Authors: Kate St. James
Tess’s conditioner-coated hair chilled her neck. “What did you do?”
“Checked the listings. Good news. There’s a Jake Halliwell on West 15th.”
Tess’s face burned. On Wednesday night she’d told Chloe that Jack’s name was Jake Halliwell. Since then, not once had she considered that her friend might try to look him up.
“Ohhh,” she groaned, stomach churning. “Chloe, nooo.”
“Oh yes.” Chloe beamed. “There’s a Jacob Halliwell in Surrey, too, but somehow I doubt your Jake is the Surrey sort.”
“Chloe, please tell me you didn’t call either of those numbers. This was my deal. It should proceed at my pace.”
“If it proceeded at your pace, you’d be eighty-four before you got some.”
“I. Would. Not.”
“You. Would. Too.” Tucking her cell into her purse, Chloe stood. “Relax, I didn’t call anyone. That’s not to say I won’t, though. If you don’t get your ass in gear, sweetie, I’m calling him. I’ll pretend you had an attack of shyness and asked me to. A bit juvenile, but it could work. You really do need to get a life, you know. What sort of friend would I be if I didn’t assist you?”
“A friend who knows when to butt out? Who might think about getting her own life?”
A saintly look befell Chloe’s features. “I have a life. It might stink at the moment, but it’s there. Besides, one dismal case at a time, and it’s your turn. Don’t bring out the no-dares-while-buzzed thing. I’m not buying.”
There went her loophole! Chloe lacked all honor.
The ratbag glanced at her watch. “Nice chatting, but I have errands to run.”
Tess jumped out of her chair. “Chloe, wait! Please don’t call the West 15th number. Jake Halliwell doesn’t exist. Well, obviously, he does if he’s in the listings. But he’s not my Jake. There is no ‘my Jake’. I made up the name.”
Chloe’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe it. You’re not that sneaky.”
“It’s true!”
“Really? A bogus phone number for you and a fake name for him? Tee, I’m impressed. What’s his real name?”
“It doesn’t matter. I already said I’m paying the ten cartons. The bet’s off.”
Chloe shrugged. “You never know, he still might call.”
“Without my number? Only if he has ESP,” Tess said as she walked the rat out.
Chloe Nichols started her cute, silver New Beetle convertible. Funky car aside, she was a mighty sad case. Getting her thrills from mucking about in her best friend’s sorry excuse for a love life? She’d sunk to the low of all lows, the pathetic pits of
my
-love-life-sucks despair.
Good for Tess that she’d tried to sidestep Chloe’s dare. However, Chloe had another surprise in store for her friend. If fate and the hunkalicious from the bar cooperated, at least one of them would get lucky. Soon. And Tess would crawl kicking and screaming out of her rut.
Regrettably, Chloe’s own rut was necessary. A carefully orchestrated strategy she’d yet to confess to her best friend for fear she’d come off more hopeless than she felt. Tess’s hangup was that she was afraid to get involved with a man. Chloe’s problem was that when she liked a guy, she liked him too quickly.
Bodily quickly.
Hop-his-bones quickly.
Which sounded fun—and was—but each time resulted in the relationship disintegrating beneath the weight of a pressing concern. Did she fall for a guy because he was amazing in bed or because they truly connected?
She steered her car out of the small parking lot for Tess’s building and turned onto the streaming traffic flow of Granville Street. One thing she knew, with her biological clock starting this annoying ticking, she needed to stick to her Lent commitment not to date for six months. Because dating led to kissing, and kissing led to Touching of Breasts, and Touching of Breasts led to a rowdy marathon between the sheets.
Which was fine and wonderful and absolutely desirable if one didn’t secretly yearn to settle down and pop out a few babies with a nice, stable, yet sexually exciting guy who wouldn’t leave her within weeks of discovering she was pregnant.
Growing up fatherless had hit that requirement home good.
Sighing, she zippy-lane-changed between a navy Volvo sedan and a battered Accord. Weak shafts of sunlight eked through the low clouds, and the rushing breeze from driving with the top down fluttered her hair. As she danced her fingers on the steering wheel, a droolworthy image of nice and stable filled her mind: The Suit.
