by EC Sheedy
She secured the suite door after him and headed for the shower.
Just as well, he’d taken that magnificent bod of his off to the gym, because she didn’t at all like how her mind—and other parts of her body—responded when she looked at it, or into those silver eyes of his. Joe Worth was a definite babe-magnet, knew it, and relished it. April guessed demagnetizing him wasn’t in the cards. He was the kind of guy a woman played with at her own risk. Not that she was averse to risk—if she knew the odds.
A few minutes later, stripping off her clothes and covetously eying the triple-shower heads in the gymnasium sized stall, she was more determined than ever to learn about the real Joe Worth. For Phylly, for Cornie . . . and for herself. She wanted to know those odds.
She stepped into the shower, and in moments water was cascading over her naked body. She closed her eyes, enjoyed, and refused to dwell on the fact that, in true Las Vegas style, the marble shower was opulent, out-sized, and definitely built for two.
Henry Castor checked into the Sandstone Hotel and Casino and got the last crap room they had, eighth floor, and a fuckin’ mile from the elevator.
He wasn’t in the room ten minutes before he was pulling gym shorts from his bag. He needed a workout, something to peel away a couple of layers of frustration and maybe wash away the bitter taste in his mouth. He hated having to work in a strange town—even if it was Vegas. He hated that he had to wait, kill time instead of people, when what he wanted was to get the job done and get the hell out of here.
Not going to happen.
He couldn’t pick up Tommy Black until tomorrow, and his planned hospital visit to the sister had to wait until much later tonight. He couldn’t risk gambling, because he knew himself well enough to know he’d get carried away, maybe attract attention. All he had left to pass the time was a workout, maybe a massage . . .
Maybe a hooker later.
The idea of that lifted his spirits.
But right now, he was going to the gym, to pretend he was a regular guy on a holiday in Lost Wages. Yeah, that was him, all right. Mister Everyman. He snorted.
He stepped into the hall, looked both ways.
One thing about going to the gym, he’d spot anyone trying to follow him. He smiled inside. Whoever the hell Q had on him, he better be prepared for a good sweat.
At the thought of Quinlan Braid, his black mood returned.
If that bastard thought he was going to get the better of Henry Castor, he’d been spending too many years in that mansion of his snorting money dust.
In the elevator, he slammed the palm of his hand on the button marked spa, and in a thoroughly pissed-off state watched the numbers drop along with his mood.
One thing was for sure, if he didn’t work out, he’d end up punching out the goddamn wall.
Chapter 11
Coming out of the shower just off the exercise room, Joe damn near walked over the guy. Although how he didn’t see him was a mystery, the man was damn near as wide as he was high, and he had muscle mass that would be the envy of every gym rat from here to the east coast. “Sorry. I didn’t see you,” he said.
The man stepped back, and a flash of irritation lit up the hard-ass gaze he leveled on Joe. Just as quickly the anger seemed to disappear, as if the guy was pushing at it. “No problem,” he said. “I should have looked where I was going.” He scanned Joe’s naked body. Nothing sexual in his eyes, more like envy laced with admiration. “Shit, you’re in good shape. How much do you bench?”
“Not as much as you, obviously,” Joe said and wrapped a towel around his waist.
“One rep max five hundred.” He flexed his arms and a bicep popped that rivaled a hot air balloon. “Losing it now, though. The age thing sucks.” His expression soured.
Joe reached for his clothes. The guy was maybe in his forties, so age wasn’t his problem. He had a mean look about him that probably had been etched in at birth. A nasty ass, for sure.
The little guy eyed him. “Not that you’d know about that.” Again that spark of irritation as if he’d been shortchanged in some way and Joe was to blame.
With no answer to that, even if he wanted one, Joe shrugged and finished dressing. He didn’t like the guy, and unless he had it wrong, the jerk had serious anger-management issues—and a mile-wide competitive streak. The kind of guy who always picked a fight with the biggest guy in the bar, which, unfortunately for Joe, was usually him.
