Harlequin KISS November 2014 Box Set: Behind Closed Doors...Fired by Her FlingWho's Calling the Shots?Nine Month Countdown

by Anne Oliver

  Remember what he did.

  Forcing her eyes away, she reached for distraction with a copy of Cosmopolitan and opened it at random. As Jack turned a page one hair-dusted forearm grazed hers, sending sparks of awareness shooting to her shoulder. Hurry up, Jeanne.

  She needed a job, something part-time to get her by until she could earn enough with her jewellery and metalwork creations. She had a few shop owners taking orders on commission, and a few art pieces in a couple of galleries, but not enough to live on.

  She flipped the page, looked closer. The woman in the picture wore a silver ensemble—G-string and feathers. She was gripping a pole with her thighs, one arm behind her head, fingers artfully rippling through her hair.

  ‘Executive by day, stripper by night.’ She hadn’t realised she’d read aloud until Jack shifted a shoulder and glanced at her magazine.

  ‘Can’t they come up with something better than that?’ he said.

  But she saw it had his attention. His eyes barely flickered as he studied the two images. One was of a woman in a conservative navy suit carrying a briefcase, the other was a long-legged, sultry blonde.

  He flipped a page of his own magazine. ‘And the camera angle’s all wrong.’

  Cleo rolled her eyes. Yeah, right. ‘One way to earn extra money...’ She watched him perk up at that, then he narrowed his eyes just enough to provoke her into saying, ‘And you’d know all about photographing naked women, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I do not photograph naked women,’ he said, stiffly.

  ‘I’ve seen the evidence, Jack.’

  At fourteen it had been too painful and too personal to talk about. Years later it still hurt. She’d barely glimpsed the careless spread of nude photos on the table before his father had swiped them away with apologies on his son’s behalf. But not before she’d seen the one including the same woman draped over a formally tuxedoed Jack with a Chesire-cat grin on his face.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he muttered with a dismissive shrug as he turned the page.

  No, he probably didn’t even remember—all in a day’s work. She directed her attention to the magazine again. ‘Cherie here calls it exotic dancing. She says it pays the rent and keeps her flexible.’

  He made a guttural sound in his throat. ‘If you want flexible, try yoga.’

  ‘I do. I also play basketball and take a weekly jazz ballet class, and it’s great, but it doesn’t pay the bills. Besides, Jack, I’m sure you’ve seen your share of “flexible”, and I don’t think they were performing yoga.’

  His jaw kind of clenched but he didn’t reply.

  Guilty as charged. ‘At least she’s got a figure, unlike those broomsticks you associate with.’ She shrugged at his frown. ‘I’ve seen a picture or two... Somewhere.’ The woman draped over his arm in the magazine clipping had been tall, blonde and beautiful. And skinny.

  Cleo read on. ‘Says here she made enough money to put her through business school. That’s how she got where she is today.’

  ‘And where, exactly, is that? With her face splashed all over this magazine, who’s going to take her seriously in the workplace?’

  ‘When she’s dancing I doubt anyone’s looking at her face, Jack.’

  Jack made his living out of women who used their bodies in a similar fashion. Even if modelling wasn’t stripping, it wasn’t far off with today’s designs.

  ‘Money’s not a problem for you,’ Jack said. ‘We’ll get you settled somewhere and you can—’

  ‘Get...me...settled...somewhere?’ She said each word slowly and distinctly between clenched teeth. It took all her self-control to stay seated. ‘And if you think money’s not a problem for me, you haven’t eaten from the plastic spoon I was born with.’

  His jaw tightened. ‘No, but I’ve tasted tin a time or two.’

  ‘I make my own decisions. I’m not a kid any more.’

  ‘No. You’re not.’

  His eyes were focused on her mouth. She could almost feel them sliding over it. Hungrily. She licked her lips. Saw the instant response of his own mouth.

  ‘Which is why I know you’ll look at this situation calmly and rationally.’ His clipped, dispassionate tone was like a slap in the face. No more hungry eyes. In fact, they looked as dark and remote as a midwinter’s night. ‘We’re going to straighten out a few things while I’m here.’

  We? Mr Cool Detached Take Charge Devlin was back with a vengeance. Setting the magazine aside with admirable control under the circumstances, she rose. It gave her a slight advantage in height and some illusion of being in control.

