Текст книги "His Kind of Trouble"

Автор книги: Terri L. Austin

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

After dressing, Cal gave careful instructions to Mr. Lawson and dashed off a note on thick ivory stationery before heading to Pixie’s house. During the drive, Cal thought about Monica. He’d been close to making her come last night, his finger mere centimeters away from slipping inside her. And she’d been so ready for it.

Monica may act uptight, but every movement she made was graceful and lithe—sexual in a natural way. After he’d stripped the blouse from her body, she’d stood before him, unashamed. He’d been spellbound by those lovely breasts. She liked his touch, grew breathless when he kissed her. It was bloody obvious Monica liked sex, so why couldn’t she just admit it? The way she behaved afterward, as if they’d done something wrong or disgusting…well, it not only took him by surprise, it had bruised his pride.

Cal still didn’t have any answers, and he needed to focus on something other than his cock right now. Thinking about Monica Campbell and her soft, full tits did him in.

They drove through aged wooden gates studded with wrought-iron hinges. It gave the faux palazzo a look of authenticity. In the circular drive, the car drew to a stop. Cal shoved a few bills in the driver’s hand and didn’t wait for him to open the door. “Pick me up in an hour, mate, and I’ll double that.”

As the car drove away, Cal stared up at the colossal house. He’d stayed in Venetian palazzos many times, and while this house bore the markings—white stucco and arched, narrow windows surrounded by delicate traceries—it lacked the aged patina of real plaster. And mold. Authentic palazzos always had mold.

He strode to the front door and used the ornate knocker. A moment later, the maid answered. Why his mother insisted on putting the woman in a black uniform was anyone’s guess. Babcock would have wadded up the dress and told Pix to stuff it up her bum. Babs’s wardrobe revolved around track suits and bright white trainers. How else am I supposed to chase after you? Never in one place for long, the pair of you. She’d said that often, usually while packing.

Cal followed the maid through the house and out the back door, to a multileveled terrace that overlooked rolling green hills. Brown mountains were a hazy mirage in the distance, far beyond Pixie’s vast estate.

Tipping his head to the maid, Cal jogged down the winding stairs. Pix and Paolo, his aunt Mags, and her ex-husband, Nigel, sat at a rectangular table overlooking the pool.

Upon seeing him, Pixie rose and strutted toward him. Her silky purple dressing gown flowed outward to reveal matching pajamas. Her heeled slippers were purple as well, and encrusted with crystals. “Look who’s here, everyone.” With shoulder-length dark waves and carefully applied makeup, she appeared a decade younger than her sixty-plus years. “My darling boy, how are you?”

Cal bent down and kissed both of her cheeks. “How are you, Mum?”

“Better now that you’re here. Come, sit.”

Before grabbing a chair, Cal kissed his aunt. Where Pixie was petite, her sister, Mags, was taller, more voluptuous, and a few years older. Trevor had inherited his mother’s gray eyes and too little of her charm.

“My dearest, how handsome you look, and so very tan,” she said. “All that sun in Australia must have been lovely.”

Cal wouldn’t describe anything about his time in Cairns as lovely. He said nothing as he shook hands with Nigel. An older version of Trevor with his dark-turning-to-gray hair and a stubborn chin, Nigel didn’t bear the same attitude of cool superiority his son had perfected. Instead, he possessed a ready smile, and though he’d gathered a few more wrinkles since the last time Cal had seen him, the older man wore them well.

“How are you, my boy?” Nigel asked. “Up for a game of golf while you’re in town?”

Cal fell into his seat. “I don’t really play.”

Nigel looked momentarily dumbfounded. “Why ever not?”

“Hello, Calum,” Paolo said. Dressed in a pink knit shirt that strained at his biceps, and a light green sweater tied at his neck, he cradled a yappy white-haired dog.