“Not much of a talker, are you?” he said.
“Got people waiting.” Joe headed for the door. “Enjoy your workout.” He headed for the door.
“Asshole,” the guy muttered from somewhere behind him.
Joe smiled and kept on going. His thoughts quickly leaving the muscle freak and fast-forwarding to getting upstairs.
He wanted to be in the suite. He wanted to be with April—be there in time to see her skin all soft and pink from her shower. See her long hair, damp and clinging to her neck . . . just plain see her.
He’d kept his workout short, but he was edgy, still felt as though he’d been gone too long. Not that security was an issue. He hadn’t told April, but he’d arranged for a guard on their floor while he was in the gym. He wasn’t about to take any chances with either the Cornball or April. A woman who was getting seriously under his skin—so seriously he was running out of the usual gags and one-liners he used to keep his distance and keep it light. Somehow the flirting was flatter than—as Belle Bliss, the wickedest witch among his four foster mothers always said—piss on a plate.
The elevator doors yawned wide, and he stepped into the glass and gilt enclosure, immediately shooting an arm out to hold the doors open for three women who’d hailed him down. They clattered into the elevator with him, clutching drinks and slot tickets, and wearing enough perfume to set off a smoke alarm.
They’d all had too much free booze and kept shooting glances his way.
Finally the blonde said, “Are you, like . . . somebody?”
Inwardly he grimaced; outwardly he smiled and looked longingly at the numbers panel on the elevator. Three. “Not last I checked.”
“You sure do look like somebody. Like maybe a movie actor or something.”
Four. “Nope,” he said.
“Maybe not, but I’ll bet you know how to party.” She ran a red painted fingernail down his arm. “We’re on nine.”
Five. “My tough luck, because I’ve got a wife and five kids on the next floor.”
“Liar,” she said, without a trace of rancor and smiling when she added, “But you can’t blame a girl for trying.”
Six. Joe stepped out of the elevator, looked back at the three women. “And I hate to think what I’m missing. Thanks for the offer.”
“Anytime, big boy, and if you change your mind just you come on by: Nine. Four. One. Five. Otherwise known as Parties Unlimited.” They all laughed, the door closed, and Joe let out a breath. It wasn’t the first time women had come on to him, and while it was great for the ego, it always made him vaguely uncomfortable.
“If you’re done with your pickup routine, you might be interested to know that Cornie’s gone.”
He turned to see April glaring at him. He didn’t bother responding to her sarcasm.
“Damn it, I told her to stay put.”
“The equivalent of putting the spurs to her mulish teenage butt.”
While April appeared calm, Joe’s heart beat like a damn jungle drum. “Where is she?”
“She went to a friend’s place. Raina Danson, a girl whose parents run a trail riding stable this side of the Red Rock Canyon. Raina’s dad picked her up. The minx arranged it before we left Phylly’s apartment. Then slipped out when I was in the shower. She’s staying the night.”
Joe hit the elevator button. “We’ll go get her.”
April shook her head. “No, I think we should leave her there. I spoke to the family—which boasts three grown sons by the way—and told them enough that they’ll be sure to look out for her. Plus it’s a
long dusty road that leads to their place, so they’ll see anyone coming from a mile off.” She nodded her head. “She’ll be safe there. Raina’s dad will bring her back tomorrow morning—after we see Rusty.” She shoved her hands in her jeans’ pockets. “And I think she needs the horses—the distraction.”
The elevator door opened and closed, and two people dressed for the evening gave them an annoyed look when neither of them got in. Joe didn’t care. “I don’t like it.”
