The Weekend Wife

by Toni Blake

  Chapter Seven

  Max bolted toward the living room, ready to tear Carlo Coletti limb from sleazy limb.

  But he burst in only to find Carlo holding the stem of a broken glass, his shirt and jacket stained with dark liquid, and Kimberly saying, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Carlo!”

  “What the hell happened?” Max asked.

  They both looked up. “I’m so embarrassed,” she said. “Carlo made a toast and I’m afraid I clinked our snifters too hard. I broke them both and got brandy all over him.”

  Max’s body flooded with relief, even though his heart still pounded against his ribs. Everything was okay here. Carlo wasn’t attacking her. She wasn’t hurt. Nothing was wrong.

  “We’ll have your clothes dry cleaned, of course,” she was telling Carlo as she bent to grab some small towels from a cabinet beneath the bar, making Max grateful she’d checked out the place so well and knew just where such things were kept.

  She blotted one awkwardly against Carlo’s chest, making Max cringe inside. Little snake—even now, he was drawing her touch. Sort of, anyway. Thank God it was only sort of, or he’d be going crazy.

  And then he flinched. What was happening inside him? Why this crazed reaction to Kimberly doing her job?

  Ego, ego, ego.

  Just keep telling yourself that, buddy.

  “Oh no,” Carlo said then, his eyes planted squarely on Kimberly’s breasts. “Looks like the brandy splashed on you, too.”

  Shifting his gaze, Max saw that indeed her chest was soaking wet. And Carlo was reaching for one of the dry towels.

  Max’s spine went ramrod straight. No way in hell. He rushed forward and snatched the towel from Carlo’s fist. “Babe,” he said, “you really must be more careful.” And then he tenderly pressed the towel against the low neckline of her dress, gently blotting away the wetness.

  He tensed when he she pulled in her breath, and their gazes met. He hadn’t meant to startle her. He’d only wanted to protect her from Carlo. Sorry. He mouthed the word, his back to the slimy rat.

  “It’s all right.” Her reply came in a breathy whisper.

  And their gazes stayed locked. And he thought he glimpsed longing in her eyes. Thought he felt her wanting him to touch her there—but without the towel.

  And he hoped like hell he was wrong. Because this was no time for that. No time was the time for that. Not with them—not anymore.

  Yet her breasts were lush beneath his touch, the thin towel the only barrier between her flesh and his hands. And the hell of it was that it would be easy to want her, so damn easy…

  “Max,” she said, loud enough that it shook him alert, “you’ll need to get Carlo something else to wear.”

  “You’re right,” he replied, finally pulling the towel away from her damp skin and tossing it aside. “Why don’t you change, too, babe? I’ll come with you and find something for Carlo.”

  “Sure,” she said, then turned to the other man—who once again had been ousted from a clandestine moment between them and didn’t look happy about it. “Relax and help yourself to something else in the liquor cabinet, Carlo. We’ll be back in just a few.”

  As they exited the room, Max pressed his palm to the small of her back where her little black dress hugged her curves. But as they climbed the stairs, his thoughts were drawn back to the sound of her scream, and to the way it had run through him like a sword.

  An overreaction on her part, big time. Not an I-broke-a-glass-and-made-a-mess kind of scream. An I’m-being-molested kind of scream.

  And for the first time since it had happened, he had the chance to start getting angry. At the top of the stairs, he grabbed her wrist and spun her to face him. “Don’t ever do that again,” he snapped, though he kept his tone low enough that Carlo wouldn’t hear.

  Her eyes looked darker now, more brown, in the dim lighting of the upstairs hall. “Do what?”

  “Don’t scream like that unless you mean it.”

  “I meant it.”

  But he kept right on going, his ire reaching a fever pitch now. “Do you know how badly that scared me? Do you know what I thought was happening to you in there? You don’t scream like that unless something’s really wrong, Brandt. Got it?”

  Got it, she was supposed to reply. But she didn’t.

