The Goose, the Gander, & the Three French Hens

by Robin Kaye

  Karma’s eyes practically glowed like those of a cat stalking its prey. “Oh really? Have you kept more secrets from us than just Jack?”

  Claire couldn’t quite look either of them in the eye. “I’m a private person.” And she was so not going to discuss her sex life, or lack thereof, with either of them. “Who I go out with and when is none of your business. It’s not as if you two are much better. When was the last time either of you went out on a real date?”

  Trish let out a laugh. “Way to try to redirect the spotlight. Karma and I aren’t the subject of this particular discussion.”

  If they were, Claire wouldn’t feel quite so uncomfortable. “This isn’t a discussion. It’s an inquisition.”

  Karma let out her evil queen laugh. “You say potato; we say po-tah-to. No matter how you slice them, chips taste the same.”

  Trish signaled a time-out. “Look, you called us over here and asked us to bring you date clothes. We’re here with our best outfits. What else do you need?”

  “Beyond the clothes? Help deciding what the heck to wear.”

  Karma set down her beer and rubbed her hands together. “Where’s he taking you?”

  “Barbacoa.” A gorgeous restaurant filled with incredible art, and great food with an Argentinean flair. Definitely not a place she frequented.

  “Good choice. You can wear whatever you like there. I’ve seen everything from jeans and T-shirts to black tie. Okay, maybe not black tie but close. It’s a regular chic free-for-all.”

  Claire slumped back in the couch. “That’s a lot of help.”

  “What are you trying to convey? Take me now, or hands off? Knowing you, we brought a little bit of both, or at least I did. I assume Trish did, too. So which is it?”

  “I have to decide that now?”

  Trish nodded. “It would definitely help. But I guess you can wear something that you can modify mid-date. You know, something that could be taken off to expose an eye-popping, cleavage-baring top or corset.”

  “I don’t own a corset.” She didn’t own anything even remotely sexy. All she had were casual work clothes, painting clothes, and jeans and sweaters. Nothing appropriate for a nice, romantic restaurant like Barbacoa.

  Trish shot her a grin and cackled like the hen she was. “Then it’s a good thing both Karma and I do, and since we’re roughly the same size, something will work. What time is he picking you up?”

  “He’s not. I’m meeting him there.”

  Karma shook her head. “Seriously? What do you think this is, an Internet date? You’ve known the man forever.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Karma held up a finger to stop her. “Just in case you don’t know, meeting a guy at the restaurant is definitely a hands-off signal, Claire.”

  “He cornered me.”

  Karma let out a laugh. “Did you enjoy it?”

  Trish held up a hand. “The way I heard it, Jack asked you out. How is that synonymous with cornering you?”

  “Maybe it’s not, but it sure felt like it.” Actually, it felt more like a pity date or a date of convenience at best. Neither of which she wanted to cop to.

  Karma pulled out her cell phone and dialed. She waited a moment and then cleared her throat. “Trapper, is Jack still there?” She listened for a moment and rose. “Oh, good.”

  Claire wanted to grab the phone away from Karma, but the girl was too damn fast. She ran to the bathroom and locked the door before Claire could get there.

  By the time Karma walked out, satisfaction clung to her like a wet shirt. “Yeah, there’s been a change of plans. Jack is picking you up here at seven thirty.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because you obviously need help. You like him, don’t you?”

  “How would I know? I don’t know him. Not anymore.”

  “Bullshit. You’re essentially the same person you were when you dated him if you add a bit of cynicism due to life experience and a broken heart. As for him, I doubt he’s changed that much, he’s bulked up some, grew into his feet, and he seems more comfortable in his own skin, but I’d be willing to bet he’s not so different from the boy you knew and loved.”

  “You don’t know that.” And if he hadn’t changed, then she’d be in as much danger of falling in love with him as she had been at sixteen. Still, she was older and wiser now. She’d never open herself up to that kind of pain again. She’d learned her lesson the first time. It took her only one hangover to decide never to get drunk again, and she hadn’t. One heartbreak was enough to teach her never to leave herself so open to being crushed under a man’s boot. A masochist she was not.

