by Lisa Plumley
“You must have something to hide.”
“Fine.” Josie raised her chin. She rattled off the facts. “I haven’t seen my dad for a few years. He’s happier that way. My mom sneaks off to Las Vegas every six months or so for a visit. She sees a few shows, throws a few quarters in the slots, and commandeers my bed for a few days while I sleep on the couch. Then she goes back to her life and I go back to mine. Sometimes my sister comes with her.”
“What’s she like?”
“My sister? Three years older than me and twice as perfect. So that’s it in a nutshell. My life, from Donovan’s Corner until today. Happy now?”
Luke examined the kitty, then spread out his cards. “Yeah. I’m happy. Full house, king high.”
Josie gawked. It was going to be a very long night.
Usually she excelled at poker—a perk of spending so much time in casinos and of having accidentally dated a compulsive gambler when she’d first arrived in Vegas. But pitted against Luke, Josie found her game was off.
She tried to concentrate on the cards, and noticed Luke’s incredible blue eyes instead. She tried to focus on winning, and got distracted by his husky laugh, his easy way with victory, his tattoos. She attempted to play her most cutthroat game of seven-card stud ever, and only succeeded in wishing Luke would scoot closer. Preferably to her side of the table.
Oblivious to her wishes, he sat opposite her on the ottoman with perfect casualness, legs cocked at the knee. Only a man could sit that way and still look so good. Drawn by his pose, Josie gave up concentrating on cards. Instead, she concentrated on him—which, as it turned out, was a lot more enjoyable.
Although Luke was big, he possessed none of the awkwardness that sometimes came with size. He seemed completely at ease in his skin, his posture relaxed and his movements purposeful. He also seemed strangely competent—as though he could fix something, carry something, or cradle something with equal ease.
She didn’t know what it was about him that intrigued her so much. Was it the hard angle of his jaw, suggesting stubborn machismo? The rumpled darkness of his hair, suggesting uninhibited bed head? The sheer dazzle of his smile, suggesting he enjoyed himself…no matter what?
Probably it was all those things. And more.
Hours of manual labor at Blue Moon had definitely done Luke good, Josie observed. His whole body looked taut—his arms, his belly, his thighs. He rested his elbows on them and then pondered his cards, his face a study in shadows and light.
There was something about him. Something about a man who seemed to know what he wanted and how to get it…something Josie wanted to get closer to. Especially now that she was free to get to know her former handyman a little better.
“If you’re trying to distract me by staring like that,” he said without lifting his gaze from his cards, “it won’t work. I have awesome powers of concentration.”
Whoops. Caught. “Is that right?”
He nodded. “I’m undistractible.”
That sounded like a challenge. “Wow. Impressive.”
“Yeah.” Luke added a Ding Dong to the kitty. “So whatever kind of showgirl hypnosis you’re working on over there, you can just knock it off.”
“‘Showgirl hypnosis.’” She smiled. “Well, now, there’s one tiny problem with that. It only works if you actually look at me.”
Pointedly, he frowned at his cards.
Experimentally, Josie nudged her shoulder. Her tank top strap slipped a few inches.
His poker-player’s grasp tightened.
Josie’s smile widened. “Peripheral vision counts.”
Obviously realizing he was caught, too, he looked up. Somehow, the impact of his full attention took her breath away. Her whole body tensed expectantly. This was it. He was going to do…something.
“You need another bag of frozen corn.” Luke headed for the house’s distant kitchen.
Arrgh. Josie grabbed the Seven-Up and took a swig straight from the gigantic two-liter bottle. He had to be doing this deliberately. The accidental-on-purpose tank top strap maneuver was one of her best. It wasn’t possible Luke was immune.
When he returned bearing a mushy refrozen bag of niblets, she tested her theory.
“If this were a real date,” she said, watching him replace her makeshift sprained-ankle ice pack, “I’d have decided to let you kiss me good night by now.”
Almost imperceptibly, his fingers fumbled.