Although she kept her distance from the tall businessman, or lawyer, or maybe stockbroker—as in she no longer served him when he came into Whole Latte Lovin’—from the conversations she caught between the guy and her employees, he seemed nice enough. With his fawn-colored eyes and short-trimmed, light brown hair, he was definitely attractive.
Too bad he was a Suit.
A horn blared, and a harsh voice bellowed, “Hey, rack-for-brains! Watch it!”
Heart hammering, she swerved back into her lane. “Sorry!”
She glanced at the oaf glaring out a Hummer window, then gazed down at her bazookas.
Rack for brains?
Okay, she was a little top-heavy, but that was just insulting.
Eat my bra, buddy.
Staying ahead of the Hummer—but safely in her lane now—she zoomed onto the Granville Street Bridge. Lent was in March; now it was August. Only one more month until she lifted her self-imposed ban on dating. Then the trick would be not having sex too soon with whoever she began seeing.
This time she wanted to ensure that what she felt for the guy was real.
Chapter Three
Zach thumbed the Danver’s coaster. Beside him, on a sleeping pad protecting the leather couch, Lump sprawled on his back, white paws spread-eagled as if he’d overdosed on catnip, and his hairy black belly exposed. The big feline’s tongue protruded from a clasped mouth. Not a worry in the world. The cat had the right idea. Zach’s life should be so simple.
But no, he got seedy lawyers only wanting to incorporate his small business in exchange for a direct line to the Halliday Enterprises’ money trough. Assholes more interested in billing his father’s company for future work than in helping him.
He thumbed the coaster again—a welcome distraction. Like he’d done fifty times tonight already, he read the inked, block letters. T-E-S-S. Then he whispered her name, “Tess.”
Even the sound was seductive, the way it ended soft and slow. Yet he remembered the wariness in her eyes Wednesday night, as if she’d honestly wanted to approach him, while, at the same time, she’d rather have been anywhere else.
As then, the contrasts mocked him. Madonna-minx. Shy vixen.
He couldn’t get her out of his mind.
He reached for the cordless on the coffee table then immediately drew back his hand. Something was amiss with Miss Strawberry Surprise—he’d have to be demented not to realize that. While Ethan had insisted he’d never before met the woman, Zach had reason to believe his brother was lying.
He gazed at a crumpled slip of paper on the coffee table. Yeah, he had reason, all right.
Eth, if you are pulling a fast one, I’ll clobber you into next Tuesday.
But unless Zach fell in line with the hoax, how would he ever know?
He hated his brother getting the better of him like this.
So. All right. Either Zach thwarted Ethan by ending this thing here and now. Or he played out the game and saw how far Miss Strawberry would go.
The latter option pulled at him. She was so beautiful. Serene, sophisticated and Kidman-esque.
“You’re losing it, Halliday,” he mumbled.
He could pick up the damn phone, dial any one of a dozen numbers, and quickly locate warm female companionship for the rest of the afternoon and long into the night.
Sane companionship. Simple, uncomplicated, pleasurable.
Instead, he had a hankering to expose Miss Strawberry’s secrets.
“Tess,” he whispered again, and need curled in his gut.
He stared at the phone, leaned forward.
He should have his head examined.
Jack Halloran’s hands were all over her, caressing her breasts, her tummy, her thighs…parting her legs, slowly, deliberately…nearly there, nearly touching her clit…ohhh…then drifting away again, teasing, tormenting, filling her with unquenchable lust.
Letting out a whimper, Tess slid deeper into the tub. Hot water skimmed her chin as her freshly washed hair floated around her. Millions of jasmine-scented bubbles lapped at her raised knees and buoyed her arms.
If she sank low enough, consciously clearing her mind, and allowed the soothing effects of a long, hot soak to take over, her fantasies of Jack Halloran would vanish down the drain with the bubbles. They had to. She’d be useless at work on Monday if she didn’t free herself from these maddening physical distractions.
And Chloe wondered why Tess intended to remain celibate while she worked her way up at the firm. Surrendering to the demands of her body always messed with her head. She needed focus, not diversions. In a few years, she’d rethink things, dip her toes into the sex pool again.
There’d be other men like Jack Halloran.
She had plenty of time.
A hollow ache balled in her chest. Plugging her nose, she submerged herself completely. The weight of the water thumped in her ears, and welcome heat drenched her skin. When her lungs contracted, she came up for air. The phone on the lowered toilet lid rang.
