AllFreeNovel
Share Us
When Jay’s fingers found the bow that kept her bodice together, her heart seized, and only started back up again when it was loose and he was peeling away the cups that covered her breasts. Her naked breasts. Naked to him.
He looked. He thumbed both taut crests. He made her squirm against her seat and watched her swelling flesh demand more of him. But he didn’t seem put out by the unspoken plea. Not him. Instead, he laughed, soft and seductive, then bent his head to cover her left breast with his mouth.
Oh, God.
Her back arched, her shoulders pressing against the seat, and she heard him groan as he sucked, the sensation shooting pleasure from her breast to her womb. His hand played with her other nipple for a moment, then it dropped to her thighs and made a place for itself, the edge of his palm sliding into the cleft of her sex.
He sucked, harder now, and her thighs opened for him, heat and wetness trickling from between them, an invitation for more. She found herself gripping his leg, just above his knee, trying to ride out the exquisite, erotic torture. And then wanting so much more of it that she leaned into the pressure of his heated mouth.
Somewhere close, a horn blared. Oh. Oh, no!
She jerked back, her nipple unlatching from his avid lips with an audible pop. The sharp pull, even the sound of it turned her on more, though she pressed back against the seat. His hand moved away from her thighs. “What—what are we doing?” she asked.
Surely it was the question his lesbian chef would have asked.
He slowly straightened, though his gaze was like his hands had been, hard and hot against her naked breasts. “We’re getting a couple of things out in the open, Nikki,” he said, his voice tight.
Avoiding his eyes, she yanked the crocheted string of the dress together to tie a clumsy bow between her breasts. Her actions were so inept, that she didn’t realize her right nipple was still mostly exposed until his fingers reached out and tugged the fabric toward the center. At the touch of his knuckles against the hollow of her breastbone, her skin jittered from both areolas to her bellybutton.
“This isn’t right,” she whispered, resisting the reaction with everything she had. Her shoulder blades dug deeper holes in the leather seatback.
“It’s damn right, and it’s damn time,” he retorted, settling back in his seat with an uncomfortable grimace. “Okay, maybe not the right place, but the truth is, you’re no lesbian, Nikki. And if I have my way, the only one in the near future climbing into a bed with you is going to be me.”
Shanna stepped over the graying, splintered railing that surrounded the deck of the Pearsons’ former beach bungalow and pulled a set of keys from the front patch pocket of her pale pink yoga pants. A pile of broken patio furniture stood between her and the back door and she skirted the mass, remembering when the torn, faded canvas of the chairs and umbrellas had been a dark nautical shade instead of the bleached, bluish color of fat-free milk.
The key slid easily into the French door and she swung it open, stepping into the rectangular room that encompassed the entire back half of the house. Paint cans were stacked in one corner and an old porch swing had been pushed into another. Shanna remembered playing on the contraption as a kid, and she found herself drawn to it now. The springs squeaked like a family of disgruntled mice when she pushed at the seat with the sole of her foot.
“Good morning,” a deep voice said.
Shanna turned, startled. The swinging seat smacked the back of her calves, shooting her forward.
Jorge Santos winced for her. “Are you all right?”
No. She’d meant to present herself as calm and in charge—a woman of business—and already she was scampering around like one of those squeaking mice. Her hand pressed against her jittering heart, the same reaction she’d had around him the other day when he’d fixed her faucet.
“You startled me.”
He looked away. “I’m very sorry. I was having coffee at Jay’s and saw you come this way.”
She felt better with his gaze off of her. His face was handsome, a fact she’d noticed when he’d been in her house, and he had dark eyes made only more riveting by the inky lashes that surrounded them. Today, he was wearing a pair of khaki pants with pleats straight from a dry cleaner’s, and a polo shirt with Santos Landscaping embroidered on the chest. He was broad-shouldered and his arms were heavily muscled—she’d noticed that last week as well—but today she could smell the freshness of soap instead of the salty tang of honestly earned sweat.
His sweat had smelled good, too.
