Tough Love

by Lori Foster

  “This is for ice cream.”

  The brighter, more colorful photo showed her sitting cross-legged on the floor wearing an oversize football jersey and nothing else. She leaned back, her face tipped up to another dude on the couch who held a spoonful of ice cream to her mouth.

  Again, who the hell was going to notice the name of the stuff with Vanity looking so hot in the ad?

  The last was a lingerie catalogue, and even before she opened it, possessive, jealous heat churned inside him.

  Then he saw the image—and relaxed. Or at least relaxed enough that he didn’t want to chew the bark off a tree.

  Dressed in loose flannel pajamas, the oversize top slipping off one shoulder, her hair in braids, Vanity appeared to innocently enjoy a lollipop.

  Well, hell. It was better than slinky lingerie, but the fantasies would be rampant. He met her anxious gaze. “Suggestive much?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You know exactly what it means.” He nodded at the ad. “You’re dressed like a tease, and I can see your tongue!”

  “My tongue?” She looked at the image again as if she’d never seen it. “That’s what you noticed?”

  “It’s designed for me to notice. Men will immediately think of blow jobs, guaranteed.”

  Laughing, she pointed out, “It’s to sell pajamas to women, silly, not men.”

  He’d be willing to bet plenty of men would see it, too—and he knew exactly where their thoughts would go. “If you say so.”

  She frowned at the ad. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I knew it. I felt so dumb doing it. But sometimes it’s fun, so I agreed. It’s the truth, I get easily bored. And until you, until now, I mean, maybe this one time, only now you’re saying I could possibly seduce you again...” She shook her head. “Anyway, I usually have too much free time.” She blinked at him, waiting.

  Stack didn’t know if she’d run out of breath or if she just wanted to see his reaction so far.

  His attention went back to the ad. “You look like a wet dream.”

  Instead of being insulted, she smiled. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” But damn it, he had no right to complain or to tell her how badly he wanted to punch any guy who saw her in the ads.

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  Did she think any guy would be capable of thinking differently? “Third job?” Or maybe he didn’t even want to know.

  Hands on her hips, she went back to talking at mach speed. “I also paint. And yes, sometimes I sell my paintings. The proceeds go to different local charities, so no way can I stop doing them. I have a few more to finish before the next Furry Paws Ball and Auction. That’s where they’re sometimes sold to help fund the no-kill animal shelter.”

  “You’re an artist?”

  She narrowly pinched the air with her finger and thumb. “Little bit.”

  An angel with a sinner’s body who was wealthy but worked at a resale shop to help a friend, modeled out of boredom and painted for charity. And out of all the interested guys in the world, she’d wanted him—hopefully still wanted him.

  His brain throbbed, as well as other body parts. “I’d love to see your work.”

  Her mouth did that cute, twitching thing that eventually turned into a smile. “It sounds so official when you say it like that.”

  “Say what?”

  Making air quotes with her fingers, she said, “My work.” She shrugged. “I have some paintings I can show you. Nothing serious. Just...whimsy.” Snagging his hand, she pulled him from the chair and started for the living room. “I’ll give you one minute to look, then you have promises to keep. Or maybe I have promises since I did say I’d seduce you, not the other way around.”

  He went along, loving how her backside looked in nothing more than those sexy little panties that showed as much as they hid. When she stopped and gestured at the wall, his eyes refocused on the artwork he’d noticed before, and then widened.

  No way. “You did these?”

  “Yup.”

  He dragged his attention away from the artwork to better scrutinize Vanity. She had her fingers laced together, her eyes downcast. Modesty?

  She had no reason for it. Putting his arm around her, he pulled her into his side and went back to the paintings. “These are amazing.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded at the cottage. “It’s personal to you?”

  Her face lit up. “That you realize that is a huge compliment.”

  “I can see it in the way you’ve painted it. It looks like...” He searched for a word and settled on, “Home.” Only that didn’t make any sense. She claimed to be rich, and the cottage, while not exactly small, wasn’t the home of the wealthy or elite.

