She shuffled her boots, angling one between his feet, careful not to step on his toes. The man was taller than her by a foot maybe, and he was gorgeous and dark and, oh my, big, as in built-like-an-ox big. Strong, if those muscles bunching under that white cotton shirt and straining those tiny pearl buttons running down his abdomen meant anything. Sturdy. He hadn’t hesitated since he’d latched onto her, just maintained a safe place for her to—what? Fall apart in? Struggle against him? No way could she do either, not with her brain on its very first sensual overload.
This first time date of hers had an overpowering presence about him. Phenomenally broad at the shoulders, but tapered at the hips, he was built like a masculine, upside-down triangle. Not wrestler big. More lithe, more poised, like a cougar. Thick brows lent a fierce strain to his face, but in a gentle, protective way that made her want to curl into his arms like a house cat instead of fighting him like a wildcat. Genuine concern glittered in those black-as-midnight eyes of his. Not once had he squeezed her fingers or her arms too hard, not even at first when he’d seemed angry.
Body heat sizzled off of him, enticing her to relax into the safety of his thick arms. Against his muscular thigh. This man was that lighthouse in the storm of her life, and she’d honestly never felt this—special—not once in all her twenty years.
He scowled down at her, but there was tenderness in his eyes, not censure. “Did you hear me, Winslow?” he asked gently, unknowingly drawing her attention to his mouth. “Talk to me. What you’re doing is very dangerous. Why are you up here?”
Winslow’s silly heart pounded for a better reason than fright. She couldn’t make her gaze move from his, Mmmmmm, his lips. Plump and moist, and so not what she’d expected in a paid-for-hire date. Her tongue slid over her bottom lip, her imagination on freefall. One taste. One touch. Caramel maybe? Wintergreen? Candy cane? She wanted to find out.
Dimples bracketed those manly lips like sharply dented parentheses, but those eyes... Thick dark lashes edged darker pupils that had yet to look away from her. They were so black and deep and piercing her with his question, which, oh yeah, she had yet to answer.
“I was, umm, dancing, Mr. Higgins,” she explained, knowing he’d never understand, afraid he’d think she was crazy, like he didn’t already. “I come up here… to dance while I still can. It helps me feel alive.” If that didn’t make her sound like an escapee from the loony bin, nothing did.
“It’s dangerous. You could fall.” His words clamped around her as tightly as his arms. Two broad palms overlapped at her shoulder blades. “Listen, do you mind if I, if we—sit down?”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.” She nodded. She got it. He was probably afraid of heights which made him more of a hero in her book, since he was here and afraid and all, but… he was here. Truly here. Gosh, no one she could remember, besides Pepe, had wanted to be up here with her.
Not releasing her hand, Mr. Higgins lowered his bulky frame to a crouch, his free hand searching behind him for balance before he finally sat, taking her with him. She went easily, knowing her skinny butt would freeze once it touched that cold metal roof, but not wanting to upset him. People did crazy things when they panicked. She would know.
Mr. Higgins did something unexpected then. He lifted her sideways onto his lap, then circled her inside both of those big arms again, and… her heart started thumping like crazy. She couldn’t fall, but neither could she get away if he turned out to be some psycho-stalker with a thing for stupid girls on water towers.
But that couldn’t be, not as carefully as he cradled her. No, her heart was pounding because not once in all her years had a man held her like this. Never. Ever. Her father was some nameless scoundrel her mother had trusted back when she was young and innocent. He’d never stayed around long enough to look at Winslow much less hold her. She didn’t have a name or a memory of him, not like the memory of sitting with Mr. Higgins that she would treasure for the rest of her life.
“Don’t worry.” His lips were close enough to her ear that she caught the vibration in his tone. “I won’t let you fall.”
Sweeter words were never spoken. Thrilled to be where she was, Winslow took another pull of the warm pocket of air between them. He smelled a lot like—heaven.
“B-but w-what about you?” She had to ask because he was big enough that he scared her. He could take her over the edge with him if he meant to. Okay, no. He wouldn’t have climbed all the way up here just to throw her off. “Who’ll keep you from falling, Mr. Higgins?”
