His Kind of Trouble

by Terri L. Austin

  She shook out her napkin and dropped it on her lap. Time for a neutral topic. No ex-boyfriends, or sex, or the past. And no more kisses. “Brynn said you flew in from Australia.”

  Cal picked up the menu and opened it. “Yeah, I did. Beautiful country—you should go someday.”

  “Which part of Australia?”

  “Cairns.”

  “What did you do there?”

  He looked up at her and grinned. “Hung out, surfed. Bought a wreck of an Austin Healey and had it shipped back to London. Have you ever seen one up close?”

  “I’ve never seen one from far away. So is that all you do, fix cars and surf?” She wasn’t being dismissive, she was curious, but a chill settled behind his eyes.

  “What more is there?” He sounded flippant, but his grip tightened on the leather-bound menu. He was putting up a front. She recognized it instantly, because she was a master at it—acting nonchalant to get people off her back.

  So what was he hiding? “Is there a girlfriend in Australia?”

  “No.” That deep, husky voice became clipped, like Trevor’s. Monica was good at reading caution signs, and right now, Cal flashed a bright red warning: Off Limits.

  But Monica couldn’t leave it alone. “What about a wife?”

  When he raised his head, Cal’s lips curved downward, and that chill in his eyes became permafrost. “You think I’d be snogging you if I were married? Lovely opinion you have of me, darling.”

  “I don’t know you. Not really. And Australia seems like a touchy subject.”

  “It’s not a touchy subject. Not like you and the ex-boyfriend.”

  “Did you leave a job behind?”

  He signaled a passing waiter. “Scotch, single malt, please. Better make it a double.” Once the waiter left, his eyes pinned Monica. “No job. No wife. No girlfriend. Now your turn. Why did you break up with what’s-his-face?”

  “You don’t have a job? I thought you were the shiz with cars.” This felt very familiar—same old song, second verse. Monica always fell for the ones without a job.

  “I own an auto restoration business, but my garage is in Britain, not Australia.”

  “How long were you in Australia?” She placed her hands on her unopened menu and leaned forward.

  Cal closed his and mirrored her movements. “Why do you give a toss?”

  “I’m just being polite.”

  “Hardly.”

  Her mouth popped open as she leaned back. “Really? You ask me about oral sex, and I’m the impolite one?”

  A wide grin broke across his lips. “Well, perhaps we’re evenly matched.”

  Monica decided to give up on Australia. “What’s so special about an Austin Whatever?”

  “Healey.” He dug into his front pocket. “It’s a piece of automotive beauty.” He pulled out his phone and touched the screen. “It’s a classic piece of British machinery. To restore a car like that is bringing a piece of history to life.”

  “Like Trevor’s antique knickknacks,” she said.

  Cal’s smile dimmed. “No. It’s nothing remotely like the decaying shit Trevor’s got lying all over.”

  “Actually, it’s exactly the same. I saw that Mustang, remember?”

  “But I don’t hang on to cars the way Trevor does with jade Buddha figurines. I find classics, restore them, and give them a happy home.” He shoved the phone under her nose. “Here’s one I did three years ago. Take a look.”

  She glanced at the pic of a shiny, sexy red roadster. “It’s very nice.”

  Cal barked out a shocked laugh. “Nice? No, love, that car is not nice. It’s a marvel.” He scrolled across the screen before handing it to her. “That’s how it looked when I found it.”

  Now it was her turn for surprise. “This is a wreck.” Literally. The car looked as if it had been cut in half. The front fender had sustained major damage, and the finish was completely eroded. To her, it looked like a piece for the salvage yard. She gazed up and saw pride in his eyes.

  “I know. Just the chassis. That’s all I had to work with. I rebuilt that car, every single piece, from the drivetrain to the seats.”

  “How long did that take?” She stared at the picture for a moment longer. When she started to scroll through to look for more, he snatched the phone from her hands and shoved it in his pocket.

  “A year and a half. I was a bit obsessed. Normally, it takes much longer.”

  “So you finish a car, find a buyer, and move on to the next project?”

