Joker Joker (The Deuces Wild Series Book 2)

by Irish Winters

  She’d been picking at her dress, but now her fingers splayed innocently on his thigh, a sweet touch of feminine power she didn’t seem to know she possessed. He tugged her hand into his, putting an end to any sexual misunderstandings. Winslow was nothing like her mom. Her nails were short. No garish black polish. No pumpkin decals. Pulling both of her hands to his mouth, he breathed heat into the slender, icy digits.

  Her shoulders lifted, and along with that shy response, a smile curled her lips. She weighed next to nothing, one of those candle-in-the-wind types of women. Thin. Short. Willowy. Long black hair draped down her back, accentuating her lack of curves, but that smile. Once she’d unleashed even the barest hint of it, he hadn’t wanted to do anything but sit there with her in his arms. Yes, he’d embarrassed her by dragging her onto his lap, but he needed her safe and warm. Her shivering alone could have gotten her blown away in the wind.

  He worried about her faithful little soldier on guard duty below though. Trustworthy Pepe would be cold. Yes, Joyce needed to know her daughter was safe and sound, but Tate’s gut told him Pepe needed to see his mistress too. Maybe more.

  “Are you ready to face the music?” he asked.

  Her thin brows slanted. “No. Please. Can we sit here a while longer? I’ll be quiet.”

  That wasn’t the problem.

  “Go ahead and talk. I like listening to you.” Most people annoyed him, but Winslow was different. Tate adjusted his position, fighting the urgent call his body was sending, the one that had sprung to attention the moment this waif of a woman landed on his lap. Grabbing onto her wasn’t one of his smarter moves, but the worry that she’d sprint away from him necessitated it. Then. Now he was in a big bind.

  “Does your mother know you come up here?”

  “Uh-huh. She knows I go for long walks, but she doesn’t know how many times I’ve climbed this tower. No one does.” Winslow ducked her head into her shoulders, shivering. “Dying’s taking too long.”

  That came out of the blue. Tate hadn’t planned on getting this close and personal with his charge tonight. This was supposed to be one of those easy ops, a two-to-three-hour chore that required nothing more than civility and a corsage. Okay, so the corsage had morphed into a teddy bear, but the distressing vibes shuddering off this woman couldn’t be ignored. Neither could her blasé talk of death. He let his palm slide up her arm to the nape of her neck, massaging the rigid bumps of her spine. It’d been a long time since he’d earnestly tried to comfort a woman.

  “What kind of cancer are you dying from?” he asked as gently as he could.

  “The worst kind, I guess.”

  Not the answer he’d expected. “You guess? Don’t you know? Haven’t you been diagnosed? What kind does your doctor say you have?”

  Another shrug. “I’ve been to so many. Mom says they can’t decide. What difference does it make? In a month or two, I’ll be gone.” She said that like it didn’t bother her.

  But it bothered him. “You make your death sound like a foregone conclusion, like everything’s hopeless.” Tate cocked his head to peer into her face. “Nothing’s hopeless, Winslow. Even at the worst of times, there is still hope.”

  Yeah, he got why she’d say that. He had no business preaching to the choir, but her willingness to quit fighting was not his way. A warrior never gave up or gave in, not even when faced with the inevitable.

  Her lashes fell. “It is for me,” breathed out of her on a sigh. “Death’s been coming for years. Sometimes I wish it would hurry up and get here and be done with.” A strangled chuckle grumbled out of her. “The suspense is killing me. Literally.”

  With a swipe of her fingers, she dashed the glimmer in her eyes away and that made him mad. “That’s not funny, Winslow. Never give up. You fight that cancer and you keep fighting it until you win.” Damn it.

  “It’s not that easy. The medicines I have to take are awful and... some days everything’s too hard.” A single tear slid out of the corner of her eye. “Trust me, you don’t know how hard keeping a smile on your face is until you’re so sick that everything hurts, even a smile.”

  What was a guy supposed to say to that? Tate backed off his know-it-all, keep on-keeping-on USMC drill. Of all people, Winslow would know when it was time to let go. He got it then. That was why she was on this tower. From here, a person could almost believe they were looking at eternity. The world looked bigger. Brighter.

