Dirty Sexy Knitting

by Christie Ridgway

  Maddie.

  Inside him, everything went quiet.

  When was the last time someone had said her name aloud? Who would speak it to him? Her mother was dead, too. And he supposed Lynn’s parents would find it too painful to call him up and talk about her. Maddie’s other grandparents—his own mother and father—had given up on him before he’d left San Francisco for Malibu. Perhaps they’d not given up on him, precisely, but they’d stopped trying to get him to answer his doorbell or his telephone or their e-mails.

  “Maddie . . .” He tried the name out. When was the last time he’d said it aloud himself? Probably when he’d had to make those horrible, terrible, can’t-think-about-them-without-wanting-to-get-drunk calls to Maddie’s two sets of grandparents.

  “Your daughter,” Cassandra confirmed, as if he could have forgotten. “I thought I saw a picture of her in your wallet the other night. Would you show it to me?”

  The other night . . . His spine pressed painfully into the door’s handle. He still had an infuriating hole in his memory bank about that other night . . . and he remembered much too much about another night, that night on her couch, when Cassandra had almost bewitched him into losing his cool. He’d wanted so much to sink inside that heat he’d felt between her thighs.

  “Gabe?” She was looking over her cup at him with those bluer-than-blue eyes, the ones that could send out a spell with just a flutter of her lashes. “The photo?”

  Like always, her magic worked, and he found himself slipping his coffee into a plastic holder hanging from the dash and then reaching into his right front pocket. His wallet fell open to the picture of Lynn and Maddie. He quickly flipped the clear sleeve, unwilling to meet the eyes of his dead wife, which he always avoided in case the smiling gaze had turned accusing. From behind it, he pulled another photo free. This one was of him and Maddie. She’d been . . . three? He carried her piggyback and she had her chin propped on his shoulder as she mugged for the camera.

  Offering it to Cassandra, he had the sudden urge to hide it away, but she already had her mitts on it, and he found himself letting go.

  As she studied it, he felt the weight of his daughter pressing onto his back, much heavier than it had been that day, her legs digging into his ribs, her hands in a strangle-hold around his neck. He couldn’t swallow. He couldn’t breathe.

  “You both look happy.” Cassandra looked up. “Very happy.”

  Happy. Very happy, said his neighbor who had never had a father to carry her like that, Gabe realized. Cassandra had never grinned for the camera from behind her daddy’s back. At the thought, he could breathe again, the strangling weight he’d felt vanishing, leaving only a lingering ache in his throat. He glanced at the photo and felt his lips curve. “Yeah. That day we were very happy.”

  Cassandra continued to study it. “Maddie. Madelyn . . . what?”

  “Madelyn Rosemary.”

  His neighbor snickered. “Gabe. You named your daughter after something green. Who would have thunk it?”

  He was obliged to frown at her. “We named her after my mother.”

  “Still green.”

  “What’s your middle name?” he asked. “No, wait. Let me guess. Thyme. Tofu. Bamboo Shoots. Wheat Grass.”

  She laughed and tossed her hair over her shoulder. The fragrance of her shampoo infused the air, but it was too late for him to shut down his lungs. It invaded his chest, his nose, his head. He grabbed up his coffee.

  “No middle name,” she said, with a little shrug. “Maybe because there’s no paternal grandmother, either.”

  He swallowed down the renewed ache in his throat with a slug from his cup of coffee. “Cassandra’s a mouthful,” he mumbled, staring out the window again.

  “You should know,” she murmured.

  His head jerked toward her. Had she just said what he thought she’d said? Did she mean to make the three words a sexy little innuendo? He couldn’t tell, because she was looking out the window, too, and it might just be the brighter morning light putting that pink cast on her cheeks.

  And shit, it didn’t matter what she’d said, because it was in his head: her fragrant, hot skin, the taste of her kisses, her berried nipples, the way she moaned when he rubbed the sweet spot between her thighs. His cock stiffened as his blood chugged hot and steadily southward.

  Damn woman. She took away his ability to think.

  And she didn’t even seem to realize it. “I wonder,” she mused, her gaze still on the view outside the windshield. “If we shouldn’t have done this differently.”