She went on. “I’d start leaning in to give you an opportunity. I’d probably look at your mouth a lot to give you a hint. Like this.”
Josie leaned nearer, her gaze fixed on his lips.
He squinted. “If you did that, most guys would think we had something stuck in our teeth.”
He was the most obtuse man on the planet. In the universe. Josie persisted. “‘Most guys,’” she said seductively, “don’t get this treatment.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“No, I’m not.” She put down her cards, wishing she could get a little closer to him. Stupid ankle. It prevented her from just climbing over the coffee table and sitting on his lap. Then he’d be sure to get the message. “Really, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” Luke nodded toward their poker game. He snapped his cards on the table with a flourish. “My straight beats your royal flush. I knew you didn’t have the hand to back up that bet.”
Oh. He was talking about the game. Giving up all hope of ever winning at poker again, Josie sighed. She settled back on the sofa, watching him scoop up the rest of his Ding Dong jackpot. It figured. In this—just like in the rest of her life—she’d overplayed her hand.
Luke had never believed a simple game of seven-card stud could be fatal. But after four hands, three swigs of Seven-Up, and countless trips to the kitchen for vegetable ice pack replacements, he realized the truth. He was never going to survive this night.
He was never going to survive Josie Day.
She flirted, she smiled, she leaned over and treated him to a luscious view of her skimpily covered breasts. She joked, she sighed, she let her clothes fall right off her body without doing a damned thing about it. Okay, so it was only her tank top strap falling off, but Luke had as much imagination as the next guy. In his mind’s eye, it was her whole top.
He tried to do the right thing. He concentrated on his cards, but her sexy laugh lured him away. He focused on the game, but her bare skin appealed to him more. He iced her sprained ankle until either it—or his hands—was going to freeze off. Still he felt himself weakening.
Josie was funny and vivacious and sexy. She said exactly what she wanted to say, when she wanted to say it. Despite the massive inconvenience of her presence in his house, Luke wasn’t exactly sorry she was there. As the night wore on, the fact that he managed to hold on to his cards—much less see them—was a testament to the force of his will.
Either that, or he didn’t want to take advantage of a woman who’d all but immobilized herself by spraining her ankle on a hole in his floor.
Go figure. It looked as though he possessed scruples.
There was no other explanation for it. Despite his genes, despite his upbringing, despite everything, Luke apparently possessed the kind of moral fortitude no Donovan before him ever had. His father would have been appalled.
But there it was. Scruples, a conscience, whatever you wanted to call it. Luke was a prisoner of his own stupid principles. They were keeping him from enjoying the night to its fullest.
“Damned scruples,” he groused.
“What’s that?” Josie asked from her perch on the couch.
“I said, here’s that TV I promised.”
Having finished off as much poker as he could stand—along with most of the Ding Dongs—Luke put down the set he’d carried from the billiards room, an ancient fifteen-inch color unit with a missing power button and fuzzy reception.
He plugged it in. “There’s no cable in the house itself, but the local channels ought to come in okay.”
“
Super.” She made a face. She nodded toward the abandoned deck of cards. “Sure you won’t go another round?”
“I’m sure. I’ll put your crutches right here, so they’re within reach.” Luke propped them against the nearest arm of the sofa. He held out the TV remote, noticed its furry coating of dust, and rubbed it against his jeans to clean it. He handed it to her. “If you need anything, just shout. I left the windows open so I’ll hear you.”
“Where are you going?”
“Carriage house. I’ve got work to do. It’s getting late.”
“It’s only nine-thirty!”
“Don’t worry. The local programming will knock you out in no time.”
She frowned. Somehow, even while frowning, she looked kind of cute. God help him. Another few minutes of this and he’d cave for sure.
“But I’m a night owl,” she said. “Usually I work until past midnight.”
Midnight. The time when fantasies ramped up and…. No. Luke refused to weaken.
“I’ll be back to check on you in the morning.”
There. No harm, no foul. He was a decent guy who didn’t take advantage of women with sprained ankles. He ought to be proud of himself.
“Hey, Luke,” Josie piped up. “Knock, knock.”