  “This is all you’ve got, isn’t it? This one sanctuary. This is where you can be yourself.” For as long as you’ve got left...

  He of all people knew the peace that solitude brought to a weary warrior. He and Winslow weren’t so different, only their battles were. He couldn’t bear the thought of her giving up though. Not yet, not as full of life as she seemed. She didn’t look that bad, and she’d achieved quite the feat just by climbing this tower. The ladder alone took more strength than he’d expected, and he was physically sound, built for work like that.

  One nod and a sniff, and she whispered. “I come up here when things get hard down there. Sometimes I’m too weak to make the climb, but every chance I get, I try. I’ve never been to a real dance, Mr. Higgins, but once. Just once…” She lifted the back of her hand, running one elegant finger under her dripping nose. “I thought Mom might be right about this prom. I know it’s not right to cheat and lie, but I’d like to be young and carefree and on top of the world. I’d like to dance.”

  Well, shit. If there was one thing Tate abhorred, it was dancing. He couldn’t do it. Didn’t try. Never had. Ever. A man raised in the deep Alaskan wilderness had no business thinking he could soft-shoe-it to the beat of any band. He wasn’t dapper and he wasn’t smooth. Far from it. If anything, he was a clumsy bear in sheep’s clothing, built like a box, and packed with muscle from the ground up. Bottom line, there wasn’t enough whiskey on the face of the whole planet to get him out on a dance floor. Until she lifted those tear-studded lashes and shrugged like that dream of hers was another thing she’d given up on.

  Aw, hell. This wouldn’t be pretty. He’d have to focus on where he put his big feet so he didn’t step on her boots. He’d have to be extra smart with how he did this, extra careful so neither of them fell, but if dancing was Winslow’s last wish...

  If it meant that much to her...

  He went for broke. Dipping his nose to the curl of her ear, he asked, “May I have this dance?”

  She did a quick double take. “With me?”

  Yeah, he was just as surprised as she was. “Do you see anyone else up here?” He put on his best cavalier smirk, worried she’d say no after he’d worked up his nerve to ask. Mimicking the false bravado he’d seen his buddy Ky use on his wife Eden when he wasn’t necessarily telling the entire truth about a tough op, Tate smacked the domed rooftop beside him for effect. “It’s just you and me up here on top of the world, kiddo.” Where all this debonair bullshit came from, he didn’t have a clue. He just wanted Winslow to smile again. At him.

  She was so damned pretty when she did, and that was the key, wasn’t it? She hadn’t given up hope, not if she’d been honest when she’d said, ‘every chance I get, I try.’ That didn’t sound like a quitter to him. No, she was just battle weary, and that he understood.

  “Okay,” she said, her tone soft and hoarse. Her hands went to her biceps, clutching them as if she were cold. “If you’re sure. I mean, if you’re not afraid you’ll fall.”

  Clever girl. Whether she knew what she’d just done or not, that’d be the day Tate acknowledged fear to this brave woman. He braced one palm to the tower roof and pushed off, lifting Winslow with him. Easing her out from under his arm just enough to secure the tips of her fingers in one hand, he bowed like some courtly gent he’d seen in a movie long ago. “I may have two left feet, but we’re going to rock this tower.”

  She ducked her head into her shoulders, that awful skirt of hers aloft in the wind behind her. If only his tux jacket fit better, she wouldn’t look so frail. So sickly. As
it was, the padded shoulders of the tux dwarfed Winslow, making her look more like a little girl than a woman.

  With a quick step forward, Tate clasped her left hand in his right, put his left palm on her waist, and—ever so carefully—he performed one very slow revolution on top of the nearly constructed Silver Spring water tower. Not the old short tower where it would’ve been safer. Not on your life. There he was under a chilly October sky, dancing up high in the sky with a woman who finally had stars in her eyes. Smiling stars.

  Chapter Seven

  Her eyes watered, but not from the wind.

  This man. This once-in-a-lifetime, gentle man was dancing with her. Really dancing—as in close-up, holding her in his arms dancing like she’d only seen on television. But more, he held her carefully, almost reverently, like she was someone else, someone special. Like she might break. Like maybe she was a beautiful woman or maybe an actress. Anyone but—her.