  The anger and disappointment simmering in her veins told another story. ‘And we have plenty to straighten out. Like I said, I make my own decisions. I’ll be looking for a job as soon as possible.’ She lifted her chin to stare down her nose at him. ‘Perhaps I’ll try some of the clubs around town, see if there are any openings for exotic dancers.’

  Apart from a tick at the corner of his eye, he didn’t react in any way except to say, ‘Sit down, you’re making a scene.’

  Oh. She realised her voice had risen on the last few words and this was Jeanne’s place of business, for heaven’s sake. For that reason alone, she did as he asked.

  But she wasn’t finished. His high-and-mighty attitude needed taking down a peg or two. Leaning over, so she was sure he could see her cleavage, she continued in a lower voice. ‘Do you think I’ll make a good exotic dancer, Jack?’ She toed off her sandal and ran her bare foot under the leg of his jeans, over his shin. And felt him shudder. The hair tickled the sole of her foot, sending ripples up her leg to settle between her thighs.

  ‘Your immaturity’s showing,’ he muttered, shifting to the left.

  ‘Or pole-dancing,’ she continued, undeterred. ‘I imagine it’s quite...stimulating—all that twisting and writhing...’ She watched his jaw clench and knew she’d achieved one thing: if she set her mind to it, she could turn him on. Astonishing. However, the operative word here was if. ‘It’s probably quite lucrative. I might look into it.’ Satisfied that he was properly stimulated, she picked up her magazine and pretended to read.

  Thanks to Jack and the mixed signals he was sending her, she was riding an emotional roller coaster. Okay, rule number one: Keep it light, no one gets hurt. No way was she going to set herself up for that kind of heartache again.

  ‘Hi, Cleo. And Jack!’

  Cleo looked up as Jeanne all but leaped at him. Already standing, he enveloped her in his arms, then kissed her full and firmly on the mouth. A wave of heat plunged through Cleo. He hadn’t hugged her like that, hadn’t kissed her as if he wanted to eat her alive. So much for light.

  That smile, all that devastating Devlin charm, apparently didn’t extend to surrogate sisters. He hadn’t been on such easy terms with Cleo since she’d been thirteen. She forgot all about keeping it light as a sense of betrayal knifed through her.

  ‘Jeannie,’ he said when he came up for air. He stepped back. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’ Jeanne did a quick pirouette, arms outstretched. ‘All grown up.’ He laughed, low and deep. ‘I can hardly believe I’m about to trust little Jeanne with my hair.’

  She laughed right back. ‘I promise to be gentle with you.’

  Cleo knew Jeanne meant nothing by her flirtation, but, feeling as out of place as a chocolate éclair on a platter of prawns, she tapped Jeanne’s arm. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’

  ‘Cleo, isn’t it great to have him home?’ She slung an arm around Cleo’s shoulders. ‘Are you going to bring him to the game tonight? It’ll give me a chance to flirt some more.’ She batted her eyelashes at him and grinned.

  So much for tonight’s idea of escaping his presence for a couple of hours. ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he said.

  ‘Gre
at. Hey, I could maybe rustle up a uniform...’

  Cleo’s pulse skipped a beat. Thanks, Jeanne. She definitely did not want to see Jack’s tanned, sweat-sheened and muscled body in those ultra-short shorts and loose top. Besides, he was injured.

  To her relief he said, ‘Not tonight. I think I’ll stick to the spectators’ stand. My skills on the court are a little rusty.’

  Cleo doubted his skills were rusty in any area of his life, but, after the high-rise stunt he’d pulled earlier, it was a relief to hear him decline.

  ‘Okay, we’ve sorted out the evening’s entertainment.’ Jeanne crooked her finger. ‘Follow me, Jack.’

  ‘I’ll call back in half an hour,’ Cleo said, and headed out into the less-unsettling mall.

  The strong yeasty smell of hot doughnuts accosted her from the little stand under its pink and white umbrella. For once, her stomach, already tied up in knots, revolted, and she hurried out of the shopping centre into the balmy morning sun.

  She walked to the café a few minutes away where the air was fresh and smelled of summer grass and ordered a juice at an outside table. Sparrows darted between patrons, pecking at crumbs. Striped awnings flapped lazily in the drift of warm air.

