by Lori Foster
“How often do we usually see each other in a week, anyway?”
She rubbed her temples, trying to remember life before this dating-or-death life-style. Simpler times! “I don’t know. Four times a week, maybe?”
“Exactly. Out to the movies on Tuesday, football on Saturday or Sunday, or Monday night.”
“Or all three,” she added. “Or you’d drag your laundry here on Thursdays and watch TV.”
“My point exactly.” He leaned his head back on the sofa. “How often do we see each other now?”
The point struck home. “Okay. The dating thing has gotten a little out of hand.”
“Angel, I’m barely seeing you once a week. I feel like you’ve moved to Tahiti or something.” He ran his fingers distractedly through his hair. “I hate to admit it, but I miss you.”
She swallowed the lump that was forming in her throat. “Hah. You’ve probably just got a load of dirty clothes so big, it’s impossible to leave your house.”
“Well, there’s that, too,” he said, chuckling. “But I can always buy a washer and dryer. I can’t get another friend like you.”
She smiled and moved her head to rest on his shoulder. Like a reflex, he curved his arm around her.
“So I figured, if I have to start scheduling dates with my best friend, then that’s what I’ll do. Whatever it takes to keep our friendship, angel.”
“I don’t know how Dana’s going to feel about this,” Charlotte said, snuggling drowsily against his chest. “She knows how bad I am when I’m with you.”
“True enough,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. She sent him a sleepy giggle. “But she didn’t say she’d pick who you were dating, as long as you were dating, right?”
“A date with Gabe,” she mused, lulled by his warmth. He rested his chin on the top of her head, and she chuckled. “Hell has frozen over.”
She felt his laughter reverberate through his chest, beneath her cheek. She sleepily realized that she was happy. She wanted to stay like this all night, this warmth curling through her, the deep sound of his breathing beneath her, her arms around him.
So invite him to spend the night.
Mmm.
Wait a minute. What was that?
She suddenly shot up, wide-awake, and got to her feet. She was too tired if she could come up with an idea that preposterous. “I’m falling asleep here, Gabe,” she said quickly. “Consider it a date. What do you want to do?”
He smiled and stood next to her. Could she actually feel waves of heat coming off the man? She took a prudent step toward the door, but he followed her.
“There’s a Raider game at eleven, which should give you plenty of time to sleep,” he said, winking at her. “After that, I don’t know. Maybe a video or something.”
Now this was more familiar. “Do I get to pick the movie,” she teased, “or is it going to be another testosterone fest where we watch two lines of grunting dialogue and two hours of explosions?”
He laughed. “Fine. Be a girl. You can pick the movie, and I’ll spring for dinner. Pizza okay?”
“You know it’s my favorite.”
He rubbed the top of her head with his hand, rumpling her hair. “Groping, of course, is optional. I know you can’t keep your hands off of me.”
She elbowed him in the ribs, gratified by the “oof” he let out. “Get out of here, you bum,” she said, trying not to laugh. This was more normal. After all she’d been through in the past three days, it was about time.
Grateful for his caring, she leaned up to kiss him, a quick, typical peck on the cheek. He must have had the same intention, since he was already leaning down toward her face. She just turned a little too fast.
His lips connected to hers like metal to lodestone, unerring, a magnetic connection. Her eyes widened to see his eyes widen, too, with just as much surprise.
Then his eyes closed, and she was lost.
It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but she felt his mouth move, his lips part fractionally. Every nerve ending she had seemed to tingle to life. She didn’t mean to, but she felt her body lean forward, her head tilt back.
It was electric.
He must have felt the current jolt through him, because he jerked back, as if shocked from a socket. He blinked twice, then shrugged. “Um, good night, angel.”
“G’night.” She hurriedly closed the door behind him, locking the dead bolt. She peered through the peephole at his dark silhouette, strolling down her walkway. Then, on shaky legs, she went over to the kitchen and poured herself a tall glass of ice-cold water.