Running his hand through his glossy black hair, he cleared his throat, then darted her an almost-shy look. “You said on the phone yesterday you wanted an estimate?”
She cleared her throat, too, and ran her palms along the soft velour covering her thighs. “Yes. Um. Well. The thing is, my father is ultimately going to scrape the house.”
“Your father owns it?”
“Yes. Bradley Ryan.” She waited a beat for the man’s reaction. Her father was one of the most prolific television producers in history, second only to the late Aaron Spelling.
Jorge shrugged, which surprised her for a moment, and then she realized that as a businessman in Malibu, he likely worked for any number of L.A. legends. “But you have the authority over this project?” he asked.
She nodded. “He’s out of the country for a few months and wants me to do what I can to get it ready for the bulldozers.” Shanna supposed her father’s expectations of her were pretty low on that score, but she wanted to prove him wrong. Six months before, she’d turned thirty-three and the woman she’d seen reflected in her mirror had frightened her. She’d been the biggest party girl of her generation, but the apex of her fame was ten years gone, leaving nothing behind but a woman who’d never really worked, who’d never wed, and who now hadn’t a single serious reason to get up in the morning.
Obsessing over Jay was yielding her nothing. He looked as taken by his private chef as she’d been with the idea that they could be a couple, and at the moment she felt as empty and lonely as this neglected old house.
“What can I do?” Jorge asked.
“Nothing—” Shanna started to say, but then stopped herself, flushing. Of course he couldn’t fix her, but there was a reason she’d called him. “I mean, there’s a bunch of overgrown brush between this lot and the next and in the front courtyard a couple of palm trees that might be worth saving. Can you take a look?”
“Sí.”
With a hand, she gestured toward the narrow hall. “Let’s go out the front.”
Framed photographs had been left hanging in the hallway, and Jorge slowed to look them over. “No one wanted these?”
Shanna shrugged, then glanced at them herself. “Someone in the Pearson family planned to fix the place up but then lost interest when my father made his offer.” It had been an offer generous enough for them to leave behind cans full of new paint and what looked to be photos of a Malibu long gone.
Some black-and-white, others colored, they centered around life at the beach. Adults and children gathered by firesides, stretched on beach blankets, built sandcastles and human pyramids a few feet from the frothy surf.
Jorge halted in front of one of the photos. “This is you,” he said.
“What?” Shanna stepped close to him and followed his long, tanned finger to focus on a photo from…Fourth of July, maybe? In the background was a reasonable sand facsimile of the Statue of Liberty and in front of it a passel of kids wearing red-white-and-blue bandannas and wide grins.
There was Jay, one of his sisters, a couple of the Pearson kids, and some others she didn’t recognize. Standing front and center, her arms almost outstretched as wide as her smile, was a white-haired urchin covered with so much sand she looked like a piece of chicken ready for frying. Shanna inhaled, taking in another breath of Jorge’s soapy-clean scent. “You really think that’s me?”
Had she ever been that full of happiness?
He bent down and brought his face near the photo for a better look. “Sí,” he said. “I think so, yes.”
From the corner of her eyes she watched him inspect the picture. His dark lashes were unfairly long and curled at the very tips and she remembered the soft, curling hair of his chest that she’d glimpsed last week before he’d buttoned his shirt. There’d been tattoos on that wealth of dark skin and at the memory of them, and of all that hard, masculine flesh that had taken the artist’s needles, her heart jittered again.
She took a quick step away.
His gaze jumped to her face, and he straightened, shuffling back. For a moment she thought he looked as embarrassed as she felt. “Those palm trees?” he prompted.
“Sure. Yes.” She practically ran through the front door.
He took his time studying the trees and the other growth that had been allowed to overrun the courtyard. With a frown, he pulled out a notebook and pen to jot down figures and a few words.
“Spanish,” she said out loud.
Jorge looked over at her. A smile crossed his face and she couldn’t help but admire his strong, white teeth. Oh, yes, he was a good-looking man. “You thought Swedish, perhaps?”
She laughed. “I’m not that silly. I was just commenting that you write things for yourself in Spanish.”
