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“I’m in the business of exposing fraud, sweetheart. Do you know how many people a year are suckered by fortune-tellers, hotline psychics, and astrologers?”
“I know of at least one.”
Again with the hostile tone. “Let’s hear it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Shoot.”
She slammed back her drink and lowered the TV volume. “It’s about my free-spirited friend Jayne and a whack-job psychic.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
CONTRARY TO MY PREDICTION, I did not die.
Thanks to prescription-grade antihistamines and a topical cream, I would indeed live to see another day. Although, I sort of dreaded it. My current track record promised some sort of calamity. A screwball moment that would end in mortification. Hadn’t I endured my share of embarrassing moments this past month?
Apparently not, because they just kept coming.
Gina had been dead-on in her diagnosis. A severe allergic reaction. A hypersensitivity response to an outside influence, according to the emergency room doctor. Said influence being a combination of heat, cleaning chemicals, and emotional stress.
If I would’ve showered when Arch urged me to, I could’ve avoided the hives. He’d had the decency not to say I told you so. Just as he’d been kind enough not to rib me about the time my jaw locked open or the time I got stuck in a tree. Although he’d been pissed about the latter since he’d thought I’d unnecessarily risked my neck to spy on my mom. Don’t ask.
Just now I was trying to think of a way to get rid of him without hurting his feelings.
I didn’t want him to see me like this. The gorilla suit had been sexier.
“Dinnae make me pick this lock, Sunshine.”
Cocooned in my purple robe, I braced my weight against my bathroom door. “I told you I’m fine, just…ugly.”
“What?”
“Did you ever see That Touch of Mink?”
“Doris Day and Cary Grant?”
“Bingo.”
“Not one of their better films, yeah?”
“What are you talking about?” I glared through the door. “It’s a classic!”
“He was funnier in Bringing Up Baby and My Favorite Wife, to name two, and had more chemistry with Hepburn or Dunne, take your pick.”
“I thought Day and Grant were adorable together.”
“Mismatched.”
“Are you talking about their age difference? That would be pretty hypocritical, considering, you know…us.”
“Age is moot when there’s chemistry, yeah?”
I perked up. “You think we have chemistry? Like Bogie and Bacall? Gable and Lombard?” Lucy and Ricky?
“You know we do.”
The connection. I’d mentioned before how we didn’t make sense, but we connected. We just need to find our rhythm.
“Hard to dance with a door between us, you know?”
I sighed. “I know.” I rested my forehead against the painted wood and imagined him doing the same. We’d had numerous conversations on the threshold of one or another bathroom, only the door had always been open and Arch had usually been wearing a towel, his upper body gloriously exposed. I imagined his broad shoulders and chiseled abdomen. His strong arms and that sexy tattoo. I let out a pathetic sigh.
“What’s wrong, lass?”
Aside from being worried about Beckett and Jayne? Selfishly, I was lamenting my own crappy luck. “We were supposed to get naked tonight,” I said with a hitch in my voice.
“Aye. And?”
“Now we can’t.”
“Why not?”
“For one, I’m too distracted.”
“You mean worried,” he said. “No need, yeah? Pops called a few minutes ago. Beckett phoned and he’s fine. Said he’d fill us in tomorrow at a team meeting.”
“He’s not under arrest?”
“No.”
Which implied he was innocent in the death of Mad Dog. I pumped a fist in the air. Yes.
“What else?” Arch asked.
“I’m worried about Jayne. I wish we had something on Madame Helene.”
“Tabasco’s working on it. He’ll have something by tomorrow.”
More good news.
“What else?” His patience was amazing.
“Well,” I said touching a hand to my face. “Remember that scene in That Touch of Mink when Cathy broke out in hives because she was nervous about sleeping with Mr. Shayne?”
“You’re getting cold feet aboot us? Shagging in your apartment is too intimate? What?”
He didn’t sound mad, but I knew him well enough to know I’d tripped a live wire. Uh-oh. “It’s not that. It’s…”
The lock clicked and I hopped back just as the door swung open.
He took one look at me and smiled.
“Are you happy now?” I didn’t know whether to cry or punch him.
“It’s not so bad.”
“It’s awful.” The topical lotion I’d slathered on my hives had dried in pink pasty splotches all over my arms, chest, neck and—ack!—face. I wasn’t exactly confident about my looks as is. I’m sure there are some perks to being over forty, but random gray hairs, crow’s-feet, and less taut skin aren’t included. At least I have perky boobs. That’s something. And I’m limber. A definite bonus.
Until recently I’d refused to let Arch shag me missionary-style. Too intimate. All I wanted was a fling. Sex, just sex. Falling in love with a man I didn’t trust, a man who didn’t do relationships wouldn’t be smart. I knew it wouldn’t take much for me to lose my heart to the sexiest, most dangerous, most caring man I’d ever known, so I’d avoided the ultimate intimacy.