  “Huh?” he grunted. “Differently how?”

  “I don’t know.” She gave a tiny shrug. “Surely we could have put our heads together and come up with something about me a plastic surgeon would want to get his hands on.”

  Get his hands on? Gabe’s cock jumped, thinking of his hands on her, of their heads together, of those wet, hot kisses they’d shared and how easy it had been to get her off with his mouth and with his touch. Christ, he probably could have given her an orgasm just by sucking on her nipples.

  And didn’t he just want to try.

  His hand reached out, tangling in the ends of her hair. He made a fist, about to yank her close for just such a test.

  Only to realize they were in a public place.

  And this was Cassandra, who didn’t deserve to be his experiment . . . or his anything else.

  In an abrupt move, he shoved open the passenger door. “I need some air,” he said, and slid out of the car. Air, space, distance, common sense. He forced himself to think of Lynn’s face instead of Cassandra’s. Lynn, the very reason Cassandra was not for him.

  The light rain was more mist now and it felt good against his too-hot skin. He loitered on the sidewalk leading into the building, taking in deep breaths and thinking of innocuous stuff like the sticker on the front bumper of the car:

  CHICKS WITH STICKS

  ♥ MALIBU & EWE

  He considered what it would be like to spend time taking bumps out of noses and removing ill-conceived tattoos as cars pulled into the lot and people—obviously staff—juggled briefcases and purses and Starbucks cups as they headed for the front doors. Some were in business attire, some wore scrubs, a few white-coated doctors, their names embroidered in dark blue against the cotton, all strode past him. Preoccupied with their prework thoughts, no one gave him a second glance.

  Then around a corner came two young men. He wouldn’t have given them a second glance except that they were such a contrast in appearance. There was a lean guy with dreadlocks wearing Levi’s, flip-flops, and a long-sleeved T-shirt emblazoned with “Responsible Recycling, Inc.,” talking in vehement tones to his opposite. The slightly older man had a business haircut, silk tie, expensive loafers, and a doctor’s coat.

  A doctor’s coat that read DR. PATRICK TUCKER.

  Through the rain-splattered windshield, he shot a look at Cassandra. She was sitting straight in her seat, clutching her cup as if it was a teddy bear and she was here for a tetanus shot. No way could this thirtyish dude be her dad, but she was on edge all the same. And the last name . . . had Cassandra called the wrong clinic?

  Because this wasn’t, of course . . . “Dr. Frank Tucker?” Gabe said the name out loud, just to see what would happen.

  The two men immediately bristled. “Who wants to know?” the doctor said. The younger one seemed to be scanning the lot for a threat.

  Gabe lifted his hands in casual surrender. “I’m here with my”—he glanced over his shoulder at Cassandra, still sitting in her car—“wife.” Like Maddie’s name, he hadn’t said that word in a long while and it stopped on his tongue.

  Hell, he should have said he was here with his nun, sister, neighbor, friend, anything but wife. He wouldn’t have one of those again. But the word seemed to calm the men. The guy with dreadlocks ran his gaze over the Mercedes and then Cassandra.

  “We’re his sons,” the doctor said. “I’m Patrick Tucker, this is Reed.”

  The one w
ith all the hair nodded. “And you’re not a reporter, right? We’re not real fond of the press.”

  “Hell, no. No reporter here.” Gabe gave them an easy grin. “It’s just that my wife”—there was that word again—“she wants a little work done.”

  “Oh?”

  With a subtle tap of his forefinger, Gabe indicated his chin, mouth, then finally his nose. “And we’ve heard good things about your dad, and thought we might, uh, book a consult.” Of course, normal people would make a phone call, but neither of these two seemed to notice.

  Maybe people who came here to have their beaks tweaked and their lips enlarged were a bubble off normal anyway.

  Dr. Patrick stuck his hands in his coat’s patch pockets. “Sorry to say you’re out of luck. My father’s been in Switzerland working at the university in Geneva for the last five months. He won’t be back for another couple of weeks, and I know for a fact his appointment book’s full until late summer.”

