by Louisa Trent
Those second thoughts were a good thing; maybe they'd protect her from men like him.
“Go to bed,” he told her. “I'll be on the porch, cleaning up the glass.”
After he'd unzipped and cleaned his lack of control up at the sink. Reality could be a bitch.
He hadn't gotten any since meeting Sera. Hadn't even thought about getting any.
There were women he went to for sex. They weren't strictly ‘hos but they did accept help when the rent came due. With these women, he had what might be called an amicable understanding. That these women had this same understanding with several other suitors was just the way things went. As long as he didn't have to wait in a long line in the hall outside their apartments, he didn't mind sharing it and he didn't paying for it. Better to leave his cash on the nightstand next to the last guy's rental contribution than pretend the fucking meant something to either party.
Since Sera, he hadn't wanted to visit these women. He hadn't taken care of his manly needs in the shower either, like he shoulda oughta have done.
So here he was, red of face and sticky of boxers, nobly trying to do the right thing by a lady who was far too good for him.
“My nightgown is hanging on a hook on the door,” Sera said, her steps padding across the floor to where he stood, red of face and sticky of boxers, at the threshold.
The air stirred as her arm was raised. Her bare breast had to be within an inch of his biceps. She was so close that if he moved her nipple would stroke his hot skin.
He stood statue-still as she unhooked the nightgown from the door.
And then she was moving past him out the door and down the hall to her bedroom, leaving him trembling and alone against the damn doorjamb, breathing in the lingering scent of unrequited sex.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Any news yet on the Riverfront Project?” Tomas asked Myra the next day.
“Nothing official.” His administrative assistant looked up from her newspaper.
Terror struck his heart. When Myra spared him a glance, it was not a good sign. “What did you hear unofficially?”
“You don't stand a chance,” she said quietly-too quietly.
He took a deep, steadying breath. “I see. That's kinda what I thought.”
His dream was being flushed down the drain. Everything he'd worked so hard for was slipping away from him, not because he couldn't do the job, but because he didn't wear a suit, didn't have the right party manners.
“If you touted your own horn about what you've been doin’ to improve conditions on the Southside, stuffed shirts like Connor might be swayed to your side. Are you willin’ to let me leak your philanthropic activities to the press?”
“What I do, I do anonymously.”
“You said you'd do anything to get this project. Seraphina Norris is your anything. You need to improve your image, Tommie. She'd do that for you. I realize this is a drastic measure, but you've got no choice. You need some of the feel-good glitter the Norris woman is generating. Connor is a straight-laced kind of guy. Been married fifty years to the same woman and he highly recommends the institution.”
“Good for him. Glad to hear it-”
“And bad for you. He's made it known to various City Council members that he doesn't approve of your ‘swinging life style'. Connor doesn't think you project the right image for this redevelopment project. He wants a married guy with roots and a stake in the community.”
“I've got all that, except for the marriage license. And unless that comes with a guaranteed life-time warranty, I ain't interested.”
“Better get interested, Tommie. Marriage means stability. Responsibility. Family values...the waterfront contract. People are dependin’ on you for the jobs this project will generate.”
“Tell me you're not suggesting I get married to get this contract?”
“People get married for all kinds of weird reasons-”
“Not me. I'm not the marrying kind.”
“You know something?” she asked in the middle of her inquisition, and scrutinizing him closely. “You seem kinda tense. You need to unwind. Take a nice, long, soak in a hot tub-”
“In case you never noticed, Myra, this trailer doesn't come with a tub.”
“See that? That's exactly what I'm talking about! You need a tub. People with roots have bathtubs!”
Myra glanced at him over the tops of her bifocals. “And married men have the deepest roots. As soon as romance enters men's lives on a permanent basis, they get all content and start investing in the future.”
“Haven't you heard, Myra? Romance goes right out the door as soon as marriage enters the picture.”
“I'll have you know that my marriage is still romantic. Why, when the hubby and I are snuggling in bed...”
Tomas covered his ears. “Stop right there. What you and the hubby do in bed is a topic I have no intention of ever discussing with you.”
“Shush now! It's not what you think. I was only gonna say that my hubby still lets me rub my cold feet next to his warm ones in bed,” she said with a soft smile that belied her eligibility for senior discounts. “And he still makes me a cup of tea while we're relaxin’ in front of the tube so I don't have to get up. And in the winter, he warms up my car for me every morning before I leave for work. If that's not romantic, I don't know what is!”
“I do,” he grumbled. “And we're not talking about that either.”
An AARP magazine came flying at him. From years of fine-honed practice, he ducked in time.
He had the trailer door all the way open, and he was hot-footing his way through when Myra yelled after him: “Connor wants you to call him. ASAP. When you do, I strongly suggest you start droppin’ Mrs. Norris's name into the conversation. Get my drift?”
“I'm buried under it, Myra. Subtle you're not.”
The woman did not give up! Tomas thought, closing the trailer door tight behind him so the grit and noise of the site wouldn't disturb his sweetheart's mid-morning snooze.
* * * *
The last person Seraphina had expected to see at the doorstep that day was Tomas Ruiz.
