The Harder They Fall

by Jill Shalvis

  “Heavy, no,” he admitted. “But that vinyl was slippery. You’re lucky I didn’t drop you right in the toilet.”

  A giggle escaped her at the memory of the indescribable look on Hunter’s face yesterday, but it quickly backed up in her throat when she watched his gaze roam down the length of the two-piece teal bodysuit she wore.

  “No vinyl today, I see.”

  There’d been a time when she’d been made to wear nothing but school uniforms, then the most conservative of business clothes while attending college. Now she dressed for herself, and no one else, and if that meant she went a little wild sometimes, what did it matter? She liked it. “No, no vinyl today.” Because she knew he disapproved of her, she didn’t bother to explain that she didn’t like vinyl either.

  He cleared his throat. “About the hole—”

  Her phone rang, and Trisha hesitated. It was late Sunday afternoon and that could mean only one person. Her uncle Victor. No way would she answer it this week. No way would he make her feel guilty or depressed about her life and how she’d chosen to lead it.

  Ring, ring, ring.

  No way, she repeated to herself as her hand itched to stop the ringing. Not even if the man was still grieving ... oh, hell. She was stubborn, not heartless. Shoving both the cat and the red lace teddy she still held at the baffled doctor, she whirled for the phone.

  Hunter stared down at the burden in his hands. Duff immediately demanded, loudly, to be released, and Hunter let him go. But the soft, satiny thing ... God.

  He could picture her in it, all that thick, flowing hair behind her, shimmering eyes, that tight body filling out the silk.

  What was it she’d called him? The stuffy scientist? He was well aware that he’d come off formal and reserved. But she’d unnerved the hell out of him in the bathroom the day before, and now he was flustered beyond belief from just fingering the woman’s underwear.

  What was it about this chatty, crazy lady that did that to him?

  His department would enjoy this. The Devil himself, flustered by a wild pixie of a woman who didn’t know how to dress, whose apartment looked like a cyclone had hit it. Who sold underwear for a living.

  Order. After having grown up in this very sort of environment, with a flighty actress for a mother and a wanderlust-struck artist for a father, Hunter liked order in his life. Apparently, Trisha didn’t know the meaning of the word. Unwanted memories stung him. How many times had he been willing to sacrifice his needs for the people in his life, only to have them throw those needs back in his face?

  Well, no more. He wanted organization, control, routine, and he’d get it. But being here, with this woman who somehow drove him to forget what he wanted and needed, was dangerous. His insides tightening uncomfortably, he straightened and set down the lingerie. He needed out of this house, badly.

  “They hung up before I got there.” Trisha replaced the receiver and looked immensely relieved. She sighed deeply, and in doing so, brought his attention to her bare stomach. Her flat, tanned, bare stomach.

  “You mentioned your lease before,” Hunter said carefully, a little desperately.

  She stiffened. “What about it?”

  “I’ll buy it out,” he said recklessly.

  Her expression didn’t change. “Absolutely not.”

  Two

  “Think about it,” Hunter suggested while hopelessness coursed through his veins. What if she wouldn’t leave? “I’ll make a very generous offer.”

  “No.” Trisha lifted her shoulders, stretching her top high on her ribs, outlining the firm curves of her breasts. “You’re stuck with me.”

  He had to take a deep breath and turn away. Concentrating on the mess that was her home helped. That is, until he focused in on the red and black satin teddies strewn over her couch. Of their own accord, his fingers reached out and scooped one up, the satin rubbing sensuously over his skin.

  Not your type, he had to repeat to himself, over and over again, like a mantra.

  It didn’t work.

  Following a method he’d perfected long ago when something or someone upset him, he closed his eyes and mentally counted to ten, waiting for the visions of this insane woman wearing nothing but silk to go away.

  “What are you doing?” he heard her ask, but he just kept counting. Four, five, six...

  “Are you ... counting?”