  Cal nodded. “Precisely.”

  He probably did the same thing with women. Picked one, fucked her until she was ruined for every other man, then left her for a different model. Which explained Monica’s attraction to him. Along with that body, those eyes, and his sense of humor. Maybe he had a little more going for him than all of the other losers she’d fallen for in the past. That didn’t mean he was good for her.

  “When did you start fixing cars?” she asked as the waiter wandered toward them and set a glass in front of Cal. He offered to freshen Monica’s wine, but she shook her head.

  “We’ll need a few more minutes,” Cal said, and the waiter disappeared. He turned his attention back on Monica. “When I was nine. One of my mum’s boyfriends had a motor collection that was astounding. I was immediately hooked. The chauffeur, who also happened to be a fairly decent mechanic, taught me how to put together my first carburetor. I spent every day learning as much about cars as I could.”

  He took a sip of his scotch, and her eyes followed the movement of his throat. Cal seemed to do everything with an elegance that must be an inherent trait. Monica could practice forever, and she’d never possess that air of refinement.

  “I travel often,” Cal said, “I work when I feel like it, and I live my life. You should try it.”

  “Some of us don’t have that luxury. Some of us have to work even when we don’t feel like it.” Cal might talk about living life and not being afraid to make mistakes, but that was easy to say when he didn’t have any obligations.

  The waiter returned, and Monica ordered grilled chicken and vegetables while Cal got the prime rib. Damn, that sounded good. But she’d made the healthy choice. She could do that with Cal too. Just as long as he kept those lips to himself.

  “How about after this, we hit the roulette table?” he asked.

  “No thanks, I have a busy day tomorrow.”

  Deep creases bit into the corners of his narrowed eyes as he studied her. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a new deck of cards that bore the name of the casino. That must have been what he’d bought in the gift store.

  “High card gets to decide what we do next.”

  With a breathy laugh, she looked away. “I’m not letting a card decide my future.”

  “Not your entire future, just the next two hours. My God, you’ve gotten prickly.” He threw out two joker cards and shuffled the deck.

  Monica’s posture stiffened. “If I’m so prickly and boring, I don’t know why you’d want to spend another minute in my company.”

  He leaned in. “I never said boring, darling. Besides, I like staring at that little divot in your chin.” His eyes followed her movements as she involuntarily reached up to stroke the cleft. “And the way your eyes darken whenever you become pissy, like when I ask about the ex.” He wagged a finger at her. “They’re doing it right now. And you may have everyone else fooled into thinking you’re a saint, but you kiss like a sinner. So no, I don’t find you boring.”

  That last one struck a little too close to home. Cal sat back and watched her with a grin.

  “You don’t know anything about me.” In fact, he seemed to know too much. How could he read her so easily? It was irritating, and a tad scary. What else did he see?

  Cal placed the cards on the table. “Draw high, and you can go home to your lonely bed and dream of me.”

  She shook her head. “You’ll be dreaming of me. I’m not the one who kissed you. Twice.”

  �
�I didn’t hear you protesting. You could have slapped my face. Instead, you stuck your tongue in my mouth. Which was very enjoyable, by the way. You actively participated. That counts.”

  “Sorry, Calum, we’re not compatible.” She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “I only date responsible grown-ups with real jobs.”

  His taunting grin ratcheted up. “Who said anything about dating? And I don’t need a job, I have a trust fund. You had a responsible grown-up in Reggie—”

  “Ryan.”

  “But you kicked him to the curb. Why don’t you try having a little fun instead?”

  * * *

  Cal watched with satisfaction as pink filled her cheeks. Monica didn’t like to be reminded that she was human. But when he’d kissed her in the bar, she’d responded. She was so into it, she’d clutched his shirt in her fist. Despite what Monica said, she wanted him. He could see it in her eyes. They were a good gauge of her emotions. Stormy and passionate one minute, dismissive and superior the next.

  The shade was very like the water surrounding the reef at Cairns—clear, light blue—until her emotions ran high. Then they turned to Meissen Blue—the color of a ’58 Porsche he’d restored some years ago. Her eyes were gorgeous. Like the rest of her.

