Dirty Sexy Knitting

by Christie Ridgway

  His eyes narrowed. “You—”

  “I love them,” interrupted the customer as she hurried from the dressing room to the cash register. “They fit just right.”

  Marlys took the jeans to ring up the sale, smiling because she saw that Dean was backing away. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

  She was, too—fine, and safe, now that the man was in retreat.

  Her customer took a glance over her shoulder and then turned back to Marlys. Her voice lowered. “Cute.”

  Marlys checked out the woman’s ring finger. A platinum and diamond honker clinched her marital status. “Taken,” she said anyway.

  Too soon, the other woman was gone and Marlys was left alone again with Dean, who had resumed prowling the shop. “Look,” she said, calling to him from the other side of the room. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I have boxes to unpack in the back and—”

  The bells on the door rang out again.

  “—customers,” Marlys finished, blessing whoever was coming over the threshold. She headed for the front of the store, mentally promising the newcomer an instant 10 percent discount.

  Then she noticed it was another man. Weird. She hadn’t had this many male customers since last December 24, twenty minutes before closing time. As she got closer, she realized which man it was.

  Her ex-boyfriend. Pharmaceutical rep Phil. AKA her one-time fuck buddy.

  She closed her eyes. Karma. Damn. That vindictive bitch was really pissed off. “What do you want?”

  Phil gave her that smile he’d been offering up ever since he’d walked into her boutique one November day and she’d begged for a no-strings boff later that afternoon. It was a grateful smile. Hopeful.

  “Just poking my head in to say hi,” he said.

  In case she was in the market for another kind of poke altogether. Last fall, he’d hummed to himself while he’d rocked on her body in her bed. She’d closed her eyes and pretended she was in the kitchen making toast.

  “I’m busy, Phil,” she said, her tone clipped. And if she ever felt sorry about how she treated men, she might feel sorry about that, because Phil had been doing her a favor that afternoon. As Dean had pointed out when he’d arrived for the date she’d set up with him to find the pharmaceutical rep leaving and Marlys dressed in her robe and smelling of the other man’s cologne, Phil hadn’t deserved to be used.

  “You sure?” he asked, hopeful again.

  Really, though, she didn’t think Phil had felt used. “I’m sure.”

  “Okay.” He gave a little wave and half-turned. Then he stopped, his gaze going over her head. “Hey, don’t I know you?”

  Marlys swallowed her groan. No. No.

  Dean’s arm reached around her. “Dean Long.”

  A quizzical light sparked in Phil’s eyes. “Where do I know you from?”

  Shit! She didn’t want Dean knowing they’d had a relationship before, let alone one that she’d ended in such an ugly way. Phil wouldn’t spill the beans, would he? He wouldn’t say, “Oh, yeah, you’re the guy on Marlys’s porch that miraculous day when she offered up some afternoon delight.” Would he?

  Phil rubbed his chin, and he appeared to be thinking back. “We know each other somehow.”

  Dean shrugged. “I couldn’t say—”

  “Because he’s busy, too, Phil.”

  “Busy with what . . . ?” Phil murmured, as he seemed to be thinking harder.

  Oh crap. Did she say bad day? Let’s call it a disaster and get it over with. Pharmaceutical Phil might be slow, but he didn’t suffer memory loss like Dean. Any moment now—but she couldn’t let that happen.

  In a move of total desperation, to get rid of Phil and to derail this dangerous conversation, she turned and launched herself toward Dean.

  “Busy with me,” she declared, then latched her mouth to the tall man’s, as behind her back she made urgent “get lost” gestures with one hand. The other had creeped around Dean’s neck.

  By the time his palms pressed the small of her back to hoist her closer, worries about Phil and doom had burned away in the heat of the mouth-on-mouth. She thought she heard the bells of the boutique’s door ring out again, but that might just be the disturbance caused by the bats in her belfry that had led her to commit such a crazy act.

  Because he tasted so crazy good.

  Dean snatched his mouth from hers. He was panting, his chest moving hard against hers. “We’ve done this before.”