But there he was in all his gorgeous splendor on the top stair, smiling and saying, “Hi,” as if nothing had happened between them the night before, as if she hadn't ‘pleasured herself’ to his tersely worded commands.
Feeling a little shy after being naked with him the night before, but thrilled all the same that he had stopped by for a visit, all she could think of to say in reply was a boring “Hello.”
He gave her a sexy smile, as if they shared some naughty secret, which they did, in a way. And no longer feeling quite as bashful, she relaxed.
The feeling lasted all of twenty seconds.
After he'd softened her up with the smile, he got immediately down to business. “How do you feel about my working on the windows?”
Her guards went right back up. A woman can only be rejected so many times in her life before she develops a self-protective suit of armor. Hers was about five years thick, and came with incredibly long, porcupine-like spikes.
How silly! She had thought this was a social call, that a genuine desire to see her had prompted Tomas Ruiz's visit! She should have realized that with men like Tomas Ruiz, business always comes first. He was here to lower the boom.
She cleared the hurt from her voice. “You want to work on the windows now?”
At his nod, gloom descended. Once all the windows on the porch were boarded up, darkness would hang like a pall over the house even during the day.
The mansion was his property; she couldn't prevent him from making necessary repairs. The gaping holes in her walls needed to be fixed, but she'd miss the sunlight.
Feeling sorry for herself, she held open the screen door for him to enter.
“It doesn't have to be done today. Why not wait?” she asked, hoping to delay the inevitable loss of light as long as possible.
“No time like the present,” he replied.
“But-but-you
were here ‘till late last night, picking up the broken glass on the porch.” While she, for the first time in months, slept soundly in her bed. That's what a little male attention did for a woman.
“You couldn't have gotten much rest,” she wheedled. “Aren't you exhausted?”
“I don't need much sleep.”
With a heavy thud, the toolbox was set on the floor.
She felt the weight of its finality in every depressed fiber of her being
Last night, without touching her, Tomas Ruiz had given her an orgasm. Her very first one. Having him in the room while she touched herself was darkly sexual. Remorselessly thrilling. Shamelessly exciting. Wickedly abandoned. Lonely too.
She wanted a man's hands on her body, all over her body. No parts off-limits. She wanted her hands to do the same for him. She wanted mouths hungrily joined, loins frantically pumping and thrashing. She wanted mindless mutuality. She wanted to make love, ferocious, politically incorrect love. Most of all, she wanted them both to feel something.
Tomas had forced her to come apart, to break like her glass window, while he had remained whole, aloof from the devastation. The knowledge that he had kept his control while she had lost hers was a bitter pill to get down.
She wanted Tomas as a lover, but she wasn't a fool. He hadn't spared her a touch last night, proving he didn't want her. The toolbox, heavy with nails to board up the rest of her windows, proved that he just wanted her gone.
So, let him do what he came here to do! He could board up every single window in the house, all the doors too, and that wouldn't change her mind. Her resolve to stay in the mansion was as strong as ever. A lonely climax didn't alter her position. A rock thrown through her window didn't alter her position. No charming smile would prompt her to leave earlier than what was her legal right.
Neither would subversive tactics. That's what last night was really all about. He was trying to get her to trust him so that he could convince her to leave before her month was up.
Tomas looked around the porch, taking in every piece of plywood. “You can't live in a boarded up building; it's not healthy.”
She knew it! He sounded so sympathetic. She knew it for the ploy it was.
Her chin quivered as she voiced last night's horrible suspicion. “Were you behind the rock throwing incident, Tomas?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I'd never do something like that.”
She wasn't sure of what he was capable of doing. All she knew is that he'd remained coolly reserved the night before, uninvolved, while she'd screamed his name at the top of her lungs. Could she believe Tomas, a man who so easily manipulated women?
“I'm staying here, Tomas, until I'm legally forced to leave.”
“Sera, be reasonable! You need air circulation. Sunlight too.”
She needed the school more. “I will not leave-”
He sighed. “I'll install the new glass windows and screens, one room at a time. The original wood casings are in good condition, so they stay.”
She did a double take. “Pardon?”
“You're already too pale, Sera. You need air and sunshine. By the end of the summer, I want you looking as brown and healthy as me.” His smile was arrogant and sexy. “The new windows should be delivered within the hour. “I've got a crew coming over to help with the installation, so they'll be up on the porch today.”
She was stunned. Oh, not by the smile. She was getting used to his posturing. But unless she was very much mistaken, it looked like she was staying in the Monroe mansion.
“You've decided not to rip down the house, haven't you?”
“I didn't say that.”
“You think the mansion is salvageable.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
She wanted to throw herself at him, wanted to clutch him to her, wanted to hug him until he turned blue, wanted to kiss him, with her tongue firmly planted in his throat until...until...they tumbled onto the floor and started ripping at one another's clothes.
Naturally, she did none of those things. No throwing herself into his arms. No breast clutching. No smothering hugging. No French kissing. Certainly, no garment ripping. Call it fear of rejection, call it good old-fashioned commonsense. Something was up with Tomas Ruiz. Something was definitely going on. A leopard doesn't change his spots over night, she thought suspiciously. Especially not spots as huge and glaring at Tomas Ruiz's spots.