“What?”
“It’s a joke. A knock-knock joke. They’re kind of my thing,” she explained. “Come on. Knock, knock.”
“Oookay.” It wouldn’t hurt to play along. Pausing beside the sofa, Luke glanced down at her. “Who’s there?”
“Leena.”
“Leena who?”
“Leena little closer. I want that good night kiss we talked about.”
Surprised, Luke couldn’t help but grin. The joke was corny, but the thought behind it wasn’t. Neither was the expectant, suddenly vulnerable look on Josie’s face. She clutched the TV remote against her chest and stared up at him, every ounce of bravado gone.
Yes, his mind prodded, but his body was already one step ahead. Luke knelt with one knee on the sofa cushion, feeling himself dip toward her. He was tired of resisting this, tired of saying no. One little good night kiss wouldn’t hurt.
Hell, yes, his mind urged again, but his body had already voted to put one hand over Josie’s and brace the other on the back of the sofa. All the better to be nearer…nearer.
Luke rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, enjoying the first real sensual contact they’d made. Josie felt good. Soft, warm, feminine. He smiled at her, and decided right then that he’d been an idiot not to touch her sooner. He couldn’t remember what he’d been waiting for.
“If this were a real date,” he said, letting his gaze drop to her mouth, “I’d already have done this.”
“If this were a real date,” she replied, sounding breathless, “we’d be way behind. You’d better hurry up.”
“Uh-uh. I like to take it slow.”
Demonstrating, he lowered his lips to hers. He kissed her…once. It was all he could trust himself to do.
When he raised his head, Josie opened her eyes. She lay back against the sofa cushions, looking dazzled. And irresistible.
“The hell with slow,” he announced, and kissed her again.
This time, Luke brought his mouth to hers and felt the whole room spin. This kiss was small, the barest brush of his lips against hers, but it was enough to make him realize that kissing Josie was probably an even bigger gamble than playing poker with a showgirl.
For one thing, he was twice as likely to lose his shorts.
“Luke,” Josie breathed. “Luke.”
He pulled back slightly. Josie put her hand on his chest, spreading her palm over the front of his T-shirt. He felt the warmth of her touch and instantly wanted more. Their gazes met. There was something about the look in her eyes…something as intoxicating as the softness of her skin.
“I can’t believe I didn’t even know you until this morning,” she said.
“I can’t believe I waited so long to kiss you.”
“Me, either.” She smiled. “So how come I’m still waiting for a repeat performance?”
As far as invitations went, they didn’t get any clearer than that. More than willing to oblige, Luke cupped her cheek in his hand. He leaned nearer. Another kiss, this one—
A blaring horn sounded outside.
Josie jerked. “What’s that?”
It sounded again. Luke glanced up just as a sweep of headlights lit the room, then vanished. Gravel crunched outside as a vehicle rounded the drive.
Oh, shit. With a jolt, Luke remembered where he was supposed to be tonight.
“Gotta run,” he said.
With a hasty final kiss, he left for the carriage house.
Chapter Seven
Happily ensconced on the pool deck of the cruise ship S.S. Extravaganza, Tallulah reclined on her favorite blue-and-white-striped deck chair. For the past two days, she’d been up to her eyeballs in cocktails, exotic buffets, and mischief. As far as she was concerned, that meant everything was perfect.
“How’s that mai tai, Ambrose?”
“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning,” her attorney said, turning his head on his matching deck chair. He squinted against the sunlight bouncing from the azure pool. “I’m not drinking a mai tai. I’m drinking orange juice.”
“You always were an old fuddy-duddy.”
“You always were a busybody.”
“Damned straight.” Tallulah adjusted her rhinestone cat’s-eye sunglasses. “How else would I know what’s right for you?”
Ambrose smiled faintly. “Me and everyone else.”
“Exactly. Speaking of which, what did you find out about our friend, the concierge? You followed up last week as I asked you to, didn’t you?”