Okay. If that wasn’t irony, she didn’t know what was.
Legions of hormones had suddenly snapped to attention with one little, insignificant, accidental kiss. With Gabe, no less. How was that for dumb luck?
Well, at least it cleared up one of the more pressing questions of the evening. She knew it wasn’t that she was frigid, or that she’d have problems with getting close to a man. If it had been anyone else but Gabe, that kiss would have gone a lot hotter and a lot longer.
But it was Gabe, darn it! Where was the justice in that?
Suddenly, an example from work popped into her head. She’d told her toughest client that just because they’d had a bad experience with one designer didn’t mean that they’d have bad luck with all designers. It didn’t matter how great the concept was: it had to be designed for the client, or it wouldn’t work at all.
You have to go with what works for you…not what people tell you to like.
She smiled. In theory, Jack was perfect, Gabe was pointless. Too bad her body thought otherwise.
Suddenly, she blinked.
That’s it!
The advice rolled in her head like thunder. That had been the problem with all the makeover stuff. When she was younger, she’d been hesitant to go into fashion designing, thinking it too “girly” and obviously out of her realm. So she’d let other people make those design decisions for her, and she’d ended up with stuff other people had told her to like. She had never trusted her own instincts, until the dress tonight. And she had felt spectacular!
She rushed to her design studio, tearing out a huge sketch pad and breaking into her carefully organized tackle box filled with colored pens. She never felt comfortable in pastels, and she didn’t like all those fragile, baby-doll designs. If she stuck with what she wanted, what could she come up with?
She tore into the paper, drawing hurriedly, all thoughts of Gabe, Jack, the Hoodlums and the girls gone.
It was brilliant, she thought. And it was going to work.
7
GABE WAS VACUUMING his house at ten o’clock Sunday morning.
That was a strange-enough event. Ordinarily, he believed that Sunday mornings were meant for one thing, and one thing only: to sleep in, waking only to take in food or catch a football game. But his eyes had popped open at around six in the morning, and he could not get back to sleep.
Friend or not, he had a “date” with Charlotte.
Not that it was a real date. He’d been very cautious about that, he assured himself, vacuuming around his coffee table. It was all part of a carefully laid-out plan. She’d come over, they’d indulge in all their favorite activities, and it would occur to her that she enjoyed her life just the way it used to be. She would remember how happy she was before she changed her look, before she met Jack, and before Gabe had opened his big fat mouth and very nearly ruined his “perfect life.” Then she’d give up manhunting for good, get back into her old clothes, and things would be just the way they used to be.
He sighed, shutting off the vacuum and grabbing a dust rag. If they could ever be just the way they used to be.
Last night had scared the hell out of him. He’d just about swallowed his tongue when he saw her standing there, a vision in red satin. She’d looked seductive and exotic, and he’d felt an involuntary tug of desire shoot through him before he reminded himself yet again of exactly who she was. He’d had to repeat that litt
le reminder over and over for the rest of the night. When he saw her walk off with Jack, he’d been ready to strangle someone. He’d left immediately after, and gotten to her house with the misguided thought of “protecting” her. If Jack were half as hormonally driven as the average man, he’d have tried anything possible to get Charlotte into bed. Gabe knew that he sure would have.
If he were Jack, that is, he quickly amended. He nervously dusted off his bookcase.
He was relieved to find that Jack wasn’t in Charlotte’s house last night, but his relief turned to alarm when she asked him to unzip her, revealing all that smooth, creamy skin, and that sexy black bustier. He’d had to get himself a glass of water when she’d been in the other room. He’d almost fled then and there, but by then he’d come up with this crazy “date” plan. At this point, he’d be willing to dress in drag if he thought it might get things back the way they used to be.
He put away the vacuum cleaner and got out paper towels and glass cleaner, heading for his balcony doors. The problem was, as good an idea as this was, he wasn’t sure if he could go through with it. His body was starting to boss around his mind, and his conscience…well, frankly, his conscience was always about two minutes too late to really be useful.