  His gaze drifted to her sensual upper lip—so completely at odds with her conservative exterior, and another naughty reminder of who she really was. When she caught him staring at it, she slid the tip of her tongue along its lush edge. Cal imagined those lips wrapped around his cock, and heat pricked his forehead. He wanted Monica Campbell in the very worst way. Wanted her beneath him—naked, open, and willing.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Cal attempted to relax his facial muscles. His desire must have shown clearly, because Monica appeared on the verge of panic. “When was the last time you went dancing?”

  She blinked at the change in topic. “Where did that come from?” She fingered the spoon handle, picked it up, and started tapping it against the table. He was making her nervous. Good. He liked knocking her off balance. She revealed herself in all sorts of interesting ways.

  “Last time I saw you, you told me you loved to dance.”

  “Cal, what do you want from me?” She glanced down at the table, and her shoulders hunched forward. “No matter what you choose to believe, I’m not the girl you remember. I don’t stay out late partying, and I don’t sneak off to the garden to dry-hump strangers. That girl’s gone for good.”

  “You and I are no longer strangers, so I think we’re past the dry-humping stage. However, I could be persuaded to a mutual wank-off.”

  She dropped the spoon and clenched her hand into a fist. “We’re not wanking.”

  “Fine,” he said, then sighed deeply. “No wanking. We’ll play for something that really matters. A good-night kiss.” He gestured to the cards. “Pick one. Draw a high card, and I’ll never bother you again. Draw low, I get a proper snog. Go on, I dare you.”

  She stared at him for a full minute. “Fine.” She cut the deck and drew a card. Glancing at it, she closed her eyes for a moment, then showed him the two of spades. “Shouldn’t be hard to beat.”

  Cal kept his eyes on her as he drew. He didn’t look at the card, but showed it to her. “What is it?”

  “King of hearts.”

  He nodded. “That sounds about right.”

  Just then, the waiter started heading their way. He set the dishes before them and gave a few more details about dessert. “Can I get you anything else?”

  Cal stood and removed his wallet. He shoved a couple of bills in the man’s hand. “We both need to make a phone call. Is there a room around here we can use, an office or a private loo?”

  Looking down at the cash, the waiter nodded. “There’s a supply closet in the bathroom hallway.” He looked around as he slipped a key out of his pocket. “Don’t get caught.”

  “Thanks, mate.” Cal patted the man’s shoulder and grabbed Monica’s hand. Pulling her from the table, he ignored her expression of horror as he strode through the restaurant, hauling her behind him.

  In the darkened hallway, past the loos, he found the narrow door. Without giving her time to make a dash, he slipped the key into the lock and had them inside in mere seconds.

  “Cal, this is ridiculous.”

  He flipped on the light and glanced around at the rolls of paper products. Monica stood with her back to the door, staring at him with wide eyes.

  Flattening both hands on either side of her head, he hemmed her in with his arms. “Tell me your heart’s not racing right now. Tell me this isn’t fun.”

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Then she stuck her chin in the air and stared at his nose. “This isn’t fun.”

  “If you want to go, I won’t stop you. But if you stay, I intend to kiss you thoroughly. And I’m going to touch you. Here.” He moved one hand and placed it over her breast.

  Monica glanced around the room. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. We’re too old to make out in a supply closet.”

  “We can’t very well do it at the table. The other diners wouldn’t be able to concentrate on their entrées. So what do you want to do, Monica?” He swept his lips over her cheek. “Stay?” He trailed tiny kisses up to those four freckles scattered above her eyebrow. “Or go?”

  She placed her hands on his chest, her fingers restless as they turned inward, like talons, and skittered down to his waist. “Stay.” It was barely a whisper, and her lips hardly moved. But it was enough.

  Before she could say anything else, Cal placed his hands around her waist. The fabric of her jacket was stiff and unyielding. He very slowly slanted his body over hers, and angling his head, began to nibble the side of her neck above her collar. She smelled heavenly—sweet, yet spicy. Her skin was silk against his lips. A strand of her hair tickled his forehead.