When Pixie had first announced her engagement to Paolo, a man decades her junior, Cal had been concerned. He figured the waiter his mum had met while on vacation was a gold digger. But they’d been married ten years. Quite happily, by all accounts.

“Do you want an egg?” Paolo asked in Italian-flavored English, which had much improved in the last few years.

“No, thanks.”

“Darling,” Pix said, “what have you been doing with yourself? I’ve only seen you once since you’ve come to Vegas.”

“I wonder why.” Cal wasn’t over his irritation at being summoned to the States. When he’d arrived on his mum’s doorstep with a bottle of champagne, only to find there was no party and he’d been duped, Cal had been furious. “You lied to me? You dragged me halfway around the world for nothing?”

In the face of his anger, she merely shrugged. “I had to get you here some way. I’ve been so worried about you. You’re becoming a hermit.”

She wasn’t wrong. After Babcock’s death, Cal had been apathetic, listless. He sat on the beach, staring at the water all day, and nursed a beer on the veranda every night. He’d gotten himself into a rut, and he couldn’t seem to shake the grief that had left him numb.

Now Pixie stabbed a blueberry with her fork. “I’ve apologized for lying, Calum, but I’d do it all over again.”

Cal narrowed his eyes against the sun. “Oh, I know you would. Whatever’s most convenient, that’s your route.”

Mags’s glance darted between the two of them. “Trevor says you’ve been using his garage, dearest, which I hope means you’re staying in town for a while?”

“I have no idea.” Why the hell did everyone keep asking about his plans? Damned annoying of them. When Cal figured it out, he’d send them all a group text.

“Come along, Nigel,” Mags said, “we should go. Cal, I hope to see you again very soon.”

Nigel glanced down at his plate. “I haven’t finished my kippers. What’s the hurry?”

Mags stood and tugged at her tight blue dress. Then she whisked Nigel’s plate from the table. “It’s kippers on the go this morning. Spit spot. Ciao, Paolo.”

Nigel pushed back his chair. “All right, woman. I’m coming.” He turned to Cal. “Good to see you. If you change your mind about a round or two, do let me know.” He trailed Mags up to the house.

Pix pursed her lips and angled her head toward the tennis court. “That was rather rude of you.”

When the little dog began to whine, Paolo stood and swept it under his arm, then he leaned down to kiss Pixie’s cheek. “Play nice.” He shot Cal one last glance before taking the sunglasses from the top of his head and slipping them on. With a swagger, Paolo walked with the tiny dog past the pool and down the hill.

“He’s a man of few words.”

Pixie smiled. “He says all he needs to with his body.”

“Oh God. Spare me the details.” Cal’s eyes wandered to Pixie’s throat, lined with fine wrinkles. It betrayed her true age. Silence stretched between them until Cal said, “She asked for you, at the end.”

Pix straightened her shoulders. She remained quiet for a few minutes, then she turned to look at him. “I miss her every day, darling.”

“Do you?”

Clearing her throat, she shook her head. “Don’t do this to me, Cal. Please.”

He slouched back in his chair, draping his hands over the armrests. Cal could continue to pick at her, but he’d only feel worse, and it wouldn’t change anything. Searching for some topic to fill the space, Cal said, “Jules called this morning.”

Pixie’s face brightened as she grabbed onto the subject like a conversational life jacket. “Oh, lovely Juliette! How is she? She must be what, fourteen by now?”

“She’ll be twenty-one in a few months. And she was just arrested for drink-driving.”

“I can’t believe she’s that old. Where has the time gone?”

“That’s what you’re fixated on—her age—and not the fact that she was snockered and trying to drive?”

Pixie threw her hands into the air. “I can’t say anything without you jumping down my throat. Honestly, Calum.”

“Sorry.” Sitting up, he leaned his elbows on the table. “Why didn’t you leave me with him—after the divorce, I mean?”

“Who?” Pixie’s dark green eyes widened. “Your father? What does it matter?”