  Moving around him, she stared at him with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “You are. You’re counting.” She laughed, a light musical sound that had him grating his teeth.

  “Seven.”

  He hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud, but she laughed again. “Dr. Adams, you can’t be serious.”

  “Show me the hole,” he managed to say, rather politely, he thought.

  But she just kept that infuriating smile in place and didn’t move. “You know what? I think you just play at this stodgy, superiority thing to intimidate people.”

  “What?”

  “It probably works with your ... whatever you scientists call your assistants,” she went on, undisturbed by his glare. “But here, Dr. Adams, in my apartment, we’re equals.”

  “I own the place.” Where the hell had that come from? I own the place. Good Lord, he sounded just like the intolerant jerk she thought he was. “I mean—”

  “I know what you mean.” She turned from him, entirely without the show of temper he expected, and sauntered back over to her stereo in her teal workout clothes that so nicely encased her—

  The stereo blared even louder as Trisha turned it up with a flick of her wrist, her face carefully devoid of that carefree expression he’d come to expect from her.

  He’d hurt her feelings. “Trisha.”

  There was no way he could hear himself think, much less have a conversation over the music, which he knew she’d turned up on purpose. “Trisha—”

  Smiling sweetly, she moved past him, grabbing the teddy from his hand as she went. The satiny material slid slowly through his fingers. Her thick hair brushed his arm.

  He still couldn’t think, but now it wasn’t the music that echoed in his brain. Nope. It was the scent of this irritating, sexy woman floating over him. Taking a deep breath, he tried again, knowing he had to straighten this matter out. “Trisha.”

  No one could hear a thing over that noise, and certainly not Ms. Malloy, who was obviously ignoring him. “Trisha, please. Could you turn that down?”

  She didn’t look at him, just started singing as she scooped her shipment off the couch one item at a time, draping them over her arm.

  “Trisha?”

  “Sorry,” she sang out with a smile, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Can’t hear you.”

  Moved by a temper he didn’t know he possessed, Hunter stalked to the door. Women, he reminded himself harshly, rarely fitted into his life, and this was proof positive. “Forget it,” he muttered. “I’ll send a contractor.”

  Once in the fresh air, free of the bewitching scent of that woman, Hunter sighed gratefully. He’d nearly tossed his good intentions aside and done what his body seemed to be aching to do—kiss the living daylights out of her. But he’d made it out safe, without making a fool of himself, close as it had been. After all, his self-control rivaled the best of the best.

  So why then, he wondered a bit desperately as he drove to his lab, couldn’t he get the sight of Trisha Malloy, his new and irritating tenant with the soft smile and wild ways, out of his head?

  Hunter sent a contractor and a cleaning crew to his new duplex, and then had dreams about the place every night for a week. Maybe nightmares was a better word, for the place seemed to obsess him. Or rather, the tenant in it did. What was it about the woman who dressed so outrageously? Was it her huge, sweet eyes and generous, smiling mouth, which seemed to clash with the image she projected?

  Maybe it was even baser than that, nothing more than her husky voice and incredibly lush body.

  Whatever it was, he had to admit, he was fascinated in a way he hadn
’t been in a long time.

  He dropped his elbows to his desk and rubbed his temples.

  “Darling, you are going to sell it, aren’t you?”

  He glanced up and mentally groaned at the sight of his mother. “How did you get past security?”

  “Our World, of course.” Gloria Ann Whitfield Adams smiled and patted her sleek, red bob. She had red lips, red nails, and wore a hot red dress with four-inch heels in fire-engine red to match. “The entire front desk downstairs claims never to have missed an episode. I signed their uniforms.”

  Hunter had a clearance of the highest level, and security scrutinized him every morning. His mother just waltzed right in. “Good thing the Cold War is over.”

  “Don’t be angry, darling. A television star always attracts attention.”

  His mother, a diva of daytime for nearly thirty years, the same woman who had made and lost more fortunes than Hunter could count, sent him an innocent smile. He sighed deeply at that smile, knowing he was in for it. “I’m really busy today.”