  Monica’s body remained tense for a few moments, but gradually, as Cal ran his lips across her jaw, she relaxed and slid her hands up to his shoulders. Letting out a soft sigh, she tilted her head, giving his lips better access.

  Yes. He’d been waiting five long years for this. Another go at Monica Campbell. Not his top pick for locale, but he’d take it. That girl in the garden had been eager and out of control. He wanted to make her that way again.

  Cal trailed kisses up to her ear where he caught her lobe between his teeth. He bit down as he had in the bar, but not gently this time. Monica gasped, her breaths growing ragged as he pulled it into his mouth and sucked.

  Cal let go of her waist and, with shaky hands, peeled the jacket from her shoulders and down her arms, dropping it at her feet. That damned blouse was still in his way. He wanted to rip it off and bare her skin. He hated that demure white shirt—unimaginative and puritanical, it was the antithesis of everything Monica was. As he tried to undo the top button, his fingers felt awkward and clumsy.

  Monica batted his fumbling hands away, making quick work of the buttons. When she was done, Cal parted her blouse and stilled, gaping at her—at her full breasts pushed high above two peachy, lace-covered cups. The scanty material barely covered her nipples at all, and the dark pink areola of one breast peeked above the lace. Fucking hell. Her tits were plump and pale, nearly the same color as her bra.

  Cal had been momentarily dazed by the sight of her, but suddenly, he was impatient. He jerked the blouse farther apart and shucked it off her completely, until she stood before him, looking seductive and angelic at the same time. “Lovely.”

  Giving him a coy glance, Monica ran one finger along her breast, where the lace met her flesh. “Do you think so?”

  He palmed those luscious tits, squeezing them tightly, raising them a little higher. The textured lace felt stiff against his fingertips. “No, I take it back. Not just lovely—gorgeous.” Monica Campbell was heady. Exciting. He wanted nothing more than to fuck her right here, against the door. Make her come with hundreds of people sitting out in the dining room, eating their steaks.
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  With his thumbs, he tugged at the bra cups and freed those stunning tits from their confines. They were full and heavy in his hands. He couldn’t stop staring, and her nipples budded beneath his gaze.

  Cal was actually touching Monica Campbell. Finally, after all these years. And she felt even better than he’d imagined. Her skin felt so fucking supple, like the softest chamois. Her trim waist was a pale contrast against the black trousers.

  She allowed him to stroke her like this—intimately. The fact that she arched her back and licked her lips said how much she liked it. When he brushed his thumbs along the underside of her breasts, then flicked her nipples, she moaned low in her throat. That sound, along with her short, breathy gasps, made Cal’s cock so hard it almost hurt.

  Monica reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling his mouth to hers. He kissed her roughly. He wanted her to remember this moment, to come to terms with her passionate side. This woman, the one kissing him back, slipping her tongue into his mouth, biting his lip—this was the sensuous, untamed nature she tried so hard to suppress. This was the Monica from his fantasies.

  Her lips were swollen and tasted faintly of mint from her lipstick. For the first time in months, Cal ached from something other than grief. He ached for release. Monica could give it to him. He needed to be inside her, feel her pussy, hot and wet and slick. He wanted to lose himself in her, forget the past and live in this moment. With her.

  He’d never forgotten Monica Campbell, or the way she tasted. But this time was different somehow, better than he remembered. He didn’t analyze it, but simply enjoyed the delicate flavor of her skin, the feel of her breasts in his hands.

  He thrust his hips against her, torqued them slowly. The friction was almost too much for his sensitive cock.

  “Cal,” she whispered. “That feels really good. Do it again.”

  He obliged and roughly kneaded her tits at the same time. This was only meant to be a good-night snog—one that had gotten completely out of hand. Back at the table, when she’d drawn the low card, Monica hadn’t been able to mask her troubled expression. Cal knew she’d fret about it all through dinner, so he’d acted on instinct. So glad he had, because kissing her, fondling her, grinding his prick against her was bloody brilliant.