyes like they both knew what was happening between them even if they weren't saying it.

  "Well, that's not so bad," she said softly, referring to the ten hours, but not really thinking of much beyond the heat from their touch that still lingered. She licked her lips as she instinctively studied his mouth.

  "Yeah..." he said, leaning forward and sliding his hand onto hers. Her breath hitched in her throat as hot shivers rolled through her lower body, pooling damply between her legs. Could she want him more? She could barely even concentrate on the rest of his story, she was so focused on rising, reaching across the table, pulling him forward by the back of his neck, and kissing him. "So my dad got me out," he continued, as his fingers strummed along her wrist. "There was a big fine, community service, all that shit—s—oh, sorry—and after that I pretty much cleaned up my act."

  "How?" she asked, concentrating on the feel of his warm hand caressing her skin.

  "I joined the Air Force," he said.

  Her eyes widened at that. "Wow, and they scared you straight, huh?" she said.

  "They got my ass in line, that's for sure."

  "So does that mean you're a pilot?"

  "No, actually, I was going through the police academy in there. It was something I kind of got thrown into after I joined, but it sounded good to me."

  "Really? I didn't realize you could be a policeman in the Air Force." Come to think of it, what did she really know about the Air Force or any kind of force anyway? And why was it suddenly now a completely fascinating area of interest?

  "Oh, sure," he said, looking down at where they were connected, where they were still touching, and only then did Gretchen realized she'd shifted her hand so instead of lying flat on the table, it was curved into Rick's.

  A little breathlessly, she cleared her throat. "So what happened?" she asked.

  "I put in my four years."

  "And then what?"

  "Went t
o work at a few different things," Rick replied vaguely.

  "Like..."

  "Like driving an armored car for a while, working as a security guard for a federal bank, sh—stuff like that," he finished with a shrug and took another drink. She had a feeling he'd had his fill of being interviewed about his job history. But she couldn't help it, she was curious now how he'd eventually ended up doing one of the hardest jobs she could possibly imagine, fighting fires and in New York City of all places.

  "So how'd you decide to be a firefighter?" she probed. Reluctantly, he slid his hand from hers and sat back a fraction before answering. "Honestly? After nine—eleven... I decided to do something with myself that was worth a damn." Offhandedly, he added, "It's funny. My dad used to say that one day I would piss away so many opportunities, all I'd have left is 'potential.' Nothing more than that. And then I'd have to figure out what the fu—hell to do with it. He was right." He tipped his glass back for a drink, then set it back down on the table.

  "Well, wait then—"

  "No, you wait," he said and took her hand firmly in his. This time he gave her a little tug as he leaned in closer. "How come I'm doing all the talking here?" he said, his voice a low purr. "Talking and drinking. What, are you trying to get me drunk?"

  She figured it would take a lot more than a beer or two to get Rick drunk, but she just managed a smirk and said, "I thought I was going to get to know things I didn't know about you."

  He let out a laugh. "That's what I've been telling you. You think I go around talking about vandalizing a post office?"

  "Okay, but I'm not done asking questions yet," Gretchen said, tilting her head at him as if to say: I'm the boss of this conversation and isn't it cute?

  At that he stuck his tongue in the inside of his cheek and appraised her with faint amusement. "Fine, we're gonna do a new thing here. Everything you ask me, I expect you to tell me the same about yourself."

  "Deal. So what's your best quality?"

  "Not sure. Your turn."

  "Not sure, either," she admitted. "Although I have a great skill in the kitchen. It's going to sound kind of weird, but it's my ability to time red meat," she answered.

  "Huh?"

  "Prime rib, Wellington, filet mignon, any steak really. Somehow I can always get it timed perfectly. Or that's what I was told in cooking school anyway." When Rick looked skeptical, she said, "I swear, people always went on and on about it."

  "Damn, then this works out perfectly. It happens that my best skill in the kitchen is eating, and steaks will do just fine." She grinned at him, and he added, "I'm assuming that you're not a vegetarian?

  "No, I'm not. It's hard to be a chef and be that restrictive with food—but I know it's possible. Maybe it's the Italian in me," she threw in lightly.

  "Wait, you're Italian?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

  "Part," she said. "The part with carnivorous impulses—well, you know how it is."

  Raking his gaze over her, he said, "Yeah... I'm having some right now."

  Even as she smiled, heat crawled up her neck and suffused her cheeks. She willed away her nervousness, but still her heart hammered away in her chest as her lower body ached with longing.

  Rick watched her.

  She was only across the table, but it still was too far. He wanted her in his lap. He wanted her on top of him, wanted her underneath him, he was dying to kiss her, dying to fuck her. All the way across the table and he was as hard as a rock.

  "By the way, how did you find that apartment?" he asked, absently tapping his thumb on the table. When she explained that it wasn't her place, or even her cousin's, but that it belonged to an actress named Marcia Rabe, Rick said, "Wait, I thought your cousin's name was Marcia."

  "Oh, she was just impersonating Marcia. She's very theatrical—don't ask," Gretchen said, holding her hand up. "Anyway, they have this arrangement worked out. Dana cleans her place, waters the plants, keeps up with the mail and the utilities, and she gets to live there for free while Marcia's away—which is all the time now that she's living in London filming a television show."