Talk about a losing battle. I’d crumbled three weeks into our hot and heavy fling.
Though Arch appreciated my agility (call me Gumby), he surprisingly enjoyed the missionary-style most. He said he liked to look at my face and into my eyes when he, well, sent me over the moon to the Big O.
I didn’t want him looking at my face tonight.
“You know what your problem is?” he asked as he nabbed my robe’s sash and tugged me into the bedroom.
“Aside from the obvious?”
“You focus too much on the physical. The external, yeah?”
“Yeah? Well, my roots are in entertainment. Call me shallow.” Or realistic. Granted, it had probably been this way for decades. Youth and sexuality taking precedence over talent. Not all the time, of course, but more often than it should. Not that I’m bitter. Okay. Maybe a little.
He angled his head. “So you’re only hot for me because of what you see?”
“What? No. I mean I like what I see.” A lot. “But that’s just, I don’t know, cake.”
“Icing.”
“Right. The frosting on the top.”
“Cherry on the top.”
“Whatever. I can name a hundred reasons why I’m attracted to you that have nothing to do with your movie-star looks.”
His mouth quirked. “Name one.”
“You make me feel sexy.”
“You are sexy.”
I snorted. “Nic is sexy. Gina is sexy.”
“There are all kinds of sexy, yeah?”
Kind of like there are all kinds of lies? “Also, you always say the right thing. I don’t know why I find that appealing since I know it’s a honed skill. Con artists always say the right thing. It’s part of your toolbox. Squeezed up against confidence, sincerity, and calm. Qualities that allow you to manipulate—” I squealed as he yanked off my sash and wrapped it around my head, covering my eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you to focus less on the external.”
Not only had he blindfolded me, but without the sash my robe gaped open. I felt violated and exposed and, hello, aroused. “But I look—”
He kissed away my protest. I wondered if he had anti-itch cream on his face now, but only fleetingly. Hard to think coherent thoughts with a sizzling Scot’s tongue in my mouth. Not that I could see the man. But I could taste and smell and…Zing. Zap!
Desire snaked through my body as he palmed my bare butt and ground his erection into my belly. Erotic thoughts boogied through my head as he maneuvered me…somewhere. Or maybe that was the world shifting beneath my feet. Could this man kiss!
Delirious with desire, I think I actually whimpered when he eased away. I figured his little experiment was over and I was feeling a little ridiculous between the blindfold, my gaping robe, and my smiley face socks. Not to mention the splotchy pink cream. I reached up to untie the sash.
“Leave it.”
I’m not sure which was sexier—the fact that he’d ordered me to do so or the anticipation of his next move. I scrunched my brow. “Are you still wearing all of your clothes?”
“Aye.”
Hmm.
Before I could ask another question, he tore the robe off my body.
Um. Okay. That was exciting. I couldn’t see his mesmerizing eyes or that tribal tattoo or his ripped torso, but yeah, baby, yeah, I could feel.
Before I knew what hit me, I hit the mattress. I could feel my soft comforter beneath my bare back and Arch’s hard body—fully clothed—on top of me. “What—”
“Dinnae talk.”
Another order.
Zing.
I was officially, totally turned on. Clothes off, I said to myself while fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.
“Dinnae touch.” He grasped my wrists and pushed my hands over my head.
Zap.
I felt my knuckles brush the brass railings of my headboard. “Grab hold,” he said close to my ear, “and dinnae let go.”
My heart pounded. Should I be nervous? We’d had a lot of creative sex, but never anything kinky. This was kinky. For me anyway. At least he hadn’t used handcuffs. Although if I disobeyed and let go, he could always lash my wrists to the headboard with my socks. Which reminded me, I still had them on. Arch has a thing for my collection of cartoonish socks. He thinks they’re sexy.
Definitely kinky.
My thoughts scrambled when he bit and sucked my nipples—no allergy medicine there. I gripped the brass rails and endured sweet ecstasy as he lavished attention on both breasts before kissing his way south. My heart raced as he kissed and nipped at my thighs, his warm hands urging my legs apart. I listened for the sound of his jeans unzipping and instead felt the pressure and warmth of his mouth down there, working magic. I bit back an enraptured, oh-my-God—no talking allowed—and settled on a lot of moaning.
Twice I almost climaxed. Twice he pulled away. Delirious with need, I wanted to anchor his head between my legs until I peaked, but…no touching allowed!
I could’ve ripped off the blindfold and taken back some control, but the experience was so erotic, so amazingly exciting, I didn’t want it to end.
I held tight to the headboard and endured Arch’s teasing. I squirmed and moaned, and when he finally took pity and tongued me to climax, I uttered gibberish which in my mind did not count as talking. Not that I could form a cohesive sentence right now anyway.
