How to Knit a Wild Bikini (10 page)

“Don’t,” she said.

“I won’t. This is just for show.” Except already he could feel her skin heating like a fever beneath his hand. And despite her big talk, her body was leaning into his as if she couldn’t help herself. He gathered her nearer, his forearm pressed against that dip at the small of her back so that their bellies were pressed close.

Apparently close enough for her to feel his aroused response. She frowned. “Jay…”

His mouth was just a whisper from hers. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to try taking this any further. I understand now about your sexual hang-ups.”

Everything that was soft about her stiffened. “What?”

“Sexual hang-ups. Sexual block. Inadequacy. What ever you want to call it.”

He’d never thought of green as a color that could burn, but it was keeping up with the sudden, laser heat of her blue eye. “It’s what I want to call you,” she retorted. “And that’s completely mistaken. I’m not hung up, damn it, or blocked, or the least bit inadequate in any way.”

“But those men in the restaurant kitchen. How they treated you—”

“Is part of the job. I coped.”

“By closing yourself off.” Jay held his breath, waiting for the pinch of guilt he surely deserved. When sympathy hadn’t worked, he’d figured baiting her might, and it looked as if he’d been right. “By being unwilling to indulge in your own desires.”

“My desire for
you
, I suppose.”

He slid his hands to her waist then dragged them a few inches upward, hearing her sharp intake of breath as a shiver shook her body. “Is that part of your coping mechanism? To pretend you’re not reacting to my touch? To pretend you’re not curious about what it would be like to be with me in my bed?”

Nostrils flaring, she placed her hands on his chest and shoved him back. He gave her space, then gaped as she reached for the bottom of her stretchy T-shirt.

“You make it sound like I’m afraid.” In one quick move, she drew it off and threw it to the floor. “Since Shanna is obviously not coming inside, it’s time to prove I’m not afraid of sex or of you.”

He took another step back as she slipped out of her sandals and then put her hands to the snap at her waistband. “Nikki…”

The beautiful monster he’d created wasn’t listening. She was breathing hard—if she was a dragon there’d be flames—causing her plump breasts to rise over the cups of her bra that was printed with tiny daisies. It was a hell of a pretty sight to behold, and only the abrupt shucking of her jeans could have drawn his eyes away from it.

But she did that, pushing down her pants and then stepping out of them to reveal the creamy curve of her hips and her long legs. Daisy-printed pan ties made him want to roll around in fields of Nikki-scented skin. And though she was covered by more fabric than made up most bikinis on the Malibu beaches, he still couldn’t catch his breath.

“Well?” One eyebrow—the one over the green eye—rose in a challenge as she regarded him from his place four feet away. “Who’s afraid now?”

So this was it. He’d baited her to the point of having her. Right now. Right this minute he could lead her to his bed and plant himself in the very center of her summer morning. It would be as simple—and, oh, how he liked simple—as that.

His cock was standing at attention, clamoring to get on with the plan, reacting like the randy adolescent that was all he’d ever expected of it. That was all, maybe, that he’d ever expected of himself.

Ouch. There was a thought that pinched.

And Nikki looked ready to take her own hefty twist out of him. “Well?” she said again, a hand on her hip.

Well, shit. He’d pushed her into half-nakedness, working with that exact suspicion that she’d want to prove she didn’t lack anything—which would give him the chance to prove to her that a man could use his sex only for plea sure.

Her plea sure.

That was suddenly damn important to him, but Tricky Nikki would never make it so easy.

Clamping down on his inner horndog, he stepped forward and took her into his arms. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, yet held her loosely, gently, enjoying the seductive brush of her bare back against his inner forearms, of his cheek against her temple as he breathed in the faint vanilla scent of her hair.

His mouth found hers and he kissed her, kissed her sweet, not dirty like he wanted to, taking his time to savor the softness of her mouth like that first day in his entryway. He’d been amused by his reaction to her then, but it shook him a little now, and he used the unsettled feeling as reason to restrain his impulses.

The Jay he knew wanted to slide down her body. He wanted to catch the edge of her bra with his teeth and yank it over her breasts so he could suck at her nipples. But that wouldn’t be enough. The Jay he knew wanted to go down on his knees and deflower her pussy. He could see himself hooking his forefingers in those pretty daisy pan ties to slide them to her ankles while placing soft kisses on the inside of her thighs. He wanted to breathe in the scent of her arousal and taste the flavor of her wetness.