“It’s not for you to like or dislike.” She lifted her chin. “She’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
It struck Joe then, what strong women he’d hooked up with. He hadn’t yet seen April flinch, although he knew she was frantic about Phyllis, and the same with Cornie. She was the most independent—obstinate—young girl he’d ever come across, not that he knew many young girls. But it wasn’t raw stubbornness, with the Cornball, it was savvy and a keen intelligence. The Worth woman had done one thing right at least. She’d raised a hell of a daughter. He looked at April . . . two daughters. He wondered again what had brought the women together, what had made Phyllis choose April—lose him. Shit. Even thinking those kind of thoughts made him feel like his hair was sticking up and he was wearing overalls. Cursing himself, he got back to the subject at hand. “I still don’t know how she got past—”
“Him?” April gestured with her head to the security guard standing a few doors down from their suite reading a newspaper. “Piece of cake.”
“Great. Las Vegas security at its best.”
She gave him a funny half smile, as though she were enjoying herself at his expense. “You didn’t tell him to stop anyone from going out—just coming in.”
“Maybe because most of my clients are smart enough to stay put when I tell them to stay put.”
“Then they’re not Cornie.”
“No, they’re not Cornie,” he agreed.
She raised her eyebrows. “Now, that’s progress, Joe.”
“What?”
“You said her name.”
He looked down at her, easy because she was barefoot. Toes pink as roses. “And you said mine—without that snarly little twist you usually tack on.”
“I do not snarl or twist.”
He touched her still damp hair, smoothed some strands behind her ear. “But I’ll bet you do. And I’d bet you growl, too—and moan. I’ll bet you’re wild as hell—given the right incentive.”
She went still as morning.
They were standing outside the door to their suite, face-to-face, the air between them suddenly sharp and weighted, and despite the power of air-conditioning, heating to flash point. He touched her ear, ringed the delicate shell of it with his forefinger. When her breath hitched, he knew he wasn’t the only one caught in the undertow. The pull. The reckless wanting, coming from nowhere and heading . . . God only knew where. And it wasn’t all about his cock, predictably rising to the moment. And it wasn’t about getting a quick fuck, more of what he’d had too many times to count.
This pull, this thing, with this woman, seemed askew, like a sloping unmarked path. Different. Unknowable. Hell, he didn’t know what it was about or where it came from; all he knew was he liked the feeling as much as he liked the pulsing in his groin, the warmth in his chest, and the intrigue in his head.
With April, all systems were go.
“You know,” he said, his voice sounding low to his own ears, “what’s on my mind, don’t you?”
That little lip twist again, an irritating, beguiling half smile. “No. I don’t have a clue.”
He grinned. “Then maybe I should show you.”
“Try words first. They’re such a challenge for you.”
She was playing him. He liked playing—especially when he had an edge. He slipped his other hand to her shoulder and with her delicate neck between both hands, he stroked her jaw with his thumbs. Her skin was soft and silky from the warmth of the shower. “I, Joseph Jonathan Worth, would very much like to kiss you.” Then I want to do a hell of a lot more. I want you naked, and doing some of that twisting and snarling you say you don’t do, where we can make the most of it. Because I think you’re a match for me, April Worth. I think you’ll give me as good as you’ll get. Which I’ll make sure is so good you’ll never forget it.
She met his gaze, her own curiously thoughtful. “Not that I have anything against kissing,” she said, her tone as low as his. “And I think you and I could be . . . interesting.” She touched his mouth, smoothing three fingers over it with a touch so soft he wondered if he imagined it. “But I’m not going there with you until we talk. Straighten a few things out.”
He tilted his head, slid one hand across her straight shoulder, which luckily for him was bared by one of those skinny strapped things that made a man want to lift that quarter inch of fabric with his little finger and slip it down and over the arm—which he did.
Get it off. Get everything off.
His blood was running too high. And those words she wanted? Not a problem. Small hurdles on a track where the race belonged to the sprinter who jumped the highest. “Okay.” He took a step forward, backed her against the door, and leaned close enough to see her irises darken, smell the woman mystery under the flowery scent of soap, and hear her sharp intake of breath. “Exactly what kind of things would you like straightened?”