“Yes. She’s very satisfactorily settled in at your lodge property in Aspen. And before you ask, your psychic advisor is doing well, also.” Ambrose adjusted his wide-brimmed sun hat and crossed his linen-pants-covered legs. He grimaced, probably at the tropical heat. “Allowing her to turn Ernest’s mail order home siding business into a psychic hotline was an excellent idea.”
“Yes. I knew it would be.”
“Of that, I have no doubt at all. You are never less than one thousand percent pleased with yourself.”
He was correct, of course. Satisfied with the status of her latest protégés, Tallulah beckoned a cabana boy. She ordered a second mai tai, a plate of scrambled eggs with bacon, and a massage reservation at the Extravaganza‘s spa. She wanted to be completely relaxed by the time they reached Barbados—and, after that, Martinique.
“Oh, and young man?” she added, calling him back. “Tack on a massage for yourself, too. My treat. You look as if you could use one.”
His face brightened. “I will, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am!”
“You can thank me by not calling me ma’am. I am not a thousand years old.” She made her expression as stern as possible. “Now, scoot.”
Tallulah shooed the boy away, wanting him gone before she accidentally broke into a smile. She dreaded the thought of becoming one of those cutesy little old ladies—the ones who knit booties and wore pastels and dyed their hair blue. She did everything she could to prevent it.
However, she did believe in rewarding people who deserved rewarding. People like the cabana boy. Ambrose. Her friends the former concierge and the psychic. And that redheaded showgirl, the one who’d reminded Tallulah of herself.
“What was that hotsy totsy’s name?” she asked Ambrose, gazing critically at her scarlet pedicure as she tried to remember. “The one who Heimliched me at Ernest’s casino?”
“Josie.” Looking pained, Ambrose held up his copy of USA Today so it shielded him from the sunlight. “Josie Day.”
“That’s right. The trailer park girl. She claimed her reward for saving me, didn’t she?”
“Yes. Eventually.”
“Stubborn bit of baggage.” Secretly proud of the girl for not being grabby, Tallulah paused. She thought about it. Damn it
. Her memory just wasn’t what it used to be. “What was her reward again?”
“Blue Moon.”
“Blue Moon? That sounds like a golden oldie from the fifties.” She scoffed, extending her arm to admire the clink of her vintage Lucite bangle bracelets. Once upon a time, she’d been quite the fashion plate. Still was, if you asked her. “You’re making that up.”
“Your family estate,” Ambrose reminded patiently. “In Donovan’s Corner. Arizona.”
“Ah. The Grand Canyon state. We must visit there again sometime.”
Ambrose remained tactfully silent. He didn’t like to travel, the old codger. He’d rather stay home with his newspaper and his Wheel of Fortune and his dreary dietician-approved meals and never have any adventure at all.
Recognizing a hopeless case when he was lounging right next to her, Tallulah let the conversation lapse. She passed the time while waiting for her next mai tai by watching several men swim laps across the pool. They were wonderfully distracting, every one of them bronzed and fit and athletic.
In their wake, a lone woman in a swim cap breast-stroked slowly. Her wrinkled face glistened with water each time she bobbed upward. Her arms were crepey, her skin freckled, her suit a practical black. She completed seven laps, each one wobbly but effective…each one solitary.
Go faster, Tallulah urged her silently. Catch up. But before long it was too late. All the men finished their laps. They climbed out of the pool and stood laughing on its tiled deck while they toweled off. None of them noticed the woman. Alone in the pool, she went on swimming. One, two. One, two.
Tallulah looked away.
“Ambrose, you’ve had too much sun,” she announced, grabbing the newspaper from her startled attorney. “You look like a lobster. Let’s head over to the sing-along piano bar and see what’s shaking.”
Despite what Luke had told Josie about the house being important to him, most of his time at Blue Moon was not spent there. Most of his time was spent in the carriage house, the big square building about two hundred yards south of the mansion at the edge of the weedy lawn. It wasn’t perfect. Hell, when he’d arrived there the place had been barely standing. But Luke had commandeered it anyway, and had never looked back.