  She leaned back while the waitress set a long, tall glass in front of her.

  Why was it so easy between Jeanne and Jack? And why hadn’t Jeanne given him the cold-shoulder treatment? Jeanne knew the hurt he’d caused her, even if she didn’t know the full story—Cleo wasn’t about to let anyone in on that. Was Jeanne taken in by his looks and charm? Traitor. It had to be a be-nice-to-the-customer thing.

  Even if there was still that rugged, almost primal attraction she doubted any woman under the age of eighty could ignore. The memory of that fast, hard meeting of lips back at the house brought back the giddy rush. Now there was a kiss, even if he hadn’t meant anything by it. Keeping it light. Except...

  She stirred her juice vigorously with the straw and let herself brood. She was going to move out as soon as she could. It wouldn’t work at home with Jack there night and day, his scent in the air, that face at the breakfast table, that long, lean body sprawled on the sofa. Not again.

  She drummed restless fingers on the table. It wasn’t fair that he could simply walk back into her life and turn it upside down. Drag all that old stuff to the surface. Stuff she’d thought she’d buried for good.

  His rough-grained voice, the up-for-a-dare attitude they’d shared since childhood. And how, when it had really counted, he’d always, always looked out for her, even if it hadn’t been in the way she’d have liked. Even if she’d never admitted it.

  Until he’d left.

  Her fingers tightened on the glass. Remember that cold, hard fact.

  She didn’t need him looking out for her now. And she certainly didn’t want to hear that ‘morning after’ voice or see those too-clear images it conjured: hot suggestions, hotter bodies...

  She rolled the glass against her brow to cool those rampaging thoughts. ‘Get over it,’ she said aloud. She’d done it before, she could do it again. It was just a matter of will-power.

  FOUR

  Cleo swiped at her brow, then braced her hands on her thighs as Scott slam-dunked the ball for another two points. The smell of stale sweat and rubber filled the four-court gym. Umpires’ whistles, shouts of players and spectators ricocheted off the walls.

  So what if she’d heard Jack talking on the phone in the study just before they’d left? In smooth, sexy Italian. She understood the words, ‘Ciao, bella.’ And if she’d gotten to the phone first, she’d have known more.

  She jogged down the court as Scott dribbled the ball towards the scoring end. Every time she glanced Jack’s way he was watching. She ordered herself to concentrate on the game, to ignore the way those dark eyes focused wholly on her. Will-power, remember.

  But with his hair cut close to his head he looked more like the Jack she remembered and it did strange things to her tummy despite her good intentions.

  ‘Cleo!’ Jeanne’s shout came too late.

  Cleo fumbled for the ball as a blur of brown whizzed past her shoulder. Bugger.

  The umpire’s whistle sounded. ‘Sub. Forty-two out, thirteen on,’ their coach, Mike, called, jerking his thumb at Cleo.

  Disgusted and worse, humiliated—thanks to Jack—she headed for the bench.

  ‘Your game’s off tonight,’ Mike said as she grabbed her water and sat down beside him.

  ‘Mmm.’ She scowled as her eyes connected with Jack’s and felt that stab of heat before she returned her resolute gaze courtside. ‘Blame it on hormones.’ She yanked the lid off her water bottle.

  ‘Ah.’ Mike nodded in understanding.

  He didn’t understand at all but it let her off the hook.

  They won, thanks to Scott’s three-pointer on the bell. As the players dispersed Jack joined Jeanne and Cleo as they collected their gear.

  ‘Hey, Jack, still got what it takes?’ Scott called, jogging towards them.

  Too late Cleo saw the ball leave Scott’s grasp. She shot forward to intercept the throw, but it hit Jack high in the chest. She winced as she watched Jack stagger backwards. ‘Scott, he’s—’

  ‘Fine,’ Jack wheezed. But colour leached from his face. He shot a quelling look at Cleo. ‘Out of practice.’

  He retrieved the ball, tossed it back to Scott, but he didn’t fool Cleo. Beneath the grin, she saw the pain the others didn’t—Scott was too busy exchanging a male bonding slap with another player and Jeanne was guzzling water.

  Turning her back on Jeanne, she glared at him. ‘Go ahead, be a superhero,’ she muttered.