  Instead, her voice came out hushed and snide. “Something was wrong. And breaking those glasses wasn’t an accident. The guy’s hand was lingering dangerously close to my breasts, and he was ready to pounce. I had the feeling I might not be able to hold him off. So I went with my impulse and slammed my glass into his.

  “And for your information, I kind of felt like I needed you in there. You abandoned me without warning. I know this is my job, but your job is to be there if I need you, remember? So I’ll scream whenever I damn well feel like screaming. Now, do you got it?”

  Max blinked. Damn, he’d had no idea Carlo would make a move like that so fast, one heavy enough to put her in panic mode. And she was right—he should’ve been there. He’d misjudged Carlo’s technique. And he’d also been selfish—not wanting to have to watch the jerk get close to her.

  He took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Brandt. I should’ve been keeping an eye on things.”

  “And just so you know, I need a break. So I’m not going back down there.”

  “That’s fine,” he said. “I’ll handle it.”

  She was still glaring at him like she wanted to flay him alive, though—until finally she turned and stalked toward the master suite. He started to follow, when suddenly she stopped and whirled to face him again, one finger in the air. “But this doesn’t mean I can’t handle the guy, Tate.”

  “I didn’t say it did.”

  “Because I can. I can do my job, and you’d better not start thinking I can’t.”

  “Brandt, I didn’t—”

  “I’m not the same woman you knew, Tate. I’m no shrinking violet. I’m a lot tougher than before, a lot more capable. Got it?”

  What could he say to all that? Judging by what he’d seen so far, it seemed a completely valid self-assessment. “Got it.”

  Kimberly stepped from the oversize shower, glad to feel clean. Clean of the brandy. Clean of Carlo’s disgusting touches.

  Beyond the bathroom door, she heard movement in the master suite. “Tate, is that you?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  Stepping into the enormous closet, conveniently attached to the bathroom, she looked through her own contributions to the clothing that hung there. She pulled one of the nighties she’d brought from a satin-covered hanger, more than a little nervous about putting it on, but worry was useless at this point. Of course, had she known the kind of reaction she’d end up having to Max, she’d have definitely brought a wider variety of sleepwear. As it was, she was stuck wearing the short, pink, lacy nightgown that was really more of a slip.

  She changed into it with her back to the mirror, not wanting to see how much it revealed. And whether or not worry was useless, it was also seemingly impossible to prevent—even without looking in the mirror, she knew this thing was practically see-through.

  What on earth had she been thinking when she packed? Bring sexy clothes, Max had told her. That was what she’d been thinking. So she’d ravaged her closets and drawers for items that seemed sexy with little time to measure practicality. And now she had to walk out into the bedroom—the bedroom they had to share—and face him in this.

  But they were claiming to be professionals here, right? So…just act normal. Act normal—and so will Max. It was that simple.

  “Is Carlo all settled in for the night?” she asked through the door. A good, sensible, normal kind of question.

  “I showed him to one of the guestrooms, gave him some sweats to wear, and he went back down to watch TV,” Max replied on the other side. “He seemed disappointed, of course, that you didn’t come back down with me.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve had about as much Carlo Coletti as I can stand
for one night.” After the brandy incident, she’d been more than ready to call it a day. And Max couldn’t say she hadn’t earned her pay tonight.

  “Mind if I ask you a question, out of curiosity?” Max asked then.

  “Sure.” She returned to the bathroom and ran a brush through her hair, having kept it dry in the shower.

  “After seeing the way Carlo behaves around you,” Max said, “I find myself wondering—why would all these well-to-do women sleep with this raunchy guy? Frankly, I’m baffled. Can you shed any light on that?”

  Still brushing her hair, she gave a light shrug even though he couldn’t see her. “He’s sort of a handsome man, Tate.”

  “He is?”