She tugged the towel on the inside-tub rod to dry her face. Usually, she didn’t bring the telephone into the bathroom. However, last night her youngest sister had called to report that their mother was experiencing a major housecleaning fit. At such times, their father made himself scarce, which upset Patrice Sheridan, who maintained she only kept a perfect house to please him.
In truth, Tess and her sisters realized their mother entered housecleaning overload whenever she felt neglected or under some other equally disturbing Mike-Sheridan-induced stress. Calling each of her daughters and griping about Dad seemed to calm Mom.
Curving her wet hair behind one ear, Tess sat halfway up in the tub. She glanced at the call display.
Private.
Frowning, she clicked Talk. “Yes?”
“Tess S.?”
Jack!
Her nipples contracted into tight, tingling peaks. She could blame the reaction on the fact that warm, sudsy water no longer covered her breasts, but she knew better. Her body had responded to his low, sensual voice in much the same way Wednesday night.
Wait.
How had he found her phone number?
She jerked up. Her elbow hooked the towel, dragging it into the water.
Shit!
“Just a minute.” She fumbled with the wet terry cloth. Too late. It was soaked through. And plastered against her stiff nipples.
“Tess?” he repeated, concern softening his deep voice.
She anchored the towel beneath her arms to prevent it from skating around and destroying her precious bubbles. She leaned back against the tub, the jasmine-scented water splashing and her breathing choppy. In her rush, she’d positioned the towel width-wise, and the wet terry cloth hovered at the tops of her thighs.
“Sorry, I…wasn’t dressed.” Her face warmed.
His concern segued into libidinous male interest. “Now you are?”
“Um, kind of.”
“Too bad,” he murmured.
The drenched towel rasped against her nipples, and a satisfying buzz centered between her thighs. She wiggled her hips, and the buzz deepened.
Hmm.
She’d never before considered the erotic possibilities of having a towel in the tub—but she did now.
Of course, she wouldn’t act on those urges. At least not while she had Jack on the phone. Unless, well,
he
could participate, too.
She shook her head to dispel the hot fantasy. How
had
he found her? The fake number she’d passed him wasn’t anything like her own. The directory listed her as T. A. Sheridan—a far cry from Tess S. And she’d opted out of every online listing she could find.
“I’m surprised you could reach me,” she said warily.
His gravely chuckle spread through her. “I’ll bet.”
She didn’t want to think about bets. “How did you get this phone number?”
“You gave it to me, remember?”
No, she hadn’t. And he knew so. That he’d discovered it should alarm her. Aside from Wednesday night, she’d never met him before. He could be a lunatic—or worse.
Yet, something in Jack Halloran’s voice reassured her that he was quite sane. Recalling his affable responses to her botched pickup lines mollified her fears, too. If he’d wanted to take advantage of her, he could have done so Wednesday night.
But he hadn’t.
“Yeah, Jack, about that number…” She let her voice trail off. She’d circumvent the truth out of him, a handy trick learned in law school.
For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then the friendly tone she remembered from Danver’s returned. “Don’t worry about it. Women give me fake phone numbers all the time. That’s why I blocked mine before I called. In case you were toying with me again.”
Despite a few loitering notes of caution, she smiled. As if any woman wouldn’t love the attention of a gorgeous guy like Jack Halloran. He probably beat back hordes of adoring females on a daily basis.
Relaxing, she planted a foot on the tub’s overflow vent. The loosening towel rubbed her sensitized flesh, and the warm, bubbly water caressed her bikini-trimmed mound.
Mmm.
She closed her eyes and luxuriated in the bliss of her arousal. Her fingers yearned to move with the water’s flow, to touch, dip, stroke, indulge herself…just a little bit…
please
.
What would be the harm? Jack wouldn’t know what she was doing, he couldn’t, unless
she chose
to tell him.
A sensuous shiver raced through her. “And you’re a PI?” she asked, her voice sounding languorous in the steam-filled bathroom. “That’s how you dig up the real numbers?”
“No. Your friend gave me yours as you were leaving.”
“She did what?” Tess bolted upright in the tub. The towel slipped and jasmine-scented froth slopped out onto the bathmat.
Chloe was about to become one very dead best fiend! No wonder she’d grinned the whole time she was here. She’d outwitted Tess at every turn.