“I don’t know.” Since he’d first learned of Babcock’s illness, Cal had become introspective and out of sorts. The only time he’d felt himself in months was with Monica Campbell. Which was ludicrous, because she was quite obviously going through her own identity crisis. “It just does.”

“Darling, men like your father live small lives.” Pixie placed her hand on his arm. At least two million pounds’ worth of diamonds glittered on her fingers. “You would have withered under all of his rules.”

“If he was so bloody horrible, why did you marry him?”

“I thought it was time to settle down. Your aunt Mags was married, and she seemed happy.”

“Aunt Mags is always happy. Until she isn’t.”

“Your father was mad about me. Unfortunately, that wore off rather quickly, and we wound up rowing constantly. One day, I just couldn’t take it anymore. You were only six and so terribly unhappy. So was I. If you’d stayed, you would have been miserable. I wanted better things for you.”

“What better things?” Like drifting from one place to the next, never fitting in? Feeling like a ghost in a world full of real people? Where was this coming from? Cal liked new places, new people. Australia had skewed his worldview, and he wasn’t sure how to regain his old perspective. “Why the constant moving around?”

“I get antsy. You’re the same way. Staying in one place for too long, it made me irritable, like I was bursting out of my skin. There was always a new adventure to be had.”

A new adventure. That’s what she’d always said to him when he was a boy, but it was simply code for Pix is bored now.

Cal stared out at the mountains, the only thing breaking up the skyline. He couldn’t fault Pix, because he’d done the same thing—traveled from place to place, staying put in London only when he had a car to obsess over. Now Cal didn’t know what he wanted. One place was pretty much like another. Different beach, different country. Same sky.

His life was a carousel, going round and round, but never heading anywhere. At thirty-two, Cal felt weary.

“Would you have preferred being stuck in some dreary boarding school?” Pix asked. “I don’t think so. We have good memories, Cal. Remember that little tavern in Minsk?” Pix quirked her head to one side. With her pointed chin and delicate features, she really did look like a sprite. “That pretty waitress made such a fuss over you, and you were only thirteen. Every time she pinched your cheeks, you turned bright red. Or the time we watched the fireworks on Bastille Day from a boat on the Seine?”

She was right. He’d have been bored to bits at school, and he wouldn’t have done well anyway. Cal liked working with his hands. He probably never would have known that if Pix hadn’t had an affair with Yurgi. That Russian had more classic cars than ex-wives.

“Darling, what is this about?”

Cal raised one shoulder. “I was curious, that’s all. Babcock had no family. No one. Not a cousin or an uncle tucked away somewhere. Terrible, that. Not having anyone.”

“Calum, you have someone. We have each other.”

He looked into her eyes then, saw a hint of desperation there. She needed him to let this go, let go of the hurt and disappointment he’d been hanging onto. But he couldn’t. He simply wasn’t capable of forgiving her.

He stood and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I need to dash. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Calum.”

“I’m sorry.” Pixie’s eyes shimmered with tears, which she quickly blinked back. She was hurting in her own way, and he was a shit for causing it. But he didn’t know what to do, how to fix this rift between them, if it was indeed reparable. “I’ll call you next week, Mum.”

Cal jogged up the stairs and strode through the house. Hopefully the hired car would be waiting for him. His skin felt tight, and he was edgy. He hated arguing with Pix. It rarely happened. She’d always been the good cop. Babs was the one who’d forced him to do his maths and eat his vegetables. Pix let him do whatever the hell he wanted.

When he walked out the front door, the car wasn’t there, but Paolo was. He leaned against a yellow Lamborghini. He pushed off it and straightened when he saw Cal.

“What’s up?” Cal asked.

Paolo thrust his hands into his pockets and nodded toward the house. “Make up with Pix. She misses you.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“You are not alone. She is sad about Bab too.”

