“Was this your evil plan all along?” he asked. “Wear something wicked and leave me gagging for it?”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
“What do you think?” he asked. Cal snaked a hand around her waist and guided her between rows of cars to the elevator.
She liked that he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. It was intoxicating and made her feel like a temptress for a change.
When they stepped onto the elevator car, Cal stood with his back against the wall and tugged on her waist, drawing her against him until her ass rested against his hips.
For the first time in years, Monica gave over to instinct and shut out reason. Straightening her arms, she shifted them backward to Cal’s thighs. She ran her short nails over his long, hard legs. At the same time, she brushed her ass across his cock.
He drew a sharp breath, then let out a low, raspy growl. “Does public sex do it for you? You weren’t shy that night in the garden, in full view of the wedding party.” Tightening one arm around her, he nibbled behind her ear.
Monica had never fucked on full display, but Cal made every forbidden pleasure sound tempting. “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully, eyeing the security camera. Sex with Cal—while strangers watched? In all honesty, it turned her on just a little. Not that she’d ever let herself do it.
“Not sure I want to share you with the masses,” he said against her neck.
“You can’t share what you don’t have,” she said, sliding her hand along the arm at her waist. “And you haven’t had me.”
“I live in hope.”
The elevator doors opened to a large group of people. Monica grabbed Cal’s hand and moved past them. She led him through the casino with its smoky haze and crescendo of noise, past the gamblers and out into the warm night air. They strode by a grown man dressed as a banana, and melded with the crowd.
“When was the last time you came down to the Strip and hung out?” Cal asked.
“Not since I was a teenager.”
A mass of tourists and street performers flooded the sidewalk. People flowed in and out of restaurants, bars, and gift shops, while she and Cal walked in comfortable silence. He’d intertwined his fingers with hers, making her hand feel small in comparison.
“You grew up traveling the world. To me, this was home,” she finally said. “Not seeing the real Eiffel Tower, just an imitation.” She pointed toward the replica down the street.
“Nothing’s stopping you from going to Paris, or anywhere else for that matter.”
“I have a job, Cal. I can’t just take off.”
He stopped and stared down at her. “Allison doesn’t give you holidays?”
“I don’t take vacations.”
“Well, you should. All work, no play, et cetera.”
“Are you calling me dull?”
“Never,” he said, squeezing her hand. “But you could make room for a little fun.”
“I’m here with you tonight.”
“And I intend to show you a good time.” He bent down and planted a swift, firm kiss on her lips before he resumed walking.
The mischievous look in his eye said he wasn’t talking about wholesome fun. No, Cal referred to delicious, sexy, outrageous fun—the naked kind. And it excited Monica in ways she hadn’t experienced in ages.
At the corner, three unsteady girls threw their arms around one another and staggered into the street before toppling over like drunken bowling pins. A group of older guys in grass skirts and coconut bikini tops helped them up.
Cal dodged a tipsy couple weaving in and out of foot traffic. “I can’t believe Allison let you wander around here as a teenager.”
“She never knew, or she would have put a stop to it.” Monica took it all in. Two men, one dressed as Batman and the other as Sonic the Hedgehog, had a turf fight near a convenience store. People carried enormous plastic souvenir cups filled with booze, and some drunk kid whipped his dick out and peed in the street. Ah, Vegas.
Cal glanced down at her. “You almost look as if you’re enjoying yourself.”
She shrugged. “It’s been awhile.” Mobile billboards advertising strip clubs, night clubs, and entertainers crowded the streets along with party busses and limos. “Like I said, it’s home.”
She led Cal up to an overhead walkway, taking them from one side of the Strip to the other. “What do you do when you travel? See the touristy sights?” she asked. That might get old after a while. Monica wanted to visit the Tower of London, but she didn’t want to see it multiple times.
“It depends on the country.” He tucked her into his side, wrapping his arm around her waist. “In Cambodia, I went to Angkor Wat. There are these enormous temple ruins deep in the jungle, covered in carvings. It’s bloody amazing.”