He grunted. “I’m no lightweight. Trust me, you’re okay as long as you’re with me.”
No, I’m not. Not if you keep being nice to me. “If you say so.”
She couldn’t relax, not sitting on some strange guy’s lap like she was. It didn’t help that she liked the tingle of his hands on her. Struggling to catch her composure, Winslow looked to the clouds scudding overhead, blown by the wind coming in off the Atlantic. White against the dark sky, the city lights below illuminated the undersides of the clouds, turning them into ghostly apparitions in a hurry westward, their tattered shadows trailing thin and wispy behind them like tails. The wind tossed at her dress, and she shivered, more because of her intimate proximity to her date than because of the cold.
The tension in Mr. Higgins’s body dissipated. His grip relaxed. “So tell me the truth. Why did you sneak out of your room to come dance up here all by yourself? Did you see me or something? Did I scare you?”
What a silly question. “Why would you say that?”
He shrugged, running his palm down her bicep and up again. “Because you’re here, and I’m not stupid. I know I’m nothing to look at.”
Warmth spread from his touch and darn it, her body melted into his caress. People just didn’t do that to her, at least her mother never had, and who else was there?
“Don’t worry. You can’t hurt my feelings. I figured you took one look at your date and decided you were better off missing the prom.”
Angling her shoulders around to face him better, Winslow met his eyes to see what she’d missed. There was no ugly monster there, only him—Mr. Higgins. How do you tell a guy he’s the most glorious male you’ve ever laid eyes on? “I would never do that. You’re… you’re…” To-die-for-handsome. “You’re seriously good-looking.”
He scowled even as a soft smile tweaked the corners of his mouth. “It’s the tux.”
“No, it’s not. It’s you. You look good to, umm, me.” Winslow wanted to smack her empty head for sounding so lame. “I mean,” she swallowed hard, thinking fast. “I did need a way out tonight, but not from you, Mr. Higgins. It’s my mom and those TV guys and…” She lifted the hem of her obscenely grotesque prom dress, a frilly mass of black lace and silk and stuff. “My mom means well, but she goes overboard sometimes, and I can’t handle what she throws at me. This whole prom-date idea was bad enough, but calling the television station and dragging them into it... how humiliating.”
Too late she realized what she’d said. “I mean, I didn’t mean… This date isn’t bad or humiliating because of you, Mr. Higgins. It’s me. I just… I just…” There was no way out. She snapped her mouth shut before sounding any more like a blithering idiot.
He chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. I get it. Blind dates suck. How about you call me Tate from now on instead of Mr. Higgins?”
That she could do. Winslow bobbed her head, glad he hadn’t taken offense where none was meant. Her mother would have. Then there would have been drama. Name calling. The usual.
“The view up here is pretty cool now that we’re sitting down.” Mr. Higgins, ah, Tate looked south toward D.C., revealing the profile of a rugged man, not a boy, against the city lights. Chiseled. That was the word that fit him the best. Tate’s facial features were sharp and edged as if he’d been chiseled out of stone and left in his unpolished state.
“That’s why I come up here,” she admitted, the pounding in her heart somewhat under control. “I can think up here better than a
nywhere else.” Like home.
“I get it. You bolted because Channel Thirteen showed. I don’t blame you. I’m not a big fan of the press, either.” His gaze swiveled back to her. “You don’t talk to your mother much.” He made that a statement.
She ducked her head into her shoulders, biting her lip. “Maybe you didn’t notice, but Mom isn’t much for listening. She’s got two ears. She just doesn’t use them.”
“She didn’t tell you she’d lined up the television crew.” With his arm still around her shoulders, he kept up a slow, warm massage up and down her arm, his long fingers unintentionally also stoking the sizzling ember that had flamed to life deep in her belly. It had been a long time since Winslow had the tiniest inkling of arousal to deal with, not as depleted as her energy level had been. But damn. Something was happening in her body that she didn’t want to stop. Sparks in the pit of her stomach were throwing off fireworks or—something. Delicious warmth tingled upwards as flames descended to—there.