He wanted Charlotte. That kiss had come out of the blue, just when he had gotten comfortable. It had sucker-punched him, and he couldn’t flee the house quickly enough. He had thought maybe Charlotte had looked dazed, but he hadn’t stayed still long enough to really tell.
He’d…well, he’d never really considered her as dating material before. When they’d been younger, she was always that tomboy kid who hung around. When he’d come back from college, she was still grieving over that guy, and he’d felt absurdly protective. He was also still raising hell, and instinctively he knew that Charlotte wasn’t that type of woman. She had become his best friend because he could talk to her about things that were too deep to be shared with the Hoodlums, too painful to discuss with his family. When his relationships had gone south, she was the first person he called. When he’d been promoted to vice president at Lone Shark, she was there with a bouquet of cookies on lollipop sticks, of all things. She was the closest person to him on the face of the earth.
No way was he screwing that up because his body had temporarily disconnected itself from his brain. Dammit, it would have been so much easier if she’d just stayed safely shrouded in those sweatshirts and jeans!
He put away all his various cleaning supplies. He plumped up the pillows on his sofa with a vengeance, venting some of the frustration he was feeling. Then he sat down, heavily, sinking into the cushions.
Okay. Obviously, this strange attraction was something they both felt. He knew too much about women not to recognize the bemused look in her eyes and the quickening of her pulse. But he knew that was just because she hadn’t really been kissed in years. She was a fledgling, just stepping back out into the sensual world. The idea torched his desire even more, imagining what he could teach her. Brutally, he brought himself back to focus.
One, he thought. She doesn’t have these strange feelings about me, obviously, or she would have invited me to stay.
Two, she is new to this sensual stuff. That made her like a baby rattlesnake: twice as dangerous, because she didn’t know about control, and didn’t know her own power.
Three, he did know how to control himself…and he knew just how lethal she could be.
So what was the answer?
The answer, he told himself firmly, was not to touch her, not get close to her, not do anything that might possibly be misconstrued as anything.
He knew what he was doing, he thought, feeling better than he had since this whole thing had snowballed so absurdly. No woman on earth had ever tempted him into turning his back on a friendship, especially one this important.
“Gabe?” He heard Charlotte’s voice echo up his stairwell.
“Come on up,” he said confidently. It was all good. He could handle it. He was back in control.
She stepped in, arms full of bags and two sketch pads. “Gabe, you have no idea what happened!”
He stared at her. “You’re right. What happened?”
“I got hit by the enlightenment stick. Right between the eyes.” She dropped the sketch pads on his coffee table, opening them up. The drawings he saw were incredible, but it was fashion stuff. As far as he knew, all she’d ever produced were outstanding logos and corporate designs. These sketches had a vitality he’d never seen before in her work, though.
“Wow.” He flipped pages. “These are incredible, angel. What exactly happened?”
“I…well, we don’t really need to get into the reason why,” she said hastily, “but I finally figured out what was wrong with the whole makeover thing. I’d been going by what Derek wanted me to be, or what Dana wanted or what Bella wanted. Once I figured out what I wanted, it was a snap!”
She pointed to the sketch pads. “I don’t like bows, or frills, and I absolutely hate pastels,” she said enthusiastically. “If I keep it minimal, and comfortable, I can still look good!”
He laughed at her vehemence. “This should be interesting to see.”
“Wait! I can show you!” She tore into one of the bags she had lugged up his stairs. He watched with amusement as clothes were suddenly strewn across his extraordinarily immaculate living room. “I dug out the old sewing machine I used in design school, for exhibit pieces and things, and made up a couple of samples.”
He glanced around. There was a surprising amount of clothes spread out there. “What time did you finally go to bed?” he asked, picking up what he assumed was a skirt.
