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“Right,” J.D. grumbled. His coffee had gone cold and it left a bitter taste in his mouth as he forced himself to swallow. “If you came up here, you could deal with the girl. She needs someone like you.”
“That’s not what you said the other evening,” Wesley countered. “You indicated that one night in your capable arms would have her eating out of your hand.”
“I was wrong,” J.D. admitted. Hearing his own arrogant words made him squirm uncomfortably in his seat. “She’s not what I thought at first.”
“Wouldn’t let you in her pants, huh?”
“Not a chance.”
* * *
OPENING HER EYES, Tory blinked against the confusion clouding her lagging brain. Her hand ran over the surface of the rumpled comforter. The movement caused her to feel the coolness of the sheets against her skin. Too much skin, she thought as she threw the bedspread toward her feet. “What?” she mumbled as she discovered she was wearing nothing but her bra and panties. The flame red garments stood out against the stark white sheets. With wide eyes, she allowed her gaze to dart around the room as she tried to pry memories from her brain.
Her fingers feathered her bangs as she concentrated. Recall came slowly. Pain, followed by so many emotions that she lost count. Her father was dead. Had been all these years. A small groan escaped her slightly parted lips.
Images from childhood mingled with bits and pieces of the scene she had waged in the Tattoo. Images of her parents, recalled through the eyes of a mere child. Images of being in J.D.’s arms, remembered by a lingering heat on her skin.
Tory stood on wobbly legs. Only then did she recollect Rose forcing several pills down her throat last night. At least she thought it was last night. Everything seemed to be trapped in a haze. Grabbing her short robe off the hook, she tugged it over her shoulders and yanked open the door. Her eyes collided with a set of gray ones.
“What...?” She managed to tear the word from her constricted throat.
“Good morning,” he said easily, unfolding himself from the sofa.
Her mouth remained open as she took in the scene. J.D. had a tousled, rugged look that cemented her to the spot. His dark hair was mussed, as if someone had been running their fingers through it. His shirt was open, and the edges pulled farther apart as he rose to his full height of well over six feet. Tory’s eyes fell to the thick, black curls and then lower, where they tapered and disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.
Realizing too late that such a brazen appraisal might prove dangerous, she lifted her gaze to his. His expression was intense, his eyes narrowed to a glistening silver. Again she realized the error of her ways too late. She could feel his eyes as they took in the lacy edges of her bra, could feel them linger at the valley between her breasts.
Feeling her skin color the same deep red as her lingerie, Tory grabbed the edges of her belt, twisting her exposed body away from the scrutiny of his examination. She’d given him an eyeful, she thought ruefully as she tied the belt so tightly that it actually made each breath painful.
“I made another pot of coffee,” he told her, his voice deep and as smooth as smoke.
“Thanks,” she said, willing herself into composure. “What are you doing here?” she asked as she padded into the kitchen. The vision of his eyes followed, narrowed with interest and a purely dangerous glint.
“Rose didn’t think you should be alone.”
“So she left you here with me?”
Tory turned to find that his expression had changed. His eyes were still narrowed, but she saw flashes of barely leashed anger that stilled her stiff movements.
“Any reason Rose wouldn’t trust us together?” he asked, one dark eyebrow arched high.
“We aren’t exactly close,” she offered, hoping her voice sounded more calm than she actually felt.
“Not because I haven’t tried,” he returned as a lazy half smile curved one corner of his mouth.
Tory directed a heavy sigh toward her bangs. “Don’t start, J.D.”
He moved with a quickness and grace that belied his size. Suddenly he was in front of her, his broad, bare chest dominating her vision. “Believe me, doll,” he began in a low hum, “when I start on you, you’ll know it.”
His words burned against her ears and she fought the instinct to raise a hand and slap his arrogant face. But she decided to stand her ground. She would not react. It was, she had learned, her only weapon against this man’s blatant maleness. “Well,” she said, clearing her throat on the word. “As you can see, I’m fine, so you can just go crawl back under your rock.”
She smiled up at him, fighting the constriction in her throat when she looked at him through the thickness of her lashes. J.D. didn’t move. Not at all. He simply allowed his body to heat the air between them. Forced her to breathe in the scent of his skin. Power fairly radiated from this man. Power that Tory was only beginning to comprehend. One thing she knew, she realized as she struggled to hold his gaze, J. D. Porter was way out of her league. She surrendered, closing her eyes before lowering her chin fractionally.