“No, but that’s Mom,” Winslow explained, her voice breathy and her pulse rate climbing. “She gets an idea in her head, and, poof! Out it comes.” You’re beautiful, Tate. Can I touch you? Pet you? Keep you?
“Like that dress you keep tearing at. She bought it for you, but you don’t like it.”
Man, am I that obvious? “Are you a mind reader, Tate?” She liked the way his name sounded on her lips. The way it tasted, kind of manly. Kind of good. Like she wanted to keep saying it.
“Hell, no. I mean, no ma’am. I’m not a mind reader, but I know body language. You weren’t coming up here to kill yourself, were you?”
“No. That might have been my intention earlier, but…” She snapped her teeth together as if she could unsay those words. Her brain seemed intent on sabotaging her with the truth tonight, or maybe it was just this guy.
Tate didn’t look shocked or angry at that answer, just released her long enough to shrug out of his jacket and drape it over her shoulders. “Here. You’re cold.”
She snuggled into it, relishing the body heat he’d left behind. Ah, the jacket smelled clean and pressed and like him. When he tipped her into his chest and under his chin, the words spilled out in a rush. “I’m sorry you got pulled into this mess. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I’ll understand. I can climb down, and I know my way home. I’ve done it before. I’ll be okay.”
Not precisely true, but he didn’t need to know how close she was to dying, and he surely didn’t need to hang around for her funeral. That would be too embarrassing. Not like she’d be around to be embarrassed, but still. It’d be nice if he wanted to stay because he liked her, not because he thought she was crazy enough to jump. Hmmm. Which I was. Earlier. Before the TV surprise.
It didn’t make sense, but earlier, she had wanted to fall to her death. She’d even railed against God. Months and years of being sick, of having to deal with her mother’s immature antics, had gotten to her. Winslow was tired of the continual drama and the fight. She’d been ready to let cancer win. To give up. But then she’d resolved to go on for—oh, yeah. For Pepe. If anything, he was more like a guardian angel than a dog.
Tate placed one big hand on her bicep, anchoring her. “I’m staying. So’s Pepe.”
Tears of repentance welled up faster than an April shower. “He’s... he’s down there?” She hated that her voice ended in a timid squeak. Talk about being a bad date and a lousy dog owner. She had to be the worst of both.
“Yeah, he’s down there.” Tate nodded, his short dark hair catching the glow of city-shine. The masculine power of his oh-so-close proximity toyed with her senses. He’d shaved, but a dark shadow still cupped his chin and jaw, and honestly, no man should have lips like his. Her index finger lifted, tempted to trace that perfect Cupid bow and pinch the pillowy cushion of his lower lip, the notched upper. Her tongue skated over her bottom lip, imagining how his mouth would feel if he—kissed me.
“Yeah. That dog of yours thinks he’s a dragon. He came after me at the house, but he was just being protective. You should be proud of him. He led me to you.”
Winslow forced her lashes down, focusing on her fingernails instead of Tate’s handsome face. “He’s my best friend.” More like her only friend. How pathetic did that make her?
When Tate didn’t ask another question, which was kind of him, Winslow revealed her darkest secret. “I’m, umm, older than I look.”
“Oh?” He cocked his head and waited.
She drew in a deep breath, afraid to out her mother, but needing someone to know the truth. “I just found out I was prom bait yesterday. I’m twenty, not seventeen like she told everyone.”
“You’re too old for the Dreams-Come-True program.” Tate had a different way of asking. The more he didn’t ask direct questions, the more she felt compelled to explain.
“They only help kids eighteen and younger, but Mom…” How to define Joyce Parrish? Bossy? A little bit under-handed? Loving in her unpredictable, domineering way? A little scary sometimes? Winslow ended with, “It’s complicated.”
Chapter Six
Tate held back a grunt. Complicated, my ass. Joyce Parrish committed fraud against a charitable organization with this scam. Big time. Not only that, she’d robbed some defenseless, deserving little kid of Dreams-Come-True resources. Not that Tate minded now that he had Winslow in his arms. She wasn’t much bigger than a teenager, and she did have cancer. But there was no gray area to this argument, just a very definite line between right and wrong.