  Tacking on a professional smile, he leaned around Gabe to beam it Cassandra’s way through the wet windshield. There were dollar signs in his eyes. “Maybe I could . . .”

  “We’ll let you know,” Gabe interjected, making a hasty turn toward the car. Christ, if they saw the perfection that was Cassandra’s face, the jig was up. “Thanks for the information.”

  He hopped into his seat. “Move it, Froot Loop.”

  As the car started, the two men continued on into the medical building. Cassandra flipped on the wipers to clear the misty droplets off the windshield. “Am I wrong, or did you tell them I wanted a nose job?” she asked, an edge of accusation in her voice.

  Whoops, she’d noticed that. “I hope you have nothing against collagen injections and a chin implant, too.”

  “Gabe.” She yanked the steering wheel to pull off the road and onto a side street. There, she put the car into park.

  Uh-oh. Oh, well, mad would work if it would guarantee a healthy gulf between them. “C’mon, Froot Loop. Should I have said all your vegetarian vittles had given you a bad case of cauliflower ear?”

  Instead of giving him a piece of her mind, her hands tightened on the steering wheel. As he watched, a tear tracked down her cheek.

  Hell. He froze, digging his fingers into his thighs to keep himself from doing something stupid. Determined to keep that wedge between them, he tried again. “Tofu tongue? Jicama hips? Mushroom mouth?”

  Another tear chased the first. He swallowed his groan.

  “Switzerland for the last five months?” she said, her voice husky.

  “That’s what was said,” he confirmed.

  Cassandra wiped at her face, but another tear rolled down. “That’s before the tabloids took up the story.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He may not even know about that dumb gossip.” She shot him a look from drenched blue eyes.

  His short nails could delve through denim, he discovered. “He may not.”

  “So . . . so maybe it wasn’t something about me that made him want to avoid us.”

  And damn, distance was something he couldn’t take anymore. As more wetness flowed down Cassandra’s face, he hauled her over the console between the two front seats. In his lap, his arms went around her, her nose found a niche in the crook of his neck and shoulder, and her tears were soaked up by his shirt. “Froot Loop,” he murmured against her scented hair. “No sane man would willingly stay away from you.”

  Seven

  Good family life is never an accident but always an achievement by those who share it.

  —JAMES H. S. BOSSARD

  Gabe told himself he’d been keeping an eye on the action at Malibu & Ewe because they’d had that incident with the kids playing with fire. It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that he couldn’t get Cassandra’s tears off his mind or the memory of her curled in his arms out of his head.

  Because she didn’t need him, he thought, as he glanced through the rain-spattered windows across the parking lot to her shop. It was Tuesday night and the knitters who got together to share their yen for yarn and companionship were straggling out the door and into their cars. For sure she didn’t need him, not only because she knew now that her concern about her father was misplaced, but because all evening she’d had a roomful of women at the ready to offer her advice. He’d heard them doing just that—whether it was about a project or about a personal problem—dozens of times when he’d been at the shop to make a repair or to deliver Cassandra another cup of contraband coffee.

  The last of the visitors exited, two of them waving to each other as they headed home to their families. Leaving Cassandra alone. He saw her figure moving about the shop, tidying the counter, and then putting some errant skeins back in their bins. She looked so . . . solitary.

  But that was no different from what he was, he reminded himself. The clock read half-past nine P.M., and he was alone at the fish market fiddling with a recalcitrant kitchen fan. He was content enough, wasn’t he?

  For the moment. Until another one of his black moods tackled him and dragged him under.

  A car circled the lot. He followed it with his gaze, wondering if one of the women had returned for something she’d left behind. The sedan made a couple of slow laps, and the hair on the back of Gabe’s neck rose. He skirted the counter, heading for the front door, when he spied a dark figure approaching Malibu & Ewe on foot, its movements stealthy.

  Gabe ran into the parking lot, part of him noting that the anonymous car accelerated toward the exit and shot onto the Pacific Coast Highway. The other part of him saw the stealthy figure burst into Cassandra’s yarn shop.

  Under the interior’s bright lights, she whipped around, her hand going to her throat. Gabe picked up speed, and then Cassandra did the same. She rushed the unknown person—a man, he could tell now—and leaped into his arms.