  Leaning her head on his shoulder, Vanity went silent. When she finally spoke, something in her voice told him this was important to her. “The house is where our gardener, Carl, used to stay before he died. I loved it. He always had something blooming. Even in the winter he’d grow bulbs indoors and in his small greenhouse.”

  She looked at the painting; Stack looked at her. “You had a gardener?”

  “We had a lot of staff, but Carl was my favorite.”

  The way she stared at the painting, with memories in her eyes, told him things she hadn’t said.

  She turned her face up to his. “Carl showed me how to plant gardens so that something would always be in bloom. We experimented around the cottage.” Her smile flickered with a memory, then went sad. “When he died, my parents hired a landscaping company instead. They didn’t live on the premises, so the house went empty.”

  Sad. “You kept planting flowers there?” In his gut, Stack already knew the answer.

  “Yes.” She eased away and plastered on a very phony smile that didn’t fool him and didn’t reach her eyes. “I moved into the cottage for a while. My rebellious stage, according to my mother. But it was such a nice little cabin, cozier and warmer than our house.” She looked at the picture again, then moved on to the next. “These are hybrid roses he helped me to grow.”

  Stack watched her touch the painting of a trellis that should have been run-of-the-mill artwork, except that...it wasn’t. Not being an art critic or authority, he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was about the roses. But he liked the way she’d painted the sunlight behind the petals. The image looked as though it’d be warm and velvety to the touch.

  Like Vanity.

  On the other side of the cottage painting was another depiction of flowers, these a mix of wild colors and patterns.

  “We planted these behind the cottage, where my parents wouldn’t see. They always told me wildflowers were weeds, but Carl would say they were painted by God’s hand.”

  She looked at Stack, and something twisted inside him when he saw the sheen in her eyes.

  She didn’t cry. Vanity wouldn’t. She had this thing about proving her strength that was both endearing and provoking.

  “He said that about the sunrise and sunset, too. And stormy skies or clear skies, fall leaves or the spring buds...” Her smile, a genuine one this time, made him smile, as well. “Carl loved nature, so he had the perfect job.”

  Stack touched her cheek. “And you loved Carl?”

  She swallowed, searched his face, then gave one short nod.

  “You have other paintings here?”

  Gesturing to the side, she said, “A few. In the basement. But—”

  Stack took her hand and got her moving back toward the kitchen. “I want to see.”

  She tried to protest, but he kept her going. For the first time, he felt he was actually starting to know what made Vanity tick, and damned if it didn’t fascinate him.

  She fascinated him, in bed and out. He wanted to know all the complicated, contrasting facets of her personality. And he wanted more time to explore her sexually. One way or another, he’d figure it out—and along the way he’d learn all her secrets.

  * * *

  ON THE ONE HAND, Vanity was over-the-
moon complimented with how enthusiastic Stack had been about her paintings. She hadn’t anticipated that. In her family, people were expected to have talents. They had plenty of time to find and cultivate those talents. And so she had. No big deal.

  She could paint, and she was good enough that people recognized what she painted. Good enough to sell her work for charity.

  But she wasn’t a true artist. She wasn’t one of those who suffered for her talent, putting her heart and soul into her work. Nope. No suffering for her. She painted pretty things. Everyday images, like flowers or birds or, her favorite, seashells. Sometimes she went for more eclectic images: a half-empty glass of milk that appealed to her eye because of the small bubbles, the sheen, the... Vanity sighed. No, she wasn’t a true artist.

  But the way Stack had acted, she might as well have been.

  She’d impressed him, and it had nothing to do with her looks, which made it so, so much nicer.

  But on the other hand, he’d taken so long looking at her work that they’d lost the opportunity for the promised quickie. He’d run off—ten minutes late—to head to the rec center, and she’d hurried to get to the resale shop. Much of the remainder of her afternoon had been nuts, as well.