Then again, he’d never had a kid, much less had to deal with the prolonged illness and possible death of said kid. He might have done the same thing if his daughter wanted to go to a prom if he were in Joyce Parrish’s shoes.
Desperate circumstances often called for desperate measures. Maybe Dreams-Come-True was Joyce’s way of ensuring Winslow had at least one good memory to fall back on at the end. Poor kid. She should’ve gotten stuck with debonair Mark Houston or dapper Maverick Carson. At least, everyone said they were debonair and dapper. Handsome. Descriptors that didn’t apply to Tate.
But still...
Winslow was no little kid. Thin and wispy, yes, but she was a pleasant surprise, beautiful with a hint of melancholy that hung off her shoulders like that wraith-like dress. But how far did her complicity go in this prom scheme? That was the question. Sure, she claimed it was her mother’s idea. Who wouldn’t divert blame when cornered? Had he and his boss had been drawn into a mother/daughter web of deceit?
Like a guilty accomplice, Winslow fidgeted with the wrinkles in her skirt, balling them in her fist only to smooth them out again. “Honestly, I didn’t know what Mom was up to until she brought this dress home. She brought high heels too, and, ugh, they match. Can you believe it? They’re covered in the same black lace as this dress, but I can’t stand up straight in them. My ankles aren’t strong enough. Mom says I’m too weak.”
Tate nodded to keep her talking.
“And how did the television people know to come tonight, right before I was ready to leave? I almost waltzed right out of my room. I would’ve run smack into them. Who called them?”
So she didn’t know about the Channel Thirteen either. Interesting.
“Mom tries to take good care of me and it’s hard on her and...” Real affection for her mother colored her words and Tate got that. He did. Kids loved their mothers. “…and I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
He let her vent. This was no little girl. If anything, Winslow was all woman, uneducated in the ways of the world maybe, but feminine. Gullible, but soft. Pliable. Maybe too gullible.
He tried not to notice, but her hipbones were delicate against his belly, and the way she leaned into him, trusting him, caught him by surprise. Women didn’t usually trust him like this—they never came close enough. Yet here Winslow was, her weight next to nothing on his thighs, her body warm and trembling inside his jacket. Yes, it was rented, and it was a small thing he’d done, but wrapping it around her
had spiked an unfamiliar heatwave in his body. He needed to proceed carefully.
She reminded him of the female mule deer he’d come across once during a blinding blizzard in southwestern Canada. Lost in the fast moving winter storm, that doe had stood belly deep in heavy snow, her sides heaving and her eyes wide, with no refuge and no way to turn. Something deep inside his stoic, no nonsense hunter’s soul had called to him to do what was merciful, instead of putting her down and out of her misery like he should have. The avid hunter turned into an animal rights activist that day.
Careful not to frighten the doe any more than she already was, he’d stomped a snowshoe trail from where she’d been trapped into a nearby stand of pines that offered the closest refuge. He’d left her to make up her mind, follow the trail and be safe—at least safer—or stand there and die. Wolves still roamed Canada. She would’ve been an easy kill. He’d hunkered down in his nearby hunting cabin, no more than a plywood lean-to with a wood burning stove and a few cans of dried food, MREs and such. By the morning, the storm had blown itself out, and the skittish doe was gone.
Funny. His gut kept telling him to keep an arm around Winslow. Like that doe, she needed shelter from the storm, only it wasn’t storming. The wind had died down, yet the sensation to protect her had grown stronger.
Tate played it cool, taking in every nuance in her actions, every wavering vibrato to her voice. He meant to impart trust. As she shifted against him, it was difficult not to notice her lack of understanding of the ways of men. She didn’t seem to realize the effect of her body on his. To her, they were probably just a boy and a girl sitting together on a water tower. She didn’t squirm or grind against him. She didn’t offer any lingering sultry looks. There was no guile to Winslow, only a profound sense of bewilderment at her predicament, as if she, like that doe, didn’t know who or what to trust. As if she might still bolt.
Joker Joker (The Deuces Wild Series Book 2) Page 4