  “Nonsense,” she declared. “You can never be too busy for your mother.” Casually, she ran her fingers over his latest flight experiment, a one-eighth-scale steel model of the telescope he’d take with him on his next space-shuttle mission—the telescope that would allow him to study the strange and unusual gathering of air molecules one hundred miles into Mars’s atmosphere. Under her questing and not too gentle fingers, the delicate eyepiece gave slightly.

  For peace of mind, he scooted the model back. He could ask her not to touch, could tell her that this latest multibillion-dollar project just might make it possible for mankind eventually to take a trip to Mars, but he didn’t bother.

  It had no place in her whirlwind world, therefore, she couldn’t care less.

  “So,” she said casually, which put his guard up instantly, since nothing was ever casual with Gloria, “when do you sell?”

  “Sell what?”

  She sighed the sigh of a martyr dealing with a half-wit. “That monstrosity that Aunt Eloise left you. It’s worth a fortune.”

  “Is it?”

  “You know that it is. It’s in a high-dollar district on nearly an acre of land.” Perfectly made-up green eyes batted at him.

  “Big loss again this weekend in Vegas, huh?”

  Her lips tightened imperceptibly. “Why do you assume it was me? It could have been your father, you know. The way he haunts Paris as if just being there were going to give him that famous reputation he’s always chasing. It’s humiliating, if you ask me. Everyone knows artists don’t become well-known until they’re dead. And he’s far too stubborn to die.”

  This conversation was definitely not a new one. His parents, married twenty years, divorced ten years, and now living together, couldn’t seem to decide if they loved or hated each other. It never failed to confuse him. “Mother—”

  “If you sold that place, it would be only fair for you to divide the profit. Eloise was my favorite aunt, you know.”

  He laughed. His mother and Eloise had barely tolerated each other. “Now I know you lost last weekend. How much?”

  “It’s not funny.” She sank into the nearest chair, tossed her head back dramatically, and covered her eyes with her hands. “I came to throw myself on your mercy and you’re laughing at me.”

  “How much do you need?” he asked more gently, sighing as he glanced at his watch. Five minutes until his staff meeting, and if he didn’t get rid of her before then, he would hear about it for the rest of the week. He’d never understand why his personal life riveted his staff members so.

  His mother smiled at him, her eyes shining with warmth and affection. “You’re so good to me, Hunter. You always have been.”

  He got out his checkbook.

  “What are you going to do with the place?”

  “Maybe I’ll live in it.”

  His mother laughed. “You? In a house like that?”

  He stilled, though he knew she didn’t mean anything hurtful by the comment. “Would that be so ridiculous, me wanting and having a home?”

  She laughed again and patted his arm. “We Adamses weren’t meant to be tied down by such mundane chores as taking care of a house.”

  He knew that philosophy well, he’d grown up on it. Still, something deep within him yearned for things to be different.

  “Besides,” his mother continued with raised eyebrows, “if you were meant to have a place like that, neither Sally nor Darlene would have left you standing at the altar.”

  “Nice, Mother.”

  “Look, darling, we all know you’re not cut out for that kind of life. Mowing lawns, chasing children ... watching football.”

  She had no idea what kind of life he was cut out for, she’d never known, but he didn’t feel like reminding her of that. Especially when, as he handed her a check, his secretary popped her head into his office.

  “Everyone’s here, Dr. Adams—oh, hello, Mrs. Adams.” Heidi, his usually reserved secretary, stopped in her hurried tracks and flashed a smile.

  “Thanks—” Hunter started to say, then ended on a silent moan when six members of his staff crowded into the office behind her. Every one of their conservative tongues waggled at the sight of his mother, looking twenty years younger than her fifty-three years, and casually stretching her mile-long legs.

  It took him twenty minutes after she left to calm them down enough to conduct his crucial meeting, and another twenty to finish answering the deluge of questions about his mother and her television career.