  Instead of answering, she kissed him again. She couldn’t help herself. She heard more bells, not the goofy, girly, he’s-kissing-me kind this time, but the ones on her shop door that told her she had another customer. So this was going to have to end soon, and end forever, but for this moment, was it wrong of her to indulge?

  Ah, well. She’d always been a bad girl.

  Cassandra pulled slowly into her carport, aware during every inch of pavement she crossed of the man waiting on her porch. Gabe. Again.

  Gabe, who over the last few days had become a ubiquitous presence, just when she’d determined to cross him out of her life. She eyed him as she climbed the steps to her front door, for a silly minute wishing she was wearing something sexier than a pair of boyfriend-cut khaki pants and a white cotton-knit Henley shirt that had a dozen tiny buttons marching down the front.

  As if Gabe ever noticed what she was wearing. But maybe he’d surprise her, because he was breaking all sorts of character molds, she realized, as his mouth turned up in another of those startling, unpracticed smiles. Just when she’d hardened her heart to him, he was melting it with things like that smile.

  He stepped forward, his mouth brushing her cheek.

  And with things like these casual kisses.

  He lifted a bag and waved it in front of her face. “I brought dinner.”

  Not to mention the edible gifts. The night before he’d shown up with frozen yogurt for dessert.

  Why would he feel the need to give her smiles, kisses, food? She’d better figure it out, and figure it out fast, before she fell into the old bad habit of caring too much for him. She was over that.

  With a sigh, she let him into her house, and both of them were occupied for a few minutes greeting the critters who delighted in the fact that Gabe was visiting again. Then they made it to her small dining table and he began setting out the meal. “Grilled portobello sandwich for you,” he said.

  It smelled delicious. One of the best things about Malibu living was Malibu takeout. While Gabe continued unpacking the bag, she opened the bottle of merlot he’d handed over and poured it into two glasses. She set them on the table.

  He frowned at the ruby-colored wine. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought that.”

  “You don’t like red with your red meat?” she asked. “Don’t even try to tell me you chose something healthier than roast beef or a burger.”

  Still frowning, Gabe pulled out her chair. “After the other night . . .”

  “We don’t have to talk about that,” she said quickly as she took her seat. Before, they’d never spoken openly about his drunken bouts, let alone her Florence Nightingale activities, and she was afraid if they did he’d read too much into her two A.M. rescues.

  He sat in his chair. “But—”

  “It ended differently than other nights, I’ll grant you that,” she said, “but it doesn’t change a thing between us.”

  They ate a few minutes in silence, she sipping at her wine and focusing on her plate, even as she was aware he was studying her from across the table. Her pulse jumped, but she ignored the feeling as she chewed. Remember. Remember he’s hung up on his dead wife and child. Remember you’re no longer hung up on him.

  His hand slid across the small table and covered hers. Heat warmed her skin, but she held tough, keeping her palm flat to the table when the only thing she wanted to do was curl her fingers around his. “Cassandra,” he said, the command in his voice making her look up. A lock of his too-long hair fell across his temple and curved toward his stubby black eyela
shes. Her gaze snagged on a single silver hair mixed in with the mussed black bangs. She stared at it, aware of what had put it there, aware that the ghosts that haunted his life were every reason she had to keep her hand still beneath his and her heartbeat steady and even.

  “You’re hurting again,” he said, his fingers leaving hers so he could stroke his thumb across her temple. “I can see it in your eyes. Another headache?”

  She jerked her face from his touch. “I have things on my mind.”

  “Me.”

  “What? No.” She couldn’t let him think he had a place in her head when he certainly wasn’t in her heart. “It’s not about you. Nikki and I had words today.”

  It was true. She’d again brought up the idea of contacting their father with her sister, and Nikki’s refusal had been Cassandra’s prime concern—until she’d spied Gabe standing on her porch.

  “Tell me about it.”

  She frowned at him. What was this? Smiles, kisses, food, and now conversation? While she talked to Gabe all the time, it had always been more of a talking at Gabe. Not once had he prodded her to divulge a single thing.