  Chapter 3

  Jack sat outside Mary Claire’s house, watching her fidget in her seat. Dinner had gone well—okay, there was the inauspicious beginning when she answered the door wearing a dress so short and sexy it scrambled his brain, but he covered it well. He hoped.

  The Mary Claire he’d known never emphasized her sexuality. Not that she’d needed to even then, but damn, looking like she did, she stood out like a Ferrari at a clown car convention. Trapper had suggested Barbacoa, and when he said it was a nice restaurant, he wasn’t kidding. The place was incredible—the kind of place where you took a woman to seal the deal. It was decorated to the hilt with art, and had soft lighting and intimate alcoves. But even the guys at the restaurant with dates couldn’t keep from staring at Mary Claire. Their dates noticed; hell, everyone noticed, everyone but Mary Claire. They’d picked up right where they’d left off—as if the past seven years hadn’t happened, but they had—and he found himself falling right back under her spell. She was as amazing as she’d always been but now was even more dangerous. Maturity had enhanced her naturally overt sensuality, a sensuality she might not be conscious of, or give credence to, but somehow that made it even more powerful. There was nothing false about it and her lack of pretense just made her all the more captivating. She’d matured into the incredible, amazing, caring, successful, and over-the-top gorgeous woman he’d always known she’d become.

  He ran his hand over the burled walnut dash of his dad’s Jag and cut the engine. He had to stop thinking about everything as his father’s. As much as he might hate it, since his dad’s death, all the old man’s worldly possessions and even some of his sins now solely belonged to him.

  The Jag he could sell easily enough—his father’s sins would be more difficult if not impossible to relinquish. There were some things that no matter how much money you threw at them, they would never be made right. Still, he had to try.

  He did his best to get any thought of his father out of his mind and reached for Mary Claire, sliding his hand under her hair, his fingers brushing the baby softness of her neck. “May I come up?”

  She swallowed hard. “Why?”

  “For two reasons, and one has absolutely nothing to do with the other.” He had wanted this to be a real date, but that was before his second meeting with Trapper this afternoon. It chapped his ass that even in death his father was screwing with his relationship with Mary Claire. “This is the first.” He leaned closer, turned her face up to his, and kissed her like he’d done a million times a lifetime ago.

  He’d expected it to be different, after all, this wasn’t his first rodeo, or even his hundred and first. It was a mind-bending realization to find nothing had changed—not her taste, not the feel of her mouth beneath his, not the tentative response, not the way she melted against him, and not the instant erection he got every time he touched her. He thought the raw need she’d always evoked in him was a product of a hot woman and his youthful immaturity. Well, she just busted that little myth all to hell and back because his reaction was just as explosive as it was inexplicable. Thank God she was right there with him. He dragged his mouth away; he hadn’t made out in a car since . . . shit, not since he and Mary Claire were dating. He waited for her eyes to focus on his. “Mary Claire?”

  “All right, but I hope the second thing isn’t an emergency. It’s going to be a wh
ile before we get to it.”

  Okay, that was unexpected.

  She licked her lips, threw open the door, and slid out of the car. He stared at her long, gorgeous legs, made longer by the stilts she called shoes, and the way her dress shimmied up her thighs, showing off the lace edge of her stockings—not that he was complaining. Thigh highs? Garters? He wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t wait to find out. Hell, he’d been so mesmerized he hadn’t even helped her out of the low-slung car, but damned if he didn’t enjoy watching her step out on her own.

  He dropped the keys when he realized he’d get to see what, if anything, she wore beneath the dress that had him and every other man with eyes at Barbacoa imagining her naked.

  She leaned back in giving him an incredible cleavage shot. “Jack, are you coming?”

  No, but he was close. Too damn close.