Cal’s mood went from introspective to angry faster than that Lamborghini went from zero to sixty. “If she’s so fucking grieved, she should have gone to Australia when she had the chance. And it’s Babcock or Babs, if you must. She was probably the best person I’ve ever known, so get the name right, will you?” This rage blindsided him. He’d been a zombie for months, and suddenly he was lashing out, making Pix cry, yelling at Paolo. What the bloody hell was wrong with him?

Paolo appeared shocked. Before he had time to respond, the hired car pulled through the gates. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” He needed to get out of there. Now. He strode to the car, flung open the door, and slid inside.

What a fucking disastrous day. And it wasn’t even noon.

Chapter 7

Monica finished her fifth call of the morning when Stella walked into the office carrying an enormous vase of flowers. A profusion of freesias, peonies, and lilies filled the air with their sweet aroma.

Stella placed them on the small credenza across from the desk. “These came for you.” She adjusted the vase this way and that before handing over an envelope bearing Monica’s name, written in a bold scrawl.

Cal. Monica dropped it on her desk like it was radioactive. “Thanks.”

“Well, aren’t you going to open it?”

“Yep.” She gave Stella a pointed look.

“Fine, I’m leaving,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I assume it’s from that sexy British guy?”

“More than likely.”

“Monica, my dear, I’m going to give you the same advice I’d give my own daughter, if I had one. Get out and have fun. The girls”—she pointed to her chest—“they only stay perky for so long. Take advantage of it.”

As soon as she left the office, Monica picked up the card—probably an apology for acting like an ass last night, for giving her the third degree in the middle of one of the busiest casinos on the Strip. You weren’t exactly tactful yourself, Campbell, blaming him for your foolish choices. Well, there was that. Perhaps there was the slimmest chance she owed him an apology too.

Monica ripped at the adhesive flap and pulled out the note. She glanced over the words written on the heavy cardstock, then read them again. It wasn’t an apology. She looked at the check. One hundred thousand dollars to the foundation.

Hope this helps. —Cal

Of course she was thrilled about the donation. But still, no apology, no request for forgiveness. Not a word about a second date. She would have turned him down, of course, but Calum Hughes had just taken another bite-size chunk out of her ego.

Monica’s gaze returned to the flowers. Why send them? If he wasn’t sorry, why send an arrangement that was damn near as tall as she was—what game was he playing?

She set the check aside and was about to drop the note into the trash can, but instead slipped it into her desk drawer. She’d have Stella send Cal a thank-you note from the foundation. A personalized note. He’d given her his phone number last night, but she wasn’t going to use it. Ever. That would just be asking for trouble.

Monica worked steadily throughout the day. As she accomplished tasks, she crossed them off her list—and stared at those flowers. Every time the phone rang, her body tensed as she wondered if Cal was on the other end. Every time her email pinged, she checked it.

But he never called, never showed up. Then it occurred to her that maybe he wasn’t playing a game. If he’d taken her at her word and was leaving her alone, good. Great.

Then why did she feel so restless? Monica shook her head at her own stupidity. What was wrong with her? What wasn’t wrong with her? If Monica started cataloging all of her character flaws, she’d be here all night, but falling for Calum Hughes wasn’t going to be one of them.

At six, Stella walked in carrying three plastic takeout bags.

“You must be hungry tonight. These things weigh a ton. Don’t stay too late.”

It smelled divine. Chinese food, if Monica knew her Szechuan. Garlicky and spicy. Her stomach rumbled. “I didn’t order anything.”

Stella shrugged on her way out the door.

Monica peered into one of the sacks. Resting on top sat a hand-wrapped fortune cookie. She plucked it out and gave it a wary gaze, then broke the cookie in half. Cal’s handwriting.

I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a little bit of everything. Have a good evening.

She pulled out containers filled with spicy beef, chicken, a steamed vegetable dish, and rice. There were egg rolls and dumplings and cartons of soup—easily enough to feed the entire office.