  “Maybe I can help,” he said now.

  Oh. Kay. His behavior was still oddly out of character, but she could use an objective viewpoint and, face it, who could be more objective than he? When it came to her—except when he was drunk—Gabe had always seemed downright disinterested.

  She scooted back her chair and he followed her into the small living area, carrying their wineglasses. From a bookcase, she pulled a manila folder and laid it on the coffee table. “It’s about this,” she said, dropping to the couch so she could open the file of newspaper clippings. “It’s about him.”

  Gabe sank into the cushions beside her and set the merlot on the table. His long fingers brushed the stack of tabloid articles to spread them out. The headlines screamed.

  SECRET SIBLINGS SHOCK DADDY

  SCISSORHANDS!

  SPERM-EGG ON FAMOUS DOC’S FACE?

  CELEBRITY PLASTIC SURGEON FATHERS

  THREE MALIBU BABES!

  The last piece came complete with candid photos of the three donor sibling sisters, as well as a professional head shot of a handsome, mature man wearing a white medical coat and a reassuring smile.

  She didn’t know how much of the story Gabe had absorbed when it had come out last November. “Do you remember? Marlys learned that the man who fathered Juliet, Nikki, and me—our sperm donor—was none other than Hollywood’s favorite go-to guy for new noses and tighter tummies, Dr. Frank Tucker.”

  “And she tipped off the gossip rags.”

  Cassandra nodded. “Just to cause more trouble for Juliet. So what was supposed to be anonymous became public.”

  “But I remember that you were going to make yourselves known to him anyway. He’d registered at a website for donors who want to make contact with their progeny.” Moosewood jumped onto the couch and Gabe shifted to make room for the cat, his thigh pressing Cassandra’s.

  She was up against the upholstered arm, so there was no way to put more space between them. Ignoring the heat and hardness of his muscled leg, she grabbed up her glass to take a healthy sip of wine. “We were still in the early stages of how exactly to manage that. We put it into Juliet’s hands, but then we got sidetracked by the holidays and Juliet and Noah’s wedding. Not to mention that Noah was never exactly keen on the idea.”

  “He’s very protective of Juliet.”

  “Yes.” Cassandra smiled a little. Her older sister didn’t always appreciate Noah’s need to watch out for her, and like any married couple they were learning to compromise, but Cassandra thought the way he cared for his now-wife was . . . She didn’t have words for it. She only knew that she envied the security of that kind of love.

  “He wanted me to talk you out of the plan.”

  Surprised, Cassandra glanced up. “What? Why?”

  “He tried to persuade Jay, too. He suggested a united stand among the three of us—the three men in the lives of you and your sisters.”

  The temperature of the blush crawling up Cassandra’s face was hotter than the press of Gabe’s thigh to hers. Noah was married to Juliet. Jay and Nikki would be wed in a few months. But Gabe was nothing like that to her. “I’m sorry he involved you. I hope you told him that you’re merely my landlord.”

  “Is that all I am?”

  She stole a look at him as she slid her wineglass back to the table. His dark eyes compelled her to tell the truth, but she shifted her gaze away to stare at that ghostly strand of silver in his hair. “Of course.”

  “Even after—”

  “You’re a . . . a friend, too,” she put in hastily, again worrying that he wanted to delve into a discussion of her past rescues. She was done with them. Done with him in that way. “No doubt a friend, but Noah shouldn’t have put you in that position.”

  “I didn’t agree with him, anyway.”

  “What?” Her head jerked toward him and she put her hand on his knee. “You think we should contact Dr. Tucker?”

  He ran his fingers over the backs of hers. “I think what’s right for you, Cassandra, might not be the same thing that’s right for your sisters. I think you should do what you need to do.”

  The light touch on her skin was mesmerizing her, the same as that hypnotic darkness of his eyes. She leaned toward him, astonished that he had an opinion about her life, touched that he seemed to be interested in what was best for her. With his free hand, he tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and goose bumps skittered across the surface of her skin.