  She smiled to herself, amused at how shocked he sounded. “Well, yeah. Sure, he’s a jerk and an obvious letch, but if a woman were, say, suffering from low self-esteem or in a bad marriage or something, maybe she would choose not to see that. Maybe having a guy fall all over you and give you compliments could make you feel special or something.”

  It took Max a minute to reply. “What about you? He didn’t make you feel special or something, did he?”

  He almost sounded jealous. Almost. But she decided his question more likely stemmed from fear that she’d soften toward Carlo and botch things up—that he was afraid this was just another version of the Carpenter case all over again.

  Still, she kept her cool and answered without getting upset. “No, he makes me feel creeped-out. But I’m just not sure all women would realize what kind of a guy he is. I know it seems obvious to you. And to me, too. But women thrive on flattery, Tate. And if a woman feels alone or neglected or something, well, I could see it happening.”

  “Hmm.” That was all he said. So she didn’t know what he thought of her response, if he was out there doubting her abilities again or something.

  Though at the moment, she had other things to worry about. Because she was done getting ready for bed, but she was still standing in front of the mirror and…yikes—this nightie was revealing!

  Act normal. Just act normal. She took a deep, fortifying breath.

  I’m coming out now. She thought about announcing that through the door. But that wouldn’t exactly be very normal, would it? So she held her tongue and prepared to exit, her stomach battling more of those grenade-wielding butterflies that she’d become acquainted with since seeing Max again. Oh boy, this wasn’t gonna be easy. Think normal, she commanded herself.

  She took a deep breath and twisted the doorknob. Then pulled the door open and casually entered the bedroom. Max lay on the bed wearing a pair of white drawstring pajama pants, no shirt. He looked so good. Which didn’t help her nervousness one bit.

  Walking around to the other side of the bed, she remained thankfully unnoticed—until he glanced up from the magazine he was flipping through.

  “Is that what you brought to sleep in?” She could feel his eyes on her, practically aghast.

  Swallowing hard, she forced herself to look at him. “Well,” she explained, “I didn’t think ratty pajamas would really fit my new image.”

  “He’s won’t be in bed with us, Brandt.”

  She pulled back the covers. “Well, you said it was possible he’d sneak around in the night or something weird like that. I thought he might see me.”

  “Too much of you.”

  His eyes stayed glued to her.

  And his tone almost made her think…no, couldn’t be.

  But then, there had been that kiss. That soul-stirring, weaken-your-knees kiss. He’d even used his tongue.

  “I thought letting him see too much of me was the idea here,” she pointed out. And she knew she shouldn’t say the rest of what was in her head, knew it was a stupid, crazy thought—but she was tired, and when she got tired she sometimes couldn’t think clearly enough to stop herself from saying stupid, crazy things. “You sound jealous, Tate.”

  He slanted her a look that said, You’ve got to be kidding. “Don’t be ludicrous. And the idea is to be friendly to the guy, Brandt—not incite him to attack you.”

  She chose not to reply. But as she slid beneath the sheets—made of some kind of fabulous silk that felt glorious next to her skin—she wondered if that was what Max wanted to do, attack her. He said no, of course. But his eyes said yes.

  Though that was when she remembered. She’d never been able to read his eyes. What looked like lust to her was just as likely annoyance, or maybe even some kind of disgust. And besides, when would she get it through her thick head, once and for all? Everything Max did in front of Carlo was pretend. And everything he did away from Carlo was belligerent. Even if he had tolerated her outrage in the hall. But she’d been justified about that and he knew it. Any way you sliced it, this was still all business.

  She only wished it were that way for her—all business. She wished she saw Max as only a co-worker. Because how on earth was she was going to sleep next to him like this—on silk sheets, no less—without going crazy? She shook her head in frustration against the fluffy silk-covered pillow beneath her, then pulled the covers up over her breasts, pressing her bare arms to her sides above the sheets. Think normal, think normal, think normal.

  Oh, who was she kidding? This was about as far from normal as any situation she’d ever been in. And what she felt for Max—in every sensuously-charged fiber of her body at the moment—was far from normal, too. She had a feeling it was going to be a very long night.