  Claire did her best to strut to the door, all the while feeling the heat of Jack’s gaze on her ass. She wasn’t sure she had pulled it off, but if she failed, it wasn’t for lack of trying. She was just glad, given the borrowed shoes, which were a half size too big, she didn’t land on her backside, or worse, her face.

  She dug through her borrowed clutch, trying to find her keys, and did her best to quell the shaking of her hands and ignore Jack’s hot breath on the nape of her neck, the way he wrapped his arms around her middle, and the subtle pressure against her derriere. How the hell could he expect her to find her keys with him as a distraction? It took all her strength not to elbow him.

  She was being shamelessly easy, but didn’t feel one iota of guilt. After all, she was a goose and her mate had just flown back into her life—temporarily. Just because she was a goose didn’t mean that he was a gander, but she was willing to take full advantage of their chemistry until he flew off again. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Just because she’d never again give anyone the trust she’d freely given Jack years ago, didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy him while she had him at her disposal. Even a goose deserved a good tumble once every seven years, didn’t she? Since he’d left, she’d had a few tumbles—unfortunately, none of them had been good. She just prayed that Jack had come prepared to suit up, if not, she’d be both embarrassed and horny. Still digging for her keys, her hand landed on a small, unfamiliar cardboard box. “What the hell?”

  She turned the bag toward the front door light, illuminating the contents. Condoms? Karma being Karma, she knew Claire hadn’t had sex in a dog’s age, and obviously wanted her to be prepared.

  Claire caught Jack peaking over her shoulder and wearing a grin that could span Hells Canyon. Even the cold night air couldn’t cool the fire of embarrassment heating her face.

  Jack’s arms tightened around her and the pressure of his erection increased.

  If Karma ever found out about this, she’d only see Claire’s embarrassment as a bonus. Not that she’d ever hear it from Claire. “I don’t know if I want to kiss Karma or kill her.”

  His breath warmed her cheek and then his teeth raked her earlobe. “The thought of you two kissing is a lot hotter than a catfight—unless there’s Jell-O involved, then all bets are off.”

  This time she didn’t bother to hold back. She elbowed him in the gut.

  He didn’t make a sound. Unfortunately, he was too close for her to do any real damage, and his abs were so tight, she wasn’t sure she could, even if she’d had more room to maneuver. He reached over, plucked her keys right out of her purse, and dangled them in front of her face. “Are these what you’re digging around for?”

  Claire snatched them away and opened the door. Flipping on the lights, she climbed the stairs. Nervousness clung to her almost as closely as Jack. She knew what she wanted—she just wasn’t sure how to get it. Did she offer him a drink? Coffee, tea, or me? Yeah, that was a total cliché. She pulled the wrap off her shoulders, tossed it onto the chair along with her purse, and toed off her shoes.

  Jack leaned one shoulder against the wall and watched her looking completely relaxed—not to mention tall. Maybe she should have left her shoes on so she wouldn’t feel so damn short. He’d dressed for dinner—nice gray wool slacks, crisp white shirt, black sport coat, and a power tie that picked up the steel gray of his eyes. She’d never seen him look so gorgeous. Okay, he always looked great, but she hadn’t expected him to go from casual to GQ with such ease. But then she doubted they dressed the same in Boise as they did in Berlin, or Stuttgart, or wherever he lived.

  Looking at him, all she could think about was getting his clothes off, so she stepped toward him to do just that. His gaze never left her, but she had no clue what he thought. He’d always been so open; she’d never had to work hard to read him. Now he was . . . guarded, something else they had in common.

  Jack’s only reaction to her reaching for his tie was a deep breath in—a breath he held while she untied it like the ribbon on a present. She wished she could just rip all the wrapping off him but held back, not wanting to look as desperate as she suddenly felt. Leaving the tie hanging around his neck, she slid her hands over his chest and shoulders, beneath his sport coat. “Why don’t you take this off and get comfortable?”

  He shoved away from the wall and allowed her to slide the jacket off his broad shoulders. He tossed it aside and opened the top two buttons of his shirt and then reached for her, his hands encircling her waist.