  It was a bittersweet revelation. He seemed so sure of himself. So gentle. His masculine scent billowed around her, filling her nose with yet another treasure she’d have to give up too soon. That’s what hurt. This dream wasn’t real. Not truly. When this Dreams-Come-True dance ended, Tate wouldn’t hang around, not with her demise imminent.

  This incredible moment would be over too soon, and she’d climb back down to earth and resume her tragic story. She’d feed and water Pepe until the very end, and she’d snuggle him in bed like she did every other night. She’d cry and tell him her prayers and her dreams, and he’d whine and lick her face. Her knight in shining armor would go back to his job in the real world, and she... and she… would die.

  Reality check. Would Tate want to be there at the end with her? Would he show up to hold her hand like he was holding it now while she puked her guts up and faded away? Would anybody? No. Of course not. She didn’t even want to be there.

  Winslow couldn’t stop her tears. Overwhelmed at the wishful rush of feminine feelings bubbling up in her tender virgin heart, she drew in a long deep breath, struggling for control. An odd geyser in that weakened organ of hers had spouted a definite plume, a heated geyser of ‘I-want-to-live!’ She couldn’t afford to let it loose. The strength of all that unexpressed angst for a life unlived might blow her and Mr. Higgins, umm, Tate, off the tower.

  Tate. What a perfect name for a knight in shining armor. Short. To the point. Darn. What was she thinking? He didn’t care about her. He couldn’t. He didn’t know her well enough, and he was just doing his job, a temporary, one-night job at that.

  But for this one magic moment, for the first time in her life, Winslow felt—alive. Better than that, she felt wanted, maybe even pretty. She dared a quick glance up at him. No cleft in his chin. Just a strong, square jaw and the column of a muscular neck she wanted to trail her fingertips over, maybe trace a line from his Adam’s apple to his ear just to feel what a man’s shaved skin felt like. She’d never been this close to a man. Doctors didn’t count. Neither did her mother’s various boyfriends.

  Tate’s sideburns were trimmed short, close to that delicious looking ear. Winslow wanted to whisper in it. Tickle it—just to see him smile.

  The spicy tang of aftershave drifting between his warm body and hers turned her insides to mush. Despite the dim light on the tower, she could see that he was darkly tanned, maybe olive-skinned. Tall. Dark. Handsome. A dream come true if ever there was one.

  She ran a quick hand over her hair, making sure the wig hadn’t shifted. He didn’t need to know she was bald, or that she’d never done anything so brave or so brash as what she was doing right then. This was a fairytale ending she’d carry to her grave. All he had to do was keep up this charade a few minutes longer.

  Winslow lost herself in the moment. She focused on the warmth seeping into her heart instead of all the what-ifs. None of them mattered. Who cared about the prom? She didn’t.

  As big as he was, Tate was light on his feet. He’d set an easy, slow rhythm for her, with all of her vast dancing experience, to follow. The longer they swayed back and forth together, the braver he got. He had to be listening to some song in his head, the way he’d relaxed and edged out of the tight circle he’d started in. Still holding her close, her temple rested on his chin, her heart in her throat, and his nose in her hair.

  A deep baritone melody vibrated from his throat, one she didn’t recognize. The title of the song didn’t matter. Winslow closed her eyes and melted into the hard wall of his chest, the steel band of his arms. This was her one special night, and she clung to it. The rest of the world could wait.

  Carefully, he lifted his arm over her head and spun her in a lazy circle, without letting go of her fingertips. He tipped her backward, catching her in the crook of his left arm, and time stopped. Winslow froze, her gaze riveted to the dark stranger bent over her, holding her as if she weighed nothing. Eyes as black as midnight poured a heady dose of mystery and male intensity down at her, and, ah! She couldn’t make her lungs work. He’d drawn so close, his breath warm and sweet on her chin. Her sad, silly heart skipped a beat.

  “May I?” he asked, a quaver in his whisper.

  “May you what?” she dared ask. To hope. Lying there at his mercy, in a place so solitary no one could hear her laugh or cry, he could’ve done whatever he wanted to her. With her.

  The sad truth sneaked up on her. He had everything to give her, but what did she have to give him? Nothing. It seemed impossible that he might want to kiss her anyway.