“Huh? Oh. I haven’t been to bed yet. I just took a shower and changed into this before I left,” she said brightly. Then, suddenly, she took off her shirt.
“Hey!” he said, but before he could stop her, her jeans were unbuttoned and unzipped. They were halfway down her hips before he got to her. “What are you doing?” he yelped.
She blinked at him. “I wanted to show you this outfit. I can’t believe I of all people am saying this about clothes, but it’s viciously sexy. You gotta see it.”
“No,” he said patiently, trying desperately to stop the blood that had rushed uncomfortably between his legs. Seeing her in a plain white bra and matching panties was viciously sexy enough, thanks very much! “I mean, why don’t you change in the bathroom?”
She laughed. “Have you seen how many outfits I brought over? It would take way too long.” She kicked off her jeans and grabbed for a small royal-blue number. “Now, where is the top for this?”
She was killing him, he thought, a protest strangling in his throat. Oh, this had been such a very, very bad idea.
She shimmied into the skirt and top. “Now. What do you think of this?” She did a slow turn. “You’ll have to imagine the heels, of course, and the cloth is some stuff I was using for color studies for a big exhibit piece I was working on. But it gives the idea.”
It gave the idea pretty well, he thought. It wasn’t too revealing, but it emphasized her legs and gave a good display of her chest. The color made her skin glow, as if she’d been painted by Rembrandt.
“Very…very nice,” he stammered.
“Wait! Wait. I’ve got a better one in here. Where did I put that?” She tore through the bags again, and he prayed for strength. She started to drop the skirt again and peel off the top.
“Okay, why don’t we dump all this stuff in the bathroom, Charlotte?” he said, collecting strewn articles of clothing and averting his eyes. This was more than any red-blooded man could take!
“Gabe, you’re holding the dress I wanted to show you….”
“You know, you’re not in any frame of mind for a fashion show,” he said hurriedly, still not looking at her. Remain calm. We can talk her out of this. “I think you’re really on the right track with what you’ve shown me, but you know me. I’m not any real judge of fashion.”
“Gabe,” she reminded him, “you�
�re the vice president of a sportswear company.”
“Oh.” She would have to point out the obvious. “I mean women’s fashions.”
“Don’t you have a women’s line, too?”
“On you, I mean,” he said, finally turning around. Then wished he hadn’t.
It was more than a quick glimpse of underwear this time. She was standing there, practically tapping her foot with impatience. Her cotton panties were bikinis cut high on her thighs. Her arms were crossed, and one bra strap was hanging down on her shoulder. Her hair was damp and curling in wavy disarray.
She looked brutally hot. Desire hit him like a tidal wave.
“You’re humoring me, aren’t you?” she said, eyes narrowed.
It took him a second to form a coherent sentence. “No, I’m not.”
She brightened. “Good. Then hand me that deep purple dress you’ve got in your left hand.”
“Charlotte, I really think you ought to go change in the other room.”
“Why?” she said. “You’re just my friend, and there’s nothing on me you haven’t seen before on someone else.”
He sat down. She had summed it all up: he was just her friend. Obviously she was having no problem drawing that line. If she was okay with it, then why shouldn’t he be? He’d seen plenty of gorgeous babes wearing much less than Charlotte had on.
But he’d never had these kind of restraints on himself, either.
He sat on his couch, trying not to squirm, or even breathe, as she slipped in and out of design after design. She really had a flair, one he would not have suspected, he noticed absently. The clothes she had come up with looked comfortable, amazingly simple, yet they made her look absolutely seductive. The colors weren’t at all like the things she had bought when the bet started. They were vibrant, deep colors that made her dark hair and bright eyes look even richer.
Not to mention the effect they were having on his peace of mind.
The worst part of her performance, though, was her little quick changes…a flash of toned muscle, a curve of breast being exposed and then covered by a soft hiss of material. He was being drawn on a rack of self-control, and Charlotte had absolutely no concept of what she was doing to him.