“Joe, this is not talking.” She narrowed her gaze but didn’t look the least intimidated by having six-feet-three-inches and two-hundred pounds of man in her face. She looked determined—and she was breathing heavy. Which he took for a good sign. A very good sign. He ran a finger along the edge of her top, over the swell of her breasts, one still covered by cotton, the other partially exposed by the dropped strap. Breasts he couldn’t wait to get his hands on—his mouth on.
“You were saying?” His eyes followed his finger, trailing the top of her semi-bared breast, and his ears deadened to anything except the blood pounding in his ears. For a second or two—he was losing it fast now—he watched the rise and fall of her breathing, his erection seeming to pulse and grow in an identical rhythm.
Oh, Jesus . ..
“For one thing—”
He took her face in his hands and kissed her silent, a first taste, then another, until their mouths knew each other. Until he felt the blood beat in her throat, his own heart slam against his ribs, and the weight and length of him behind his zipper set up clamor enough to draw a goddamn crowd. He groaned against her lips, slid his fingers into her hair, held her mouth to his.
Oh yes . . .
He kissed her again, deeper, then deeper still. Sliding his hands across her shoulders, down her arms, he clasped her narrow waist, then cupped the roundness of her ass. Pulling her rough and flush to the desperate demand between his legs, appeasing it with body against body.
Too many clothes . . .
She gave him her tongue and he took it, sucked, and gave back. No angel kisses now. Just the devil’s own hard need.
She put her arms around his neck, lifted herself on her toes, crushed her breasts against his chest and gave into the kiss fully.
Her mouth was hot heaven and he wanted more.
More. He swept her mouth, her lower lip with his tongue. Tasted the peppermint flavor of her toothpaste.
More.
He lifted his head, looked into her eyes—as blindly glazed as he was sure his own were—and whispered close to her mouth what his body dictated, “I want you, April. I need you.”
He heard her drag in a rocky breath. “We’re in the hall,” she said and blinked. “We’re still in the damned hallway.”
Laughter came from somewhere behind them. A couple stood at the elevator, the woman had a hand over her mouth. The elevator doors opened and they got in. The guy held the door open long enough to stick his head out, smirk, and say, “Y’all have a nice evening. Hear?” There was more laughter as the doors closed.
“Oh, my God,” April said, her t
one a mixture of shock and confusion. “I can’t believe we did that.” She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out the room’s keycard, but her hand was shaking so bad they’d be out here a week before she got them inside. She glanced at the guard down the hall; he snapped the newspaper up to cover his grin.
Joe took the card from her, slid it in and out of the slot, and opened the door. “And I sincerely hope we do it again—real soon.” He closed the door and reached for her.
She evaded him with catlike ease, and held up a hand, palm out. “Down boy. We need to talk.”
Her eyes were wide and kind of gauzy and the flush on her face was hot pink. He liked it, liked what it meant. “We just did that.”
“You call that talk?” She touched her still moist lips.
“Works for me.” He reached for her again.
She eluded him, again, her wide eyes narrowing dangerously.
Shit. He put his hands in his pockets, and with every nerve, muscle, and sinew in his body readied for sex, he figured it was best to keep them there.
April stood back from him, not breathing too steadily herself, and dropped her eyes to his crotch—his bulging crotch. Her looking at him had him stifle a moan and the bad boy in his jeans consider another hurdle jump.
Her eyes met his then, and she said, “I knew this would happen.”
“Happen? Did something happen?” he looked at his staggering erection. “Maybe somebody should tell Bigfoot down there.”
She smiled, and he could see she was trying not to laugh. “You’re not mad.”
He thought about that. “I would be if I thought what we did back there”—he gestured with his head toward the hall—“failed to qualify as foreplay.” He watched her face. “Did it?”
She thought a moment, moistened her lips with her tongue, and shook her head. “No.”
He nodded. “Round one, then. Do you want a drink?”
“Just some water—and that talk you promised.”
The woman was a pit bull.