  She’d been assigned to a holiday ad for a department store. She and three other women, two kids, and a couple of men had posed in designer clothes, with electronics, at a decorated Thanksgiving table setting, and even with some Christmasy stuff. The kids were adorable, the women aloof, and the men had ogled her. Now she was tired but determined to check on Lynn.

  She knew Stack’s mother missed the dogs because she’d told Vanity so when she’d called earlier in the day.

  Now, as she loaded the dogs into her car, she wondered when she’d get to see Stack again. She’d planned to work on the paintings tonight because two more of them had to be turned in before Wednesday in order to be catalogued before the ball. But she really wished she’d worked up the courage to invite him back over.

  She couldn’t think of a better reason for missing work.

  Luckily, the drive to his sister’s apartment didn’t take too long, because the dogs didn’t do well in the car. Despite the nippy weather, she had to leave a window slightly open to keep Maggie from gagging. Norwood, bless his heart, just foamed at the mouth. A lot.

  She and the dogs were all thrilled when she finally stopped across the street from the address Lynn had given her.

  It made her a little nervous, looking around in the growing darkness of early evening. Tabby did not live in the best of neighborhoods. Leashing both dogs before letting them out, Vanity held tight, Maggie in one hand, Norwood in the other. She hit the button on her key ring to lock her car.

  Good thing Tabby’s apartment was only on the second floor. The dogs fought her every step, trying to bound this way, then that way, putting her in a virtual tug of war. Using her elbow, she pushed the doorbell.

  Her luck ran out when f’ing Phil opened up. Shirtless, jeans hanging low, he let his gaze crawl all over her. Propping a shoulder on the door frame, he smiled. “Hey, Vanity. What are you doing here?”

  Seriously, did he not see the dogs? “I brought Maggie and Norwood to visit with Lynn and Tabby.”

  “Lynn’s napping, and Tabby isn’t home yet.” He leered, then reached for her face. Though she tried to lean out of reach, he followed and lightly brushed aside a curl that had half fallen over her eye. In a suggestive tone, he said, “Looks like it’ll just be the two of us.”

  Norwood gave a low growl, and Vanity hurried to quiet him. She didn’t trust Phil with the dogs.

  Maybe she should talk to Lynn or Tabby about that? Or maybe, she decided, she should just mind her own business.

  Maggie joined Norwood in the complaints, but Phil ignored them. Holding out his hand, he said to Vanity, “Come on in.”

  When she didn’t take his hand, he clasped her wrist, tugging.

  She strained away, ready to tell him to dream on. But with the dogs’ leashes in her hands, she couldn’t smack him as she wanted to.

  Then the entry door to the building slammed shut, and she looked down to the foyer to see...Stack looking up.

  His gaze narrowed on her, then shifted to Phil— specifically to Phil’s hand on her wrist.

  Wisely, Phil withdrew with alacrity, then backed into the apartment. “I think I hear Lynn. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  Hoping to forestall the fireworks, Vanity smiled. “Stack! I was just missing you. How fun that we’re both here.”

  As he climbed the steps, he didn’t look amused.

  In fact, he looked to be considering murder.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IN THE KITCHEN, away from his mother and Vanity, Stack stewed while getting drinks together. Phil, the creep, had wisely taken off.

  When he’d seen him touching Vanity, he’d wanted to rip him apart.

  But then, as his mother often pointed out, he didn’t need another reason to despise Phil. Case in point, the barren kitchen. His sister put in a lot of hours, but most of her pay went for the monthly bills like rent, electric, insurance...

  Clearly it hadn’t gone for food in a while. The cupboards were all but empty. The fridge held beer for Phil, condiments and the remainder of the soup Tabby had made for their mom.

  Okay, so he exaggerated. There was some bologna, iced tea, a bag of carrots. But not much more than that.

  When he heard Vanity laugh, he leaned around the wall and saw both Norwood and Maggie trying to sit on his mother. She smiled and coughed and looked to love it.

  Carrying two glasses of iced tea, Stack came in and told the dogs, “Down.”