“What kinds of carvings?”
“Myths, nymphs, monsters, and these violent battles, all told in sculpture.” Cal withdrew his arm as he stopped in front of a scrawny kid strumming an out-of-tune guitar. Pulling out his wallet, Cal dropped a bill into the guitar case. “There you go, mate.” He picked up her hand and carried on.
Monica glanced back and saw the kid’s grin. “How much did you give that guy?”
“Um, I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention.”
Having grown up with money all his life, something like that probably didn’t matter to Cal. That night in the restaurant, he’d shoved a wad of cash at the manager. This week, he’d donated large amounts of money as if it were no more than loose change in the red Christmas kettle. He hadn’t done those things because he was altruistic; he’d done them to get his own way. But that wasn’t the case with the street performer.
Monica glanced up at him in frustration. For her own peace of mind, she needed to define him somehow. She had a tendency to label people, put them in a box, and keep them there. Kind of like she’d done with herself for the last four years. There was Good Girl Monica and Bad Girl Monica. Things were easier when broken down into their simplest components.
“I can hear you thinking again,” Cal said. “You’d better watch that, or your engine will overheat, and smoke will pour out of your ears.”
Car analogies aside, Cal was right. Why did it matter which label she used for him? There was one category he couldn’t change—drifter. Cal would shake the Vegas dust from his feet soon and move on to the next place, the next girl. After they had a few nights of fun, Monica would probably never see him again. Eyes wide open.
“Okay,” she finally said, “what about Switzerland? What do you do there?”
He peered down at her. “Ski. What else would one do in Switzerland?”
“Bank? Yodel? Drink hot cocoa?”
“Well, of course, that goes without saying.” Letting go of her hand, he threw his arm around her shoulder. Cal’s answers surprised her. Monica thought he’d mention clubs or beaches as his favorite pastimes, but when he started talking about Cambodia and the temples, his face, his body language, became animated. His enthusiasm was infectious, and as he talked, he waved his hands as he described the sculptures.
Switzerland, on the other hand, didn’t seem to faze him.
“Okay, name your favorite city,” she said.
He narrowed his eyes in thought. “That’s a tough one. Maybe Prague. Beautiful gothic architecture. It’s lovely at night, staring out over the city. Unless you run into the stag parties honking their guts out in the street, which I’d avoid, if I were you. But there are bridges spanning the Vltava River that offer amazing views of the city. The Prague Castle is like something out of a fairy story. I spent six months there when I was seventeen, working for a surly German mechanic. I helped rebuild a ’76 Alfa Romeo convertible. Learned a lot with that car. Red, it was. A pain in the ass to get the parts.”
As they stepped onto the escalator and descended to the street, Monica wondered what it would be like to take off, go to a foreign city and live there for a few months, then move on whenever she got the itch. Sounded liberating. But also irresponsible.
Did he have a different woman in every city? “Must be lonely, traveling all by yourself.”
Near the street, Cal pulled her toward a low wall, behind a row of bushes. “That sounds suspiciously like you’re hinting at something, Miss Prim. If you want to know about me, come out and ask.” As he leaned back, he settled her in between his long legs and placed his hands around her waist.
She planted her hands on his chest and gazed up at him through the shadows. “Fine. Do you have a girlfriend in every city, or fuck-buddies lined up all over the world?”
“No and no. I’m not some kind of man slag, shagging my way through Europe. Not since I was a teenager anyway. I just like to see new things.”
Monica wanted to believe him. Which made her an idiot. The man was gorgeous, and that hoarse voice was a panty-dropper. He may not shag his way through Europe, but she was certain he had no trouble getting laid.
“Now it’s your turn,” he said. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”
Crazy or stupid? They sort of mingled together until it was hard to separate one from the other. But past stupid behavior was definitely one of her hot-button issues.
Cal searched her face. “We don’t have to talk about it. It’s not important.” He softly stroked her cheek.