  Gabe yanked open the shop’s door just as her long legs wrapped around the stranger’s waist.

  Lonely, my ass, he thought, as she laid a lavish kiss on a guy Gabe had never seen before in his life.

  He considered backing out, but planted his feet and crossed his arms over his chest instead. “Another long-lost relative?” he inquired, as the shop’s door shut behind him.

  Grinning, Cassandra slid down the man’s body so that the soles of her shoes once more touched ground. Then she tugged the other man toward Gabe. “This is Carver!” she said, face flushed, eyes bright. “Carver Shields. I’ve told you about him.”

  She didn’t bother waiting for Gabe to answer. Instead, she turned to the other man. He appeared about thirty and Gabe supposed Cassandra thought him good-looking, given the way she wouldn’t let go of his hand. He wore his light brown hair to his shoulders and a tattoo of a naked woman with long flowing tresses was sprawled on the skin of his arm like she was waiting for a lover. Her face was hidden by the short sleeve of his shirt. “I thought you were touring in Europe until summer,” Cassandra said.

  Ah, yes, Gabe remembered now. Carver Shields. Cassandra’s prom date and the drummer for the mega-successful heavy metal band Mercy.

  Carver grimaced. “We had to cut it short. Lou—” He glanced at Gabe. “Lou’s our bass guitarist—developed a little substance abuse problem while we were in Berlin. I dragged him back here and checked him into rehab.”

  Though there was a treatment facility for each and every mile of Malibu coastline, Gabe couldn’t figure out why the drummer had to bring his buddy here of all places. Was it so he could then drop in on Cassandra, his beautiful, obviously enthusiastic former prom date?

  “Stop looking like that, Gabe,” Cassandra said, frowning at him. “You’re not one to judge.”

  A trickle of shame slithered down his spine. Shit. He didn’t deserve the feeling, damn it. Neither Froot Loop nor her dedicated drummer boy knew the demons he faced or if they would do any better against them.

  Carver’s eyes narrowed. “So, this is your curmudgeonly landlord?” His voice was easy; his gaze wasn’t.

  Gabe gritt
ed his teeth. “I take her rent money every month.”

  “Yeah, and what else?” Carter asked. He crossed his arms over his own chest, his pose matching Gabe’s. Except Gabe didn’t have a voluptuous babe inked on his skin, one with truly awesome tits and red-painted toenails that seemed to balance on the band of his platinum-and-steel watch. “What else do you take from her?”

  Cassandra stepped between the two of them. “Healthy meals, whenever I can wean him off saturated fats and high-fructose corn syrup. Now, Carver, stop bristling and tell me you’re coming back to my place for tea and cookies.”

  Looking into her pretty face, the other man relaxed. The backs of his fingers trailed down her cheek. “That’s the plan, doll. Knowing the cell reception’s shit out here, I told my people I’d be heading to your place. Gave them the number because I’m expecting a call from the president of my fan club. You’ve still got that landline, right?”

  “Yep.” She gave a little bounce of pleasure. “If you’ll wait just a minute, I have a few things to do in the back and then we can go.”

  “Take your time, doll,” Carver called to her retreating form. “I’m sure Gabe and I can find something to talk about.”

  When she disappeared around a corner, the younger man pivoted toward him, his face set. “I just have one thing to say. Screw with her and I’ll kill you.”

  Gabe shook his head, trying not to let his annoyance show. “What do you think you know about me or about the two of us?”

  “I’ve got e-mail, all right? And this is Cassandra, dude. She can type almost as fast as she can knit. You know her. She’s pretty much set on ‘Spill All’ all the time.”

  Christ. Was she telling the world he’d bedded her that night after the Beach Shack? “Look—”

  “No. You look. She’s special and I can’t figure out why she’d think you’re worth scraping off bar floors, but—”

  “I’ve heard this lecture before,” Gabe ground out, impatient with the second round of shame snaking through him. “And I’m not inclined to listen to it another time.” Especially coming from some too-pretty, globe-trotting musician who’d bought Gabe’s nun neighbor sister friend a wrist corsage once upon a time.