“Thank you for staying,” she said after a drawn-out silence, punctuated only by the even sound of his breathing. Perhaps graciousness might accomplish her goal of dismissing this disturbing man.
“No problem,” he said as he slowly stepped back. The edge to his voice was still there, but it wasn’t quite as sharp.
Tory turned back to the sink, thinking how helpful it might be to douse herself with cold water. J.D. somehow managed to ignite small fires in every cell of her body. She reached up into the cabinet in search of a coffee cup. His sharp intake of breath was as thrilling as it was disquieting. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that the action, however innocent, had resulted in her flashing the big man a goodly amount of leg. She lowered her arm slowly, snidely hoping to give him a healthy dose of his own medicine.
With a cup of coffee in hand, she finally mustered the nerve to look at him again. The flash of anger was gone, all right, but it had been replaced by something even more devastating. Hunger—raw, passionate and definitely frightening. A small voice of reason chanted that saying about playing with fire as she bolted for the living room.
J.D. followed, his pace slow, but determined. It conjured visions of a predator stalking its prey. Tory wasn’t at all sure she could handle being this man’s quarry.
“Rose called earlier,” he said conversationally.
His calm, businesslike demeanor only made her more aware of her own raging pulse. The man was obviously some sort of machine. She’d seen him do this time and time again during the course of their short acquaintance. J.D. could be in a rage one minute, calm as a gentle breeze the next.
“I should call and apologize,” Tory said, tracing the top of her cup with her fingernail.
“For what?”
“Falling apart yesterday.”
“Appropriate under the circumstances,” he said as he turned one of her metal chairs and mounted it. His well-developed forearms rested against its back.
Her interest fell to his exposed stomach, wondering absently how those ripples of muscle would feel beneath her fingertips.
“Don’t you think?”
“Sorry,” Tory mumbled as her attention dropped to study a polyurethaned knot in the wooden floor.
“I said, I thought your actions were appropriate under the circumstances. That must have been quite a shock for you.”
“It was,” she admitted softly. “I still can’t believe he’s been there all this time.”
“Where did you think he was?”
Sitting at the table and tucking her bare feet under the hem of her short robe, Tory placed the coffee cup on the table. “I just always believed he’d suffered some sort of midlife crisis and bolted.”
“Leaving his loving wife and daughter behind?”
Tory peered up at him through her lashes, trying to gauge his sincerity. Unfortunately, J.D. had the perfect face for poker. It revealed absolutely nothing.
Her lids fluttered closed as she felt a swell of emotion grip her chest. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve hated him all these years. How many times I’ve wished him dead for what he did to my mother.”
“You didn’t know.”
Somehow his words failed to bring absolution.
“Mother,” she said, her eyes open and straining against her tight lids. “I’ve got to go out to Ashley Villas.”
“Where?”
“My mother’s home,” she said by way of explanation.
Tory deposited her coffee cup and turned toward the bedroom in a flurry of activity. It took several seconds for her brain to register the fact that J.D. hadn’t moved a blessed muscle.
“I don’t mean to be antisocial, Mr. Porter,” she said stiffly, “but I’ve got to go see my mother. Tell her...”
Nodding, J.D. rose and began buttoning his shirt. Tory refused to look, no matter how much she might want to.
“How long will it take you to get ready?”
“How long?” she gasped.
“Minutes? Hours? How long?”
“Why?”
“Because I need to know how soon to pick you up.”
“Why would you pick me up?”
“Because your car is still at the Rose Tattoo.”
“So,” she said, her voice faltering slightly. “I can grab the bus and pick it up.”
“No, you can’t.” J.D. dug into the front pocket of his jeans. Instantly she recognized her key ring as it dangled from his forefinger.
“Give me my keys,” she instructed, annoyance stiffening her spine.
“Can’t,” he drawled with an exaggerated sigh.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t,” he insisted, pretending to be hurt by her insinuation. “The doctor said you weren’t to drive for twenty-four hours after taking those pills.”
“Then I’ll make other arrangements,” she told him with a wave of her hand.
“Seems kind of stupid since I’m ready and able.”
But for what, exactly? her brain screamed. “I don’t think—”
“No thought required,” he said as he tossed her keys in the air, captured them in his big palm, then slipped them back into his pocket. “I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes.”