  She waited for him to say or do something, but he only stared at her while he seemed to have some kind of internal debate.

  Finally he released her and stepped back. “I’m not going to stay.”

  Meaning what? He was leaving? Not planning to stay the night? He made no move to get his sport coat. “I haven’t invited you to stay.”

  He shook his head, his dark hair falling over his eye. “No. I mean, I’m leaving Boise. I don’t know how long it will take to settle my dad’s estate, but once I do, I’m leaving.”

  “Oh, that kind of leaving. Yeah, that’s not news.”

  He blew out a breath and stepped closer. “I just wanted to make sure there’s no misunderstandings between us.”

  “Such a gentleman.” She patted his chest. “But don’t worry, I’m not foolish enough to think this is any more than what it is.”

  “And what’s that?”

  She let her hand drop and shrugged, not sure what to say. Hot sex would be a little presumptuous, wouldn’t it? “Convenient.” Okay, judging from the scowl on his face, that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Too bad. He’d only get the truth from her. She was good with varnish, but she wasn’t going to paint a pretty picture just to make him feel better. “Jack, we’re nothing more than consenting adults who have history and chemistry. We’re taking advantage of it, or at least I’d like to, for however long you’re here. It’s nothing more than that. I won’t let it be.”

  She wasn’t sure if he looked relieved or disappointed—she thought she saw flashes of both, but that wasn’t her problem. It was his. “Any other questions, ground rules, concerns?”

  “Are you seeing anyone?” He crossed his arms and somehow looked bigger, more imposing, and more than a little possessive, which was odd, considering he’d just been giving her the old leaving-on-a-jet-plane chorus.

  She tilted her head like she had to think about it. There was no way she’d ever want him to know that she hadn’t been out on a date since before the last administration left office. “Other than you, you mean?”

  “Yes, other than me.”

  She was tempted to let him wait while she checked her calendar just for shits and giggles; instead she turned and headed for the kitchen. If they were going to chat, she needed something to drink. “Not at the moment, no. Are you?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I was.” He sounded insulted.

  But yet he’d asked her. She halted midstep, looked over her shoulder, and found him raking his hand through his hair. “I’m going to just let that insinuation go.” She went around the breakfast bar and kept her back to him.

  “I didn’t mean t
o insinuate—”

  She held up her hand to stop his explanation; she didn’t want to hear it. Why give him the opportunity to piss her off further? “Do you want something to drink? I don’t know what I have. I might have some liquor left from my last party. I think Trapper brought over a bottle of wine we didn’t open.” She was thrilled she’d remembered correctly, and pulled the bottle from the wine rack. “Is red all right?” She turned and ended up in Jack’s arms with the bottle between them. She dragged in a deep breath of Jack-scented air. “You snuck up on me.”

  “I don’t want Trapper’s wine.” He took the bottle, set it on the counter, and then backed her into the corner. “So, we’re good?”

  Okay, maybe there wouldn’t be any more chatting after all. She had to look way up to meet his eyes, and when she did, what she found was much too serious for her taste. It was as if the fact that Trapper brought the wine was some kind of insult. Not that she’d read anything into it. The last thing she wanted to do was get caught up in anything serious with Jack Bennett. She didn’t bother biting back a you-want-me-bad smile. “I don’t know about now, but we used to be real good.”

  He looked like his control was hanging by a fraying thread. She recognized it because he looked exactly how she felt. She felt his groan more than heard it, maybe because when her feet left the floor, she let out a scream just before his mouth came down on hers. Nibbling her lips, tasting her, dragging his tongue against hers, sucking and stroking with maddening precision. She found herself sitting on the counter. Her dress had worked its way up her thighs, allowing her legs to spread enough to accommodate his hips. One hand tangled in her hair, cupping her neck, holding her mouth to his, and the other was on her butt, pulling her tight against him. And ho boy, did he hit just the right height or what? His erection pressed against the crux of her thighs: hard, hot, insistent.