“I'm helping with the installation,” she countered, giving not a hint of her apprehension away.
“In a dress?” he asked, strapping on his tool belt. “You want to pass me a hammer or something, that's fine with me, but pull on a pair of jeans first.”
“I don't own any.”
“You don't own jeans?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Never had a pair. I wasn't allowed to wear pants as a child. Only dresses. My folks didn't think pants looked very lady-like.”
“I know your parents were missionaries and everything, but you couldn't have been in church all the time.”
“No, I wasn't raised in a pew if that's what you mean. But my parents’ expectations were very high. From an early age, I was encouraged to be of service in the community, while setting an example to others by my behavior.”
“Ouch! Double holy whammy.”
“Ouch, indeed. My parents were wonderful people, if just a tad prehistoric.” She sighed. “I didn't have a typical upbringing, I guess.”
“That makes both of us.”
“Were you forced to wear dresses too?” she asked sweetly.
“Ha. Ha.” He reached into his tool chest. “If you want the renovation work finished by September, you'll need a crew here everyday, all summer. How many teachers have you hired so far?”
“One. Apart from Calia, no one else would work here.”
“Why's that?”
“Primarily because of the condition of the school.” And the area. But she needn't tell him that.
“How many teachers are you planning on hiring if and when the school gets remodeled?” he asked.
“Two each for woodwinds, brass, percussion, strings, voice and the various ensembles. Of course, there's also Suzuki.”
“You're teaching Japanese cooking?” he asked, straight-faced.
“No, silly!” she said, going along with the tease. “Suzuki is musical instruction for children aged four and up. It involves the whole family and is based on the belief that musical talent isn't inherited, but nurtured by a child's environment. All children share a natural potential to learn, and properly trained teachers help unfold it.”
“You know,” he said, deadpan, “I think cooking classes are a real good idea for the kids on the Southside.”
“I do too, but that's not the purpose of a music school.”
And what was Tomas Ruiz's purpose? His ulterior motive?
Clearly, he was up to something. His change of heart about the school was just too sudden.
“To get started,” she said, caution dampening her enthusiasm, “I'll need at least eight sound-proof rooms with a state of the art acoustical system in each.”
“That's a big job. The rooms will need to be gutted, then re-built to specification.”
“Is it doable?”
“Yeah, but-”
“That's all I need to hear,” she said, throwing caution to the winds. Whatever Tomas was up to, she'd deal with it when the time came.
Suddenly, she was feeling quite cheerful. “I'll need a written estimate for the work to give to the bank when I start shopping for a mortgage.”
“Sera, I never said I was selling you the mansion-”
“I know. You made no promises, but I like being prepared. And, when I invite the Connors over for dinner, we'll have some firm figures to discuss.”
At Tomas’ look of intense interest, her brows rose. Hmm-
“Do you know Fred Connors?” she asked, keeping her tone innocent.
“No,” he said, his tone uncharact
eristically subdued. “We've never met.”
“The Connors were old and dear friends of my parents,” she offered. “I only wish I understood construction better so I could explain things to Fred. He's agreed to help me in whatever way he can to get the school up and operational.”
She turned to leave. “I'll go change into a work dress now. When I return, I'll start handing you those tools.”
* * * *
Tomas liked teasing Sera. A lot. Maybe a little too much. It was dangerous, this blossoming friendship thing they seemed to have going. But because he liked watching her smile, liked watching her too serious expression lighten up, he let the danger of it go by the boards.
“Tomas, what do you expect from me?” she asked him later that same evening. “You've installed these beautiful new windows-”
“Hey, you helped-” She was the prettiest carpentry assistant he'd ever had.
“Yes, but you said you don't expect reimbursement for the materials and labor, and I know you don't approve of my idea of starting a music school on the Southside, and so I guess I'm confused. I'd like to know what's in it for you?”
“What's in it for me?” he repeated, like an idiot, like a cabron.
“Yes. I told you once before that I'm not naïve. What do you expect in return for all this work and time you and your men have put in? You must want something.”
She was opening it all up. Now was the time to tell her what he needed from her.
Tomas rushed out the words, knowing if he stopped now, he'd never finish. “I'm not married,” he said, bluntly, “and I find myself in need of...”
“A home cooked meal and some sex afterwards?”
“Something like that. But not necessarily in that order.”
“Reassuring to know I'm a cut above the meatloaf,” she said looking wistful and sad.
It was only fair to let Sera know what kind of man he was. That's what he'd tried to do last night; that's what he'd tried to do again today. While they'd worked on the windows, he hadn't watched his language in front of her. He hadn't censored his conversation-
Okay, maybe he'd watched some of his p's and q's. Sera was a nice lady and he didn't want to be real crude in front of her. He'd let some four-letter words fly. But he drew the line at her looking wistful and sad. The woman had only just lost her husband, a husband she'd loved; she had to be feeling plenty enough wistful and sad already without him adding to it.