But that wasn’t going to happen…yet.

“Well?” she said again, when he lifted his head.

“Well, I’m just not that kind of man,” he told her. “I insist on dinner first.”

“Dinner?” She blinked. “I’ve cooked you dinner every night.”

“I mean a dinner someone else cooks. A date.”

“A
date
?”

She was unsure and wary again, and he knew it was because he wasn’t reacting the way she’d expected to all the attitude she’d been throwing at him.
He
wasn’t sure why he was reacting this way either. Why wasn’t he taking immediate advantage of what she’d offered?

Though he didn’t want to think too hard about it, he couldn’t ignore the answer. The fact was, Jay wanted to get close to Nikki before he got inside of her.

Shanna trudged through the sand from Jay’s house to hers, trying to put the image of him and his private chef out of her mind. But it was there despite her best efforts: the way he’d scooped the woman against his body, the way he’d cradled her to his chest, the way he’d been focusing on her with a single-minded intensity that only made Shanna…yearn.

That’s what she wanted. As she approached her mid-thirties, she felt less solid, as if parts of herself could be scattered by the ocean breezes. To be safe, she wanted a man—Jay—to gather her close and keep her in one piece.

To make her whole again.

Or maybe for the first time ever.

The sole of her shoe found a strand of half-buried, rust-colored kelp. As she trod upon it, one of the attached grape sized bladders popped, just like what kept happening to her Jay-and-Shanna-forever fantasy.

Inside the security fence enclosing her father’s marble palace, she settled on one of the stiff chaise lounges, listening to the sound of the surf battling the rush of water over the pool’s three-tiered waterfall. Maybe she should go into town to see if Rico, her stylist, had time to blow out her hair. Or she could call her massage therapist to check if he had a last-minute cancellation.

Or maybe she could give up men forever.

What had they ever done for her anyway—shiny hair and rubbery muscles excepted—besides disappoint and diminish her confidence?

Plenty of women were happy without a man. She could be one of them.

Shanna slid lower on the lounge and stared unseeing across the pool, contemplating a new kind of life. She was a blonde because everyone knew men liked blondes best. Her generous C-cups were thanks to what men wanted, too. A friend of hers had augmented all the way up to Ds to please her man, but in the end he’d deserted her anyway, leaving her with a closetful of shirts that wouldn’t button across the chest unless they came paired with maternity waistlines.

The denizens of fashion design needed to share a few beers with their breast-obsessed brothers, Shanna concluded. Maybe then they’d add “Augmented” to the usual size scale of Small, Medium, and Large.

In her new life, though, the one where males mattered not at all, she could eat more, highlight less, and never wonder at what age collagen injections became a
Glamour
“do.”

The wind shifted direction, drawing her hair across her eyes, and as she fingered it away, she noticed movement at the property next door. One of the massive and snarled bougainvillea bushes between her house and the next was waving and shaking, as if sending out signals by semaphore.

Curious, she hurried through her gate and down the beach toward the old Pearson place. There, a man was half-buried in the bougainvillea beside the back deck, his head and shoulders embedded in the massive bush and only his denim-covered butt and long legs visible.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

A voice cursed—it sounded like a curse, anyway—in muffled Spanish. The leaves shook some more and blossoms drifted onto the pale gray deck like scarlet snowflakes. There was another curse, and then the man backed out of the tangle of green leaves, red flowers, and nasty thorns. He turned to face her, his hand cradling something to his chest—an orange marmalade kitten.

It was Jorge Santos, holding the small creature as close as she’d wanted Jay to hold her, before she’d sworn off men.

“Ms. Ryan,” he said, nodding.

“Shanna,” she corrected, her gaze on his scratched brown hand and the creature that was struggling to free itself from his grasp. “A new friend?”

He grimaced as its claws sank into the thin cloth of his workshirt. “She thinks I’m the enemy, I’m afraid. I’ve seen her running between Jay’s place and this one. I thought I could find her a better home with my niece. But she’s not going along with the idea.”

As if to prove him right, the kitten gave another all-body squirm and broke free of Jorge’s hold. Tiny paws bolted down his leg and the animal disappeared into the bush.

Hah, Shanna thought. So young, and yet already the kitten had decided she didn’t need a man. Smart. Smarter than Shanna had ever been.