Monica shoved at his shoulders and walked backward a few steps. “When I was fourteen, I surfed down a steep staircase handrail. I made it halfway before flying off and fracturing my arm.” She jutted her chin in the air, expecting him to call bullshit. For some reason, Cal could read her bluff the way no one else ever had. It made her feel vulnerable, emotionally naked. And she wasn’t lying, not really. The arm thing happened, but it wasn’t the craziest thing she’d ever done.
He stared at her for a long moment. “Which arm?”
“The right one.” She held it up. Her mother had been undergoing radiation therapy at the time and spent most of her days in bed. “Allie was extremely pissed off, but that was normal. I was something of a problem child.”
Cal gasped and lightly captured her arm. He stroked his hand from her shoulder to her wrist, leaving goose bumps in his wake. “You, problematic? Say it isn’t so.”
“It’s so.”
“Come on, let’s find something to eat. I’m starving.” Cal wrapped his hand around her wrist and pulled her along. “She warned me off, you know. Threatened to remove my balls.”
Monica blinked up at him. “Who?”
“Allison.”
Her steps halted, and she glared at the passing traffic. After a few seconds, she glanced back at Cal. “You’re not joking?”
Cal peered down at her. “I didn’t mean to create hard feelings. I thought you’d laugh, or I never would have mentioned it.”
Same old Allie, always sticking her nose into Monica’s business. She knew her sister meant well, and Monica had given her enough reason to worry in the past, but would Al ever treat her like an adult? “It’s fine,” she said. “It’s what she does. She’s a worrier.”
They continued walking another block, then Cal pointed to a bar with twangy music blaring through the open door. “There.”
“A country bar?”
“Very American,” he said.
“Very corporate. It’s a chain.”
“What’s more American than that?” He gave her a wide grin. The grooves along the left side of his mouth were deeper, higher than the ones on the right side. Monica found herself smiling back.
She let him guide her inside the saloon, and she glanced around while Cal paid the cover charge. Since it was a Friday, naturally the place was packed. Could have something to do with the bikini bull riding in one corner, or the beer pong tournament on the far side of the room.
Cal placed his hands on her shoulders and steered her like one of his cars toward the long wooden bar where the female bartender wore a leather bikini and matching chaps. “What do you want to drink?” Cal yelled in her ear.
“Beer is fine.”
Cal ordered two. The leather-clad brunette’s smile was an invitation. So were her fake tits rammed into that too-small top. Monica shouldn’t be jealous. Cal wasn’t her boyfriend. He was on loan until he decided to hit the road to Siberia. That didn’t stop the emotion from slamming through her.
Cal stood behind her, his hand resting on her hip, his chest a solid wall against her back. Monica watched his reaction in the mirror behind the bar. He didn’t stare at the bartender—he stared down at Monica.
She looked away and grabbed the cups. Cal slid a bill to the woman and took a beer from Monica’s hand.
“Cheers.” He tapped her glass with his own. He took a sip, then bent down. “Sign says there’s a restaurant upstairs. Shall we eat?”
She nodded and let him thread his way through the crowd while she held on to the back of his shirt. When they passed the mechanical bull undulating in the corner, with a barely dressed blond waving her hat at the crowd, Cal glanced back. “Is there a rule saying you have to flash your baps to ride that? If so, bloody brilliant. What will it take to get you up there?”
“A lack of dignity. Let’s see you take off your clothes and get up there,” she said.
“Maybe after a few more beers, eh?” He began moving toward the stairs.
The restaurant was slightly less crowded. As they waited for a table, Monica sat beside him on a roughly hewn wooden bench and quizzed him about his travels. Occasionally, she’d throw in a car question.
“Best Chinese food you’ve ever tasted?” she asked.
“A little place in Boston, oddly enough.”
“Favorite convertible?”