  “Ready for lights out?” he asked.

  “Sure.” Only then she turned to look at him. “Though…when you say lights out, you mean, like, for a little while. Until you get your imaginary call, right?”

  Max turned the question over in his head, then told her what he’d been thinking. “I’ve decided we’ll hold off on that.”

  And she blinked, looking understandably surprised. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve had a long night with Carlo.”

  “But I took the break I needed and—”

  “And you’ve had a long night, like I said,” he told her again, the words coming out a little sterner than he intended. “Since he’s staying over and we have the whole weekend, we’ll postpone the theft until tomorrow.”

  “When?” She sounded put out, like she thought he was blaming her for something.

  “I don’t know yet. When the time is right.”

  “The time seems right enough to me right now,” she told him. “I don’t see any reason to stretch this out.”

  He could see her point, could see why she just wanted to be done with it.

  But the timing didn’t feel right to him, even if he couldn’t put his finger on why. Maybe because they’d all had a few drinks and he wasn’t sure he or Kimberly were at their sharpest. Maybe he’d decided the theft couldn’t happen with her wearing that tiny little bit of clingy fabric she had on, that it left her too vulnerable to unwanted groping from their “guest.” But whatever the reason, what it came down to was, “Well, I’m the boss and I make the calls, and this is the call I’m making. Now—ready for lights out?”

  She replied with a disgruntled sigh and an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Whatever you say, Tate.”

  Good enough. Especially since that was likely as good as it was going to get. So he set his magazine aside, reached up and flipped the switch that darkened the room, then settled on his back with one thought in his head. What a relief.

  But then again, not really. The only real relief was that the room was dark and he could quit trying to look so unaffected by the sight of her. Yet affected he was.

  He’d seen her nipples through that silky pink fabric. A dark, rosy color, they’d been poking prominently against the front of her sexy little gown. What had she been thinking—bringing that to wear to bed with him? Not to mention to seduce Carlo in—a notion that nearly made him shudder with revulsion.

  Well, the answer didn’t matter. What mattered was that the picture of those taut, rose-colored buds had planted itself firmly in his m
ind now and he knew there was no way he’d quit thinking about her any time soon.

  He wanted desperately to roll over and touch her breasts. He wanted to kiss their enticing peaks. He remembered Kimberly’s breasts clearly—too clearly. Round and soft and very sensitive, they’d filled his hands perfectly. Her nipples had always beaded instantly when he touched them, and they'd hardened into tiny pebbles against his tongue.

  And God, it would be easy, so easy…but no longer just easy to want her—the fact was, he already did. He didn’t want to feel that way—he wanted to keep right on denying it—but he was hard as a rock beneath the covers and there was no denying that.

  Now it would be easy to roll over onto her. To plant another of those full, deep kisses on her perfect mouth. To take those two sweet mounds of flesh into his eager hands. To press his aching erection into the place where he knew she was soft and warm.

  Get hold of yourself, Tate. You’re on the job here, for God’s sake—quit acting like a fourteen-year-old boy who just saw his first naked woman.

  He rolled over away from her to be sure he didn’t make a tent of the covers. And he decided that she’d been right earlier—this was inappropriate, them sleeping next to each other. But he hadn’t planned on feeling this way, hadn’t really expected it at all, so he hadn’t foreseen this problem.

  And, well, she was pissed at him now anyway for changing the plan—among other things probably—and that was actually good, under the circumstances. One more reason to push down his lust.

  But damn it, on top of everything else, she smelled good, too. Like the after-bath spray he remembered she loved—a sexy, musky scent that always made him think of summertime heat. She must still put it on each night before she went to bed. How would he last the night—smelling her like this, remembering the sight of her breasts through that sheer little gown, wanting to feel her and taste her?

  He rolled onto his back again. And then he rolled once more, to face her, to watch her sleeping in the faint glow of the moonlight that shone dimly through the windows.