* * *
THE PURPOSE FOR the cold shower was twofold. First, J.D. hoped it might revive his sleep-deprived senses. But, more important, he was trying to cleanse the memory of her voluptuous body from his mind. Closing his eyes against the spray, his mind immediately brought forth the image of her pale skin...and the slope of her full breasts spilling over the lacy top of her bra. He didn’t have to touch the garment to know it was silk—like her skin. The vivid red lingerie set against her creamy skin reminded him of a ripe, red berry atop a snowdrift.
“God,” he groaned, earning himself a mouthful of cool, chlorine-scented water. He’d been too long without a woman. That was the only explanation for his body’s rigid and painful response to Tory.
He stepped from the shower, grabbed a towel and blotted the water from his skin. Droplets of water fell from his hair as he grabbed his razor. He was glad for a task that required his full attention.
J.D. vigorously towel dried his hair as he stepped into the master suite of his condo. Guilt tugged at his conscience as he paused to look at his surroundings. A king-size white rattan bed dominated the large space, with no fewer than three chests of drawers. There was a desk in the corner, his laptop lay open on it, gathering dust. His condo also included a living room, dining area and a kitchen that could have swallowed Tory’s entire apartment. His intellect reminded him that he’d had no way of knowing she would be a person of such modest means. But that knowledge didn’t seem to stem the surge of guilt as he tossed the towel into a pile of laundry that would be handled by the cleaning woman.
Selecting a fresh pair of jeans and a thin cotton shirt, J.D. tucked his wallet and keys into his pants pockets and took the stairs to the parking lot two at a time. He was greeted by a slap of humid air that barely fazed his well-conditioned body. The air in the red interior of his white Mercedes was stale before he flipped on the air-conditioning. He turned out into the midday traffic and tapped a disk into the CD player as he drove.
Ashley Villas. He repeated her words in his brain. It sounded like one of those golf and tennis communities that lined the southeastern seaboard like smooth shells. He tried to develop a mental image of Tory’s mother. The woman would probably be in her fifties and have a strong personality. He guessed she would be small, like her daughter, but more athletic than soft. Her skin would be wrinkled and weathered from too many trips around the back nine and not enough sunscreen. He grimaced, envisioning a brash woman wearing a white golf skirt and those funny little socks with the fuzzy little pastel balls that stuck out the back of her shoes. She was probably fiercely competitive. Tory was a fighter, that much he knew. That attribute was normally learned at home.
He frowned, suddenly realizing his thoughts were more suited to his inquisitive younger brother. Wesley was into analysis, not him.
Her apartment didn’t look much better in the light of day. It looked exactly like what it was—a garage converted into barely livable space.
She came through the door before he had an opportunity to kill the engine. Her dress forced a small smile to his lips. It fell far short of flattering, he mused as he watched her move toward him. It basically covered her from her throat to her ankles, a swirl of gauzy beige fabric designed specifically not to cling to her in any of the right places. His eyes fell to where her breasts strained against the material. He wondered if beneath that shapeless, colorless dress, she wore those wispy, sexy undergarments. His body responded uncomfortably to his imagination.
“You’re punctual,” she said as she slid in beside him.
“A regular Boy Scout,” he grumbled.
“Boy Scouts aren’t surly, as a rule,” she told him as she folded her delicate hands in her lap.
“Have much experience with Boy Scouts, do you?”
“Probably as much as you do.”
“I’ll have you know I almost made it to Eagle Scout,” he informed her, his chest puffed out slightly.
“Almost doesn’t count.”
His chest deflated. “I suppose not,” he acknowledged reluctantly. “Which way?”
“Take the Mark Clark.” She pointed north.
The expressway was crowded with minivans and trucks sporting business logos. But his attention was on the woman to his right. “You can relax, I won’t bite.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You don’t look it.”
“How can I not be relaxed? Sitting in this car is like sitting in your living room.”
“Not your living room, doll,” he promised her with a sidelong glance. “I slept on what you’ve got passing for a couch.”
“It serves its purpose,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders.
That small movement filled the interior of the car with the distinctive scent of gardenia. His mind immediately demanded to know if it was her soap, her shampoo or her cologne. Would he be able to taste it on her skin? Would he be able to keep his mind on the road long enough to prevent a ten-car pileup?
J.D. decided to concentrate on making polite conversation. “Did you call your mother to let her know you were coming?”