  He searched her face, his lips pursed. “I’d very much like to kiss you, Winslow, if you’d let me, but if you’d rather not—”

  “Yes,” came quickly to her lips. Please, yes.

  He paused, there at the edge of the most beautiful dream a woman could ask for. Slowly, he closed the distance. Not hesitantly as if he regretted asking, but ever so slowly as if he savored every last second. His lashes shuttered, but she couldn’t dare miss the beautiful glow that shifted over his face. She kept watching as he pressed his mouth to hers and…

  Her eyes closed as she gave into the magic of the moment. He’s kissing me.

  Tate was a luscious, secret world unto himself. Soft warm lips covered hers as the strong hand at her back pressed her upward and into her first kiss. The slightest rasp of his chin abraded her chin, and, please don’t let me wake up and this be just a dream.

  Tentatively, Winslow eased her fingers to the back of his neck, holding onto him with every prayer and wish she’d ever offered. Please, let this be real. Let him be real.

  His tongue teased her tighter-than-tightly sealed lips, and… Oh, my, she did something terribly brave. Winslow parted her lips just enough to let his tongue enter her mouth. Tate groaned a most delicious sound in the still, cold night as the tip of his tongue swept over hers. The gruff rasp of that groan roared through her body like electricity. It tingled down to her toes.

  She matched her tongue to his, amazed at the taste of him and the fire creeping through her veins. Instinctively, her body arched into the cradle of his, offering what, she didn’t know, but wanting what he seemed to want from her. To be closer. Intimately closer.

  Winslow braved a peek at the man who held her so reverently. The clouds had parted in the midnight sky above them. His eyes were still closed, but the stars shone in the sky beyond him, and the look on his face? Sheer adoration.

  Forgotten strength coursed through her veins. This was her night, damn it, and she wanted every last burning second of it. She wanted him. Right there. Right then.

  With full intent, she shifted one hand from his neck to his collarbone and then to his chest. She’d intended to walk her fingers down his stomach, but—she got caught up in sensations she couldn’t resist. That powerful chest needed more exploration, definitely more touching. Corded muscles bunched at her fingertips like the sensitive withers of a giant draft horse. Her fingers skated over a flat, manly nipple that she would like to pinch. Just once.

  He caught her wandering fingers in one hand, not warning her off, b
ut flattening them to his sternum. Holding her close. Encouraging her. A warrior’s heart thundered at the center of her palm, melting her. She’d never been held so dearly by anyone. Ever. Not even her mother. Especially not Mom.

  Every intimate feminine muscle clenched at the temptation of his body heat and his touch. Winslow didn’t feel weak anymore, but daring. Brave. Maybe even audacious for once in her timid life.

  She took over the kiss, growling with need, nipping at his bottom lip, her body on fire with the naughtiest, most exhilarating, downright wicked thoughts. If this was the prelude to sex, it was better than chocolate. If this was foreplay... If this was love...

  Ah, no. She blocked that errant notion before it took root. Loving a man was beyond the realm of possibility, and she couldn’t give into it. She’d accepted that hard fact when she’d turned sixteen. There was nothing sweet to it then and there wasn’t now. Cancer victims didn’t have that kind of luck.

  “What am I going to do with you?” he muttered hotly into her open mouth, his eyes still closed as his tongue ran a lazy lap over her lips.

  “Keep doing what you’re doing?” She phrased that as a hopeful question and another wish as she kissed him again. Please, don’t stop.

  Tate ended her first sexual encounter with another wet kiss that left her spellbound and breathless. Pulling her upright, he kept his palm in the middle of her back while he pressed her to his chest. Oh, good. The thunder beneath his ribs matched the noisy beat of her heart. This man was shaken as much as she was by their close encounter. That helped.

  He buried his nose in her hair, and for once, she didn’t worry if her wig slid off her head. This kiss meant he cared for her, didn’t it? He’d understand every secret she had yet to tell him, wouldn’t he?

  As surely as if the wind had pushed her, she knew it then. She—Winslow Parrish—a pariah in her own home—was falling in love. A tight knot blossomed in that hollow space in her heart. Tate was right. Maybe there was still hope.