The rejected rescuer sighed, then muttered something unintelligible.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head, as if ridding himself of frustration. “And how are you? How is your project coming?”

A flush of embarrassment crawled up her neck. Her project. He was looking over at the Pearson house now—the house she’d claimed a few days before she wanted to rehab. The house he’d encouraged her to work on herself.

But she didn’t know how to work. So she’d done nothing more since then other than moon about Jay and contemplate getting him back.

“I, um.” Her hand lifted and then fell to her thigh. “I haven’t had a chance…”

“Well, good.” He smiled at her.

“Good?” She’d forgotten how very white his teeth were and how very dark his eyes.

“Then you haven’t had a chance to buy any brushes or scrapers.”

“No.”

“I brought some from home.” He gestured toward a cardboard box sitting on the deck. “I thought…I thought I could help you get started.”

Surprised, Shanna took in the mishmash of tools he’d indicated. Brushes, rollers, other things she couldn’t identify. They weren’t new, but items that had been used, and more than once, judging by the multicolored layers of splatters left on wooden handles.

She swallowed. “I couldn’t…”

“Of course you can accept my help. I’m offering it.”

What she’d started to say was she couldn’t paint. That she didn’t know how. That she couldn’t do anything, actually, if it required more than an in-depth knowledge of cocktails and the latest issue of
People
magazine.

“Get your keys,” he said, his voice brisk, as he crossed to the box and hefted it into his grasp.

She stared. There it was again, that manly, possessive stance that kept calling out to her. Though it was just an ordinary cardboard box he was holding, it still struck Shanna like an arrow through the heart. Jorge cradled the tools against his body like he’d cradled the kitten, like Jay had cradled his chef, like Shanna wanted to be cradled in order to keep whole.

Before she’d given up on men, that is.

“Go get the keys,” he said again.

Was it because she was weak? Was it because she didn’t know what else she could do without being out-and-out rude? For what ever reason, Shanna found herself retrieving the keys, all the while telling herself that taking a man up on his offer of aid didn’t equate to taking up with the man himself.

Not that she thought Jorge wanted her.

And not that she wanted him back.

Back at the Pearson place, she dithered again. Really, she should thank him politely and then reject his ser vices, but man of action that he was, he was already spreading a dropcloth and then opening a paint bucket to pour a creamy yellow river into a shallow pan.

“Do you like the color?” he asked, turning his gaze on her.

The paint looked like summer sunshine à la mode and would brighten the dingy living area walls. “Yes,” she admitted, though instantly regretted the word. She should have said she hated it, she realized, and thus put off this little work event he was orchestrating. But, she thought quickly, she had a way to save the situation.

Not that she’d admit to giving up on men. Instead, she’d merely confess she didn’t know how to work the paint roller or even where to start. Her ineptitude would drive him in the same direction every other man who’d known her had eventually taken—far away.

He put a brush in her hand. “You cut, and I’ll roll.”

Cut what? And with a
brush
?

The questions didn’t come out of her mouth fast enough. Before she could express them aloud, a little smile crossed Jorge’s mouth and he recovered the paintbrush from her and then dipped it into the can. As he ran it along the wall, he outlined the molding of the doorjamb. “Cutting,” he explained. He smiled at her again, that white flash creating deep slashes in his tanned cheeks.

Ignoring the little tingles prickling her skin, Shanna looked away from his handsome face to the line of paint he’d just made. Truly, it looked so easy. How could she possibly claim it was beyond her abilities to attempt?

Her self-esteem wasn’t
that
low. And shouldn’t a woman determined to boot men out of her life be able to make some simple improvements on her own?

Careful not to make contact with his skin, she took back the paintbrush and continued moving it alongside the door molding. It required more concentration than she’d expected to keep it steady, but she focused on the job and almost forgot the person working nearby.

Except he smelled like a man, even over the odor of the paint. It wasn’t an expensive, designer scent—God, she’d sniffed enough of those at velvet-roped L.A. nightclubs, always mixed with the sharp bite of liquor and the lingering earthiness of luxurious leather bucket seats. Jorge Santos, by contrast, smelled like plain soap and masculine shampoo and it was so wholesome and…dependable that she couldn’t stop herself from drawing it deeply into her lungs.