She’d refused to call Cal this afternoon to thank him, but now she had no choice. She was simply being polite. It had nothing to do with the fact that she wanted to hear that deep, raspy voice of his.

Who the hell are you trying to convince, here? Fine, she wanted to hear his deep, raspy voice. But nothing would come of it. Just a simple thanks, and she’d hang up.

Monica dug into her purse and retrieved Cal’s number. Nervously scraping the surface of her thumbnail, she dialed and waited. When she finally heard his voice-mail message, disappointment hit her, swift and sharp. Where was he? On another date? A tight coil of jealousy wrapped around her chest and squeezed.

Whoa. Time to slam on the brakes. What Cal did, and with whom, was none of Monica’s business.

Thanking Cal should be just another item on her to-do list, but she couldn’t be objective. Last night had been much more than a good-night kiss. It had left her shell-shocked. If he could make her feel this fluttery and possessive after a semiclothed fumble, what would happen if they actually had sex?

Grateful—that’s what she should feel. Grateful he hadn’t answered the phone with that growl that left her stomach feeling like it was made of Jell-O.

Monica left a hasty, impersonal message, thanking Cal for the flowers, check, and food. There. Done. No need to think about him again.

Except that with every bite she took, he floated through her mind. His smell, his skin’s texture. The way he’d touched her breasts and fondled her pussy. And she’d thought that kiss five years ago had been unforgettable.

Disgusted with herself, Monica boxed up the rest of the food and stuck it in the break-room refrigerator. As she walked back to her office, she eyed the flowers. She may not have had any contact with Cal, but he’d definitely made his presence known.

Bastard.

* * *

Over the next three days, Monica didn’t hear from him. At least not directly. But on Wednesday, he provided a catered lunch for her staff. She texted him a quick thanks. He never responded.

On Thursday, he sent her a beautifully wrapped package, rectangular and only about seven inches long. Was it a bracelet? If so, she was sending it back. Jewelry seemed too personal and inappropriate.

Monica held it up to her ear and gave it a light shake, but nothing rattled. Her pulse faltered as she untied the pretty gold bow. Inside the flat box she found a pen covered in pink Swarovski crystals. It was tacky and sparkly and she adored it.

Oh, he was so calculating. She knew exactly what Cal was up to—trying to soften her up. Well it wasn’t going to work. Again, she texted a short thank-you, but didn’t receive a response. He probably figured that not answering her calls or texts would drive her crazy. He figured right. Every time she looked at the flowers or wrote with the pen, she thought about Cal.

Friday morning, she received an email that a generous gift had been made in her name. The money would be used to provide health care at a women’s clinic in Kenya.

Son of a bitch, he was good.

His diabolical plan actually worked. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. Monica had reread his card so many times, she knew his sloping handwriting by heart. He was wearing her down, day by day.

Grabbing her phone, Monica speed-dialed his number. This time, after the fifth ring, he answered. “Hey,” she said. Now that she’d heard his voice, she felt tongue-tied and jittery, like she’d mainlined three shots of espresso.

“Monica. What’s up?” He sounded casual, almost indifferent.

She grabbed the pink crystal pen and wiggled it between her fingers. “Um, I just wanted to thank you, you know, for everything.”

“Of course, no problem.” He didn’t say anything else.

Monica waited a beat, suddenly unsure of herself. He was interested, right?

She gazed at the flowers Cal had sent, still vibrant and fragrant. On Monday he’d touched her, pinched her nipples, kissed her like he couldn’t get enough. Then there were the thoughtful gestures over the last few days—yeah, Cal was interested, all right, but he’d been waiting for her to come to him, then acting aloof when she did. Classic. Well, she wasn’t about to fall for that bullshit.

“All right then,” she said cheerfully, “take care.”

“Wait,” he said as her thumb drifted over the End button. “Before you go, there is something you might be able to help me with.”

“If possible.” Cal wanted to play disinterested? Well she could play twice as hard. Sure you can. Unless he steps within