  "Wow, that's a great setup," Rick said, nodding. He found himself studying her face, and as much as he tried to get his mind back on track, Jesus, she made it hard. She just seemed too damn sweet, he almost had to catch his breath. Could he have been that wrong about her?

  Something about the way that she was looking at him. Like there was nowhere she'd rather be right now, including with Brett.

  Chapter 20

  Almost wordlessly Rick drove Gretchen back to her apartment. He didn't know what to say at this point. The more time he spent in her company, the less plausible his own theory seemed about the girl using him to get to Brett. It was possible, he supposed, but she'd barely mentioned Brett all night. She'd been much more interested in learning about him. And he would feel the same way under different, saner circumstances. Right now, tonight, all he could do was focus on the road.

  As the silence stretched on, his mind ran rampant with thoughts of sex, thoughts of riding her hard. Thoughts of her ripe lips closing over his dick. Damn. He was hardly in a position to make idle conversation; anything that came out of his mouth right now would probably be dripping with innuendo. Gretchen was quiet, too. She'd put the radio on, flipped the stations a few times, then shut it off, and now she was looking out the window. She was like a sexual magnet for him. Rick was painfully tempted to reach over and touch her knee, run his hand higher up her leg.

  Now he slowed to a stop in front of her building. As he double-parked, Gretchen turned to him. "Okay, just one question."

  "One question? You had your one question about eighty-nine questions ago."

  Smiling, she said, "This'll be quick, I promise. And by the way, I never did find out your best quality, so you still owe me on that."

  "Okay, okay. What?"

  Unbuckling her seat belt, she turned all the way in her seat so she was facing him. She hesitated a moment before asking her question. "What did you think of me when we first met? I mean, the night you put out that fire in my apartment?"

  "Oh, that's easy," Rick answered. He cut the engine and looked at her. "I thought you were a sweetheart." Not exactly the truth, but he was pretty sure he thought it now. He wanted to kiss her—hell, what was he waiting for? "Why, what'd you think of me?" he said, searching her face, always coming back to her lips.

  With an almost shy grin, she inched a little closer; she seemed to be considering her answer. "I thought you were the big bad wolf," she said finally, then held up her finger. "Only bigger—and not so bad."

  He kept looking at her, noticing the way her mouth opened slightly, the way she took in a breath and held it before biting her lip and releasing it. Almost imperceptibly, he moved closer. "One more question," she said softly.

  "No more questions," he said.

  "Wait, just one more. I promise." He waited, his eyes flickering over her mouth, and she said, "Why were you so mean to me at Brett's party last weekend?"

  "Ah, hell," he murmured, reaching for her just as Gretchen leaned over, pulled on his shoulders, and kissed him.

  Her lips landed too hard at first, almost smashing his, but he pulled back enough to give them each a breath, and in the next second, their mouths folded into each other. The kiss picked up heat instantly. He wrapped his arms around her and nearly crushed her chest to his, and when their lips parted for just a second, she heard her own soft, breathy pants and tried to get her bearings. Rick took her chin in his hand and slanted his open mouth on hers again. Even deeper than before, his scalding-hot tongue aroused her beyond belief. Clinging to his shoulders, Gretchen hung on tight as the electric sensations reached a fever pitch, and she moaned and dug her fingers into the fabric of his coat.

  When they finally pulled apart, Rick's breathing was ragged, and Gretchen was still dazed, bleary-eyed, panting, her lips open and wet. Tipping her head down for a moment, she tried to think of something to say. But her mind drew a blank. Reaching inside R
ick's open coat, she rubbed the solid wall of his chest, feeling the muscled strength beneath his sweater.

  "Wow... you're a really good kisser," she blurted (and couldn't help thinking that she'd just uncovered his best quality, after all).

  Grinning, he said, "Thank you," and his voice was low and evocative and masculine enough to make her want to collapse against him. But if she leaned in for more, she wasn't gonna be pulling back for a while.

  "Um..." She licked her lips, glanced down at his shirt collar, trying to get her mind back. Then she looked back up into his face, at one shaft of light cutting across it. "Maybe we could go out again sometime..." she said, and it came out more like a question.

  Rick pulled her even closer, holding her snugly at the waist. "You had me at Italian carnivore," he joked softly, and she could feel his breath on her lips.

  A laugh bubbled out of her, and then swiftly, he ran his hand behind her neck and pulled her closer, taking her mouth again in a carnal, hungry kiss that sent hot ripples of pleasure down between her legs.

  "Mmm..." she moaned, clutching his coat again, surrendering to the kiss, melding her mouth with his, climbing up and leaning over. She set her right knee on Rick's seat, right between his thighs. Greedily, she slid her body down until she was pressed firmly against him. He groaned with raw arousal as she rode his thigh and slid her tongue in and out of his mouth.

  Rick gripped her hair and slid his other hand to her butt, balling up a fistful of her dress, dragging it up, and then, abruptly, he broke the kiss.

  His breathing was ragged. With hooded eyes, he spoke huskily.

  "I think we'd better stop." He sounded as frustrated about it as she felt.

  But of course he was right. It was getting out of control, fast.

  Where could it go right now with Rick double-parked and Gretchen, flustered and reckless but on her way inside?

  Wow, talk about straying from her no-kissing-on-the-first-date rule! Ridiculous! But in her defense... he was really good.