  His mother was saying, “They don’t know commands—” but the dogs had already left her to sit on the floor, staring at him as if awaiting further orders.

  He handed a tea to Vanity, then one to his mother before praising the dogs with pets and ear rubs.

  “He’s a wizard,” Vanity whispered loud enough for him to hear. “Probably put a spell or something on those sweet dogs.”

  “And you?” Stack asked while scratching Norwood’s chin. “Did I put a spell on you?”

  His mother watched with interest.

  Vanity just laughed again. “No need.” Then to Lynn, “Look at him! Like he needs a spell. Pfft.”

  It was then that Stack saw his mother conniving. Her shrewd gaze bounced from Vanity to him and back again.

  Oh, shit. That was never good, at least not for him. “Mom—”

  “I know it’s still weeks away, but would you join us for Thanksgiving?”

  Vanity did a double take. As if she thought his mother was talking to him, she watched Stack and waited.

  Stack sighed. “Mom, you know I don’t want to be around—” he censored his language for his mother “—Phil.”

  “You can pull it together long enough for the holiday.” She smiled at Vanity. “So, will you?”

  Confusion lifted Vanity’s brows. “Er...will I what?”

  “Join us.”

  “Oh.” Vanity straightened and glanced at Stack for help, but when he shrugged, she turned back to his mother. “I...”

  Pensive, his mom asked, “Or do you fly home for the holidays?”

  Damn. Stack hadn’t even thought of that. But now that he did, he again hated the thought of her leaving. He might not be ready to get too involved. But he sure as hell wasn’t ready to say goodbye, either.

  “No, I’ll be here,” Vanity said.

  Relief clashed with concern. Because there were other things she didn’t say, Stack asked, “You don’t visit your family for Thanksgiving?”

  Busying herself with a drip of condensation rolling down the glass, she shook her head. Silence made the seconds seem like minutes until she said, “I don’t have any family left.”

  Lynn covered her mouth with a hand. “No family at all?”

  Her smile small and wistful, Vanity shook her head. “It’s just me now.”

  Well, hell. How come he didn’
t know that already? “Aunts or uncles?” Stack saw the banked melancholy in her eyes. “Cousins?”

  Scooting off the couch to the floor, Vanity let Maggie crawl into her lap. She hugged the dog. “Mom had two sisters who never married and never had kids. Dad was an only child, as was I. They were all together in a private plane when it...crashed.”

  Drawn to her, Stack took the seat she’d vacated and pulled her back to lean against his legs.

  It struck him that it was the same pose as the ad she’d done, minus the ice cream. “I’m sorry.”

  She slowly licked her lips, then glanced up at him. “Mom lived for a little while, but she never came out of her coma. The rest died instantly.” She lifted her shoulders. “That’s how I inherited so much. From all of them.” She blew out a breath. “I’m the only one left.”

  Though she sat there looking strong and stoic, such a tragedy had to have been devastating beyond words. She’d lost her whole family in one fell swoop. Fuck, he wanted to hold her. When he glanced at his mom he saw the same sentiment in her eyes.

  So often, far too often, he took for granted that his mom and Tabby would always be there. Sure, they butted heads. Probably always would. Tabby was a perpetual victim, and his mom a constant enabler. The opposite of Tabby, he was independent enough that he’d never really needed their support. Yet if push came to shove, he knew they’d have his back.

  Maybe it was time for him to rethink his attitude...especially with Vanity.

  Nose scrunched, she turned back to his mother. “I don’t know if Stack told you, but I’m financially set.”

  “I’m sorry,” his mother said, then she blanched. “Oh, I don’t mean I’m sorry that you have means. No, that’s a blessing. I meant, for you to have gone through something like that...”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “My parents were very comfortable. I’d have eventually inherited from them, but I assumed it’d be much later in life, not at twenty-one. I’d never thought about it, not really. They had always ensured I had everything I needed.”

  And yet, Stack thought, that somehow didn’t ring true.