  To top off his irritation, he returned home only to find his wanderlust-driven father sprawled on his bed, booted feet on the spread, and food and drink scattered around the previously spotless room.

  “I thought you were in Paris,” Hunter said wearily, wondering why his parents couldn’t be grown-up as he imagined other parents were. He didn’t bother to ask how his father had gotten in. Where there was a chance, Patrick O’Reilly Adams could find a way.

  “I was.” His father stretched lazily. “All that money you make and you live in this hotel. Well, at least it’s got class.” He glanced around at the tasteful and expensive decor.

  Hunter tipped his head back and studied the ornate ceiling, wondering what he had done to deserve having to deal with both parents in one day.

  “Eloise has been busy, I understand,” his father said casually.

  “She’s dead,” Hunter said flatly, smelling need, greed, and a whole host of things that aggravated the hell out of him.

  “Yeah. But she left you quite a package.”

  The package that made up one Trisha Malloy filled Hunter’s head—soft brown eyes, flowing brown hair ... and black vinyl.

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Funny ... your ex-wife asked me the same thing today.”

  “Your mother? ... Your mother came sniffing around? Figures,” he said with disgust.

  “Guess she beat you to it.” Hunter shoved his father’s feet off the bed.

  “You’re going to sell the duplex, of course.”

  “Maybe.”

  His father laughed. “No offense, son, but what in the world would you do with a place like that? You don’t want to live there.”

  Was it such a joke that he had a secret fantasy to do exactly that? The place needed work, certainly, but that was superficial stuff. Beneath the dilapidated exterior was a beautifully structured home with more character than he’d seen in some time. It sat in South Pasadena, an affluent area, only minutes from work. So it was the eyesore of the entire block, but he could fix that. And he could turn it from a duplex into a single-family house with no trouble at all.

  “My God,” Patrick said, studying his son. “You do want to live there.” He laughed again.

  Hunter bit back his sigh. He had a ton of work to do, plus enough reading to keep him up all night. “Was there something you needed?”

  Of course there was.

  “Well, now that you mention it...”
His father stretched again and sighed. “I find myself rather short of funds.”

  Hunter closed his eyes and started counting silently.

  It was going to be a long—and expensive—night.

  By the time Hunter got back to the duplex the following weekend, the gaping hole in the bathroom ceiling had been repaired and the downstairs living space cleared of dust and dirt, courtesy of his efficient cleaning crew.

  The pathetic reproductions, however, remained. Regardless, a shimmer of something he almost didn’t recognize went through him—hope. The hardwood floors were a wreck, the painted walls were old and peeling, but somehow the place drew him. Despite its appearance, the house was alive with personality.

  It was a home waiting to happen.

  A home. A real home such as he’d never had, such as he’d only dreamed about.

  “I guess I’ll have to get a real peephole now, since you’ve covered up the one in my floor.”

  Trisha. Hunter hadn’t known what to expect, more vinyl maybe, or leather. He certainly didn’t expect to see her standing in the doorway wearing a short, full sundress that revealed a set of lean, toned legs a mile longer than the city limits.

  She smiled, parting full red lips. “How am I going to see what’s going on down here?”

  “You should be thanking me. Another guy might not have bothered to catch you.”

  Trisha walked into the cluttered living room and laughed, a full-throated, easy laugh that made Hunter think of a clear mountain spring.

  “Good point,” she said. A hint of white, frothy lace peeked out from the low, snug bodice of her dress, making his mouth dry.

  He shifted his weight with uncharacteristic nervousness as she appraised the length of his body with undisguised admiration. “I didn’t know you had to be so strong to look at things under a microscope.”

  “I spend very little time looking under a microscope.”

  “Hmm. Then what do you do?” she asked.

  “Lots of things. Fly.”

  “In space?”

  He had to smile at her incredulous tone. “Sometimes.”

  “You’re an astronaut.”