  It took her a moment to bring her mind back to the subject at hand. “But I made a promise to Nikki today that I wouldn’t introduce myself to him,” she said, frowning. “At least not until Juliet gets back from her honeymoon and we have another talk about it.”

  His fingertips brushed the top of her hand again. “But you don’t want to wait that long.”

  “I need to do something,” she agreed, her voice low. “It’s . . . time.” Her sisters had their loves, and she’d given up on Gabe, so she had to have something else to focus on now. “If I could just see him in person . . .”

  “Why don’t you go for that? That’s how you worked things with Nikki and Juliet, right? You enticed them into Malibu & Ewe so you could get a look at them before you made contact.”

  He surprised her again. Blinking, she drew back, sliding her hand from beneath his. “You remember that?”

  “Cassandra, you are aware that pretty much anything you think and feel goes right through your head and then comes straight out your mouth, right?”

  But she’d never realized he’d been listening. “You probably thought that was all weird and New Age-y of me, that I wanted to get a feel for them first.”

  “I always think you’re all weird and New Age-y. I blame it on the overabundance of beta-carotene in your diet.”

  That sounded like the old Gabe. The pre-smiles, -kisses, -food, and -personal-interest-in-her Gabe. Comfortable with him like she hadn’t been in days, she leaned back and grinned at the man. “So you wouldn’t be surprised if I told you I wanted to meet my sisters and my father before talking to them because I’m able to read auras?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised, but I wouldn’t believe you either. Froot Loop, everyone, New Age, old school, and anywhere in between wants a chance to size up a person before they make their move.”

  Her smile widened. “Your aura is very peanut brittle brown right now. Did you eat that junk for breakfast again?”

  Gabe grimaced. “Froot Loop . . .”

  “Okay, okay.” She left off teasing him to consider her options. “So you think I could do that. Just get a . . . get a glimpse of him to satisfy me until Juliet returns? I don’t think an invitation to Knitters’ Night at Malibu & Ewe would work, but I suppose I could drop by his offices or something.”

  His shoulder brushed hers when he shrugged. “Or something. If you want, I’ll help you with that.”

  She pin
ched her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger and continued thinking, her gaze on the bookshelf across the room. “I suppose I could make an appointment . . . not with him, but with one of the other doctors in his practice, and then hope I see him in the hallway. What could I say I wanted a consult about? What do women my age typically see a plastic surgeon for?”

  Her gaze shifted to Gabe’s. “Breast augmentation, right? I could say I wanted breast augmentation.”

  His eyes didn’t move from her face. “No.”

  Cassandra glanced down at her D-cups and made a face. “Right. How about breast reduction? I’ve often thought about—”

  “No!”

  His vehemence startled her. There was a little flush across his cheekbones though his gaze was still trained on hers. She narrowed her eyes. “Gabe?”

  “Don’t change those at all, okay? They’re perfect just as they are. Trust me on this.”

  Wow, she thought. “I didn’t realize you’d ever really noticed me, um, like that. I mean, particularly, um, there.”

  Though she’d deny it to her dying breath, she’d tried using “there” only about a zillion times to get his attention when he was sober. He’d never seemed to notice. When he was drunk, he always talked about his proportions, not hers. “And frankly, with the exception of you, men usually can’t seem to help themselves when faced with . . .” She made a vague gesture toward her chest.

  Gabe swallowed. The flush on his cheeks deepened and his hand came to her face, his thumb brushing back and forth against her bottom lip. “If I didn’t pay proper homage to your incredible body when we were in bed the other night, I was not only drunk I was a fool.”

  She didn’t hear a word he said. Her mouth stung where he was touching it and she could only stare at his face as his gaze finally, finally, shifted from her eyes and moved to a spot south of her collarbone.

  In that moment, everything changed between them.

  Her breasts swelled and their centers tightened as the heat of his leg still pressing against hers shot up her torso. Flames erupted around them, swallowing the oxygen in the room. Her head spun with the sudden onslaught of a combustible, sexual burn.