He shook his head, pinning his lips together. “That’s like asking which is my favorite child. They’re all special in their own way, but I have to say the ’52 Nash-Healey roadster was a labor of love. And hate. Took forever to renovate that car. It was a stunner. Now your turn. Favorite type of music?”
“Boy bands.”
Cal made a face. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“Hey, I’m a product of my environment.”
Through dinner and afterward, Monica spent the next hour and a half listening to Cal. He told her all about his adventures, keeping his stories light and amusing. And there was always a car attached to his favorite places. He’d fixed his first Fiat in Honduras, replaced a broken engine block from a ’67 Benz in Menton. On the one hand, she envied all the experiences he’d chalked up, countries he’d seen, people he’d met. Yet she felt a little sorry for him too. Cal never stayed in one place for very long. That had to be rough on a kid.
“What was Pixie like as a mother?” Monica asked, resting her chin in her palm.
“She was less of a mother and more of a partner in crime. She had very few rules, very few boundaries. She was fun.” He reached for her hand, rubbed his finger across her palm.
“What about school?” Monica asked.
Nothing about his posture altered, but the atmosphere between them changed. And his finger stopped moving over her skin. “I never went to school.”
“Did you have tutors?”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “In a manner of speaking. Babcock made sure I did my homework.”
“What’s a Babcock?”
“She was my nanny, my mum’s keeper. Actually, she was like a mother to both of us. She’d make me sit down each day and study. I hated every bloody minute of it, but she wouldn’t let me go outside until I finished. We had some heated rows, I can tell you that much.” His expression changed when he talked about this woman, softening just a bit. Cal cast his eyes to their joined hands. “Mum was helpless. If Babcock hadn’t taken care of the domestic tasks, they wouldn’t get done.”
“And she followed you all over the world?”
“She was part of the family.” Monica wasn’t sure if Cal realized his grip on her hand had tightened.
“Was?”
He nodded. “Was.”
“I’m sorry, Cal.”
He said nothing, merely no
dded. “You know, I think it’s time to get you on that bull.”
Monica understood. He didn’t want to talk about Babcock any more than she liked talking about her mom. It only brought back the sadness, reminded her of what she’d lost. “Yeah, that bull thing’s never going to happen. Have you ever line danced?”
As Cal stood, he raised one brow. “I have not.”
“You’ve been all over the world, and you’ve never done the Push Tush? Oh, it’s time we did something about that.”
* * *
Cal was never going to be a world champion line dancer—he could barely remember the simple steps and kept stumbling in the wrong direction—but he sure as hell had fun trying.
That wasn’t strictly true. He had fun watching Monica try. In those high heels. Wearing that tight dress. The hem kept riding up higher and higher with each move she made. She’d tug it down, but it didn’t stay put for long.
And the way her breasts bobbed up and down—bloody hell, he could stare at them for the rest of the night. While other women wore shorts that showed more ass than they covered and bikini tops that barely fit, they couldn’t hold a candle to the beautiful woman next to him. Although Monica hopped around like a kangaroo gone mental, she looked a right treat doing it. As she followed the ridiculous dance moves, she’d bite her lower lip and furrow her brow in concentration. It was possibly the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.
Finally, after more songs than he could count, she turned to him and fanned herself. “God, I’m hot. I need a drink.” Her dark blond hair was mussed, and her skin looked dewy. Cal wanted to taste it.
Together they exited the dance floor and headed for the bar. After Monica ordered a cola, she glanced over at him. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you were slightly worse at dancing than I was. And I sucked.”
He snagged an arm around her waist and drew her closer. “I thought you looked amazing out there.”
“Now who’s lying?” She grabbed her drink and took a sip, pursing her lips around the straw. Cal immediately thought of her doing the same thing to his cock. God, had he ever been this obsessed with getting a woman into his bed?
After taking a few sips, she offered the straw to him. Cal kept his eyes trained on hers, and as he leaned forward to take a drink, his hand drifted from her hip to her ass. “What are we going to do next?” he asked.
His Kind of Trouble Page 12