Then he started talking in that deep, slightly accented voice. He spoke of a mother and sisters and his extended family living in a small village outside of Mexicali. Of the grandmother who made the best tamales in the universe and of his grandfather, who had recently taken to wandering away from home and forgetting who he was and how to get back to the house.

“So far, a cousin or a great-nephew or one of my aunts has quickly tracked him down,” he said, worry furrowing his brow, “but soon we’re going to have to convince my
abuela
he needs a more secure situation.”

Shanna looked up from the paint can she’d just dipped her brush into. “You mean
you’re
going to have to convince your grandmother.”

That incredible smile dug dimples in his lean cheeks again. “What makes you guess that?”

“Because you strike me as the responsible older sibling everyone expects to handle every problem.”

That smile flashed again. “Guilty as charged.”

She went back to cutting around the window she’d moved on to. “Oh, it’s not an accusation.”

“Ah. From one who knows the weight of responsibility, then. I recall that your father put this house project in your lap.”

And it was the only thing Shanna’s father had ever asked her to do for him. And only because if she didn’t do anything about it—which he probably suspected would happen—it would mean nothing more than a slight delay in his grand master plan of destroying this warm, unpretentious dwelling in order to build something on scale with his blockbuster ego.

A sting of tears surprised her. Why did she keep crying around Jorge Santos? But she had to blink, and blink again, as her hand faltered and she realized she really did care about this place. She wanted to bring it back to its former, comfortable-in-its-own-skin glory. She thought of that photo in the hallway, of her arms opened wide to embrace the world.

She’d been comfortable in her own skin then, too.

“Ooops,” said Jorge, as he came up behind her. “Let me get rid of that paint drip for you.”

Blinking, she realized that her hand had trailed over the enameled molding, leaving a wide streak over the white-painted wood. Jorge’s arm snaked around her to wipe away the new paint with a rag.

She spun and shifted to get out of his way, but found herself trapped between his chest and the window behind her. They both froze.

Despite the prevailing, raw smell of new paint, she could still detect his own soapy scent. She could see the masculine, close-shaven line of his jaw, his dark eyes, with their spiky fringe of blacker-than-black lashes.

Jorge was staring at her mouth.

Those tingles broke out afresh, starting at her neck and then tumbling down her spine, her thighs, the backs of her knees. They were female tingles, a female reaction, a female-to-male response.

And she’d decided to boot men out of her life.

His lips lowered toward hers and their gazes caught. She couldn’t look away, she didn’t back away, even as she tasted his first kiss. In the black of his pupils, she saw her own reflection, and it was what kept her feet glued to the floor.

How could she turn away from him? She couldn’t. Not when through him she could see herself for the very first time in a very long, long while.

Inside Malibu & Ewe,
Nikki passed the time waiting for Jay by starting on an ambitious—for her, anyway—project. Per Cassandra’s advice, she wound a rubber band around one of her needles as a reminder to increase the number of stitches every other row. She’d just put a slip knot on the other needle in preparation to start her kerchief, when the adjacent sofa cushion bounced as the yarn shop owner dropped down beside her.

“Found it!” she said. “It was hiding away in my supply closet. But I think the purse is perfect with your outfit.”

She dangled it in front of Nikki’s face. It was an evening-sized square, knit in pale blue and with a feathery fringe in the same color around the top. Natural wooden beads interspersed with white shells were strung together to create the short handle.

Reaching out, Nikki played her fingertips through the light, funky fringe. “A purse, too? And on top of my one of-a-kind, designer T-shirt.”

Cassandra tucked the purse between them. “I hope you have as much fun wearing it on your date as I did making it.”

Nikki grimaced. “I’m thinking of telling my date I’ve changed my mind.” Or found it. What stupidity had prompted her to agree in the first place? Jay had thrown out a dare, she could see that so clearly now, and she’d fallen right for it, determined to show him she wasn’t afraid of men, or sex, or even dinner dates.

Her touch almost maternal, Cassandra patted her shoulder and then adjusted the top she’d created for her from a simple, tie-dyed, “just in case” T-shirt Nikki carried in the back of her car.

The process had been quick, but amazing. One moment she had a plain boring tee, and the next Cassandra had scissored and tied and threaded to create a collarbone-clearing, cap-sleeved garment. The back view made it really something. She’d cut away the fabric from shoulder blades to waistline, and using strips of leftover material, laced it up the back like a corset, cinching it to her ribs yet still leaving a lot of bare spine showing.