  Jack merely grinned again. ‘Give it a couple of weeks.’

  ‘We’ll be waiting,’ Scott said, turning to stuff gear into his gym bag. ‘Okay, one family-size pizza coming up, I’m starved.’

  The steamy air carried the odour of hot asphalt and exhaust fumes as they walked across the car park. With what appeared to be some fancy manoeuvring on Jeanne’s part, she took the front seat with Scott, leaving Cleo to sit with Jack.

  ‘How do you like Jack’s hair?’ Jeanne said, buckling her seat belt.

  ‘Good job,’ Cleo replied, looking straight ahead. She’d already seen more than she needed to have her fingers tingling at the thought of running them through those gleaming dark strands, touching that bare neck.

  ‘Better than good.’ Jeanne turned to grin at them—correction: Jack. ‘He looks movie-star gorgeous.’

  Scott reversed out of the parking bay, glancing in the rear-vision mirror. ‘Our old Jack’s back.’

  Almost against her will, Cleo slid Jack a sideways glance. He might look more like her old Jack, but for the second time in as many days she reminded herself that looks were deceiving. Behind that movie-star bone structure, under that dark wash-faded T-shirt...

  She narrowed her eyes at the darker stain that had spread near his shoulder. Forgot all about keeping her distance and leaned closer. Musky male sweat met her nostrils...and the faint metallic scent of fresh blood.

  In the car’s semi-darkness she could see the perspiration glistening on his upper lip, the tight muscles in his jaw, the hands clenched into fists on his thighs, but when she opened her mouth his eyes flashed a warning.

  ‘Scott, I think I’ll pass on the meal,’ she said. Her eyes flicked to the rear mirror and Scott’s frown, then back. ‘I’m all pizzaed out, and after the stress of yesterday... I’m feeling a little nauseous. Nothing an early night won’t cure.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Scott. ‘You want Jeanne to—’

  ‘Jack’ll keep me company...’ she lowered her brows at him ‘...won’t you, Jack?’

  Scott glanced at Cleo in the mirror again. ‘I thought Jack and I might—’

  Jeanne’s quick not-so-discreet jab cut
him off. ‘Jack’s not the best either, Scott. Can’t you see that?’ Jeanne shot Cleo a knowing look, a smile hovering around her mouth. ‘Men. They never notice.’

  Jack made an almost inaudible rumbling sound in his throat.

  Cleo sighed. Now wasn’t the time to set Jeanne straight. She wasn’t sure whom she was madder at, so she settled for as far away from Jack as space allowed, let her head fall back and closed her eyes.

  Five minutes later she made a show of dragging herself up the steps to the front door. Bad move, because suddenly Jack was at her side, his palm warm and firm on her basketball singlet, searing her skin and making her jump.

  The instant Scott’s car disappeared down the drive she jerked away. ‘Stop it.’

  Undaunted, Jack closed the space again. ‘You did this for me.’ His breath caressed the side of her face. The scent of blood and sweat was closer now. ‘You’re not sick. You go till you drop.’

  ‘And so will you in a minute. Too stubborn to admit when you need help. Well tonight, like it or not, you’re going to get it.’

  ‘I can tend my own flesh.’

  ‘Jack. You don’t come with me and let me see, I’m going to drag out the old truth-or-dare, and, trust me, you wouldn’t like the questions. Take your pick.’

  Her heart was pumping in anticipation, but she marched to the kitchen flicking on lights as she went. The first-aid box was in the cupboard above the sink. ‘Sit down,’ she ordered without turning. Easier to keep her mind off that hot body if she concentrated on what she needed.

  She heard the scrape of wood over tile as she set the box on the sink and her heart skipped a beat as she fumbled for a gauze pad and tape.

  ‘When did you develop this bossy, take-charge attitude?’ he grumbled.

  ‘Since I took charge when your dad got sick. Take off your T-shirt.’

  ‘I don’t need a nursemaid, just give me the box.’

  ‘Save the heroics for someone who cares.’ She squirted antiseptic into a bowl of tepid water. ‘I know you too, Jack Devlin. Never did want a nurse even when I wanted to play.’ She set the bowl on the table. ‘Well, I’m going to get my turn now. And it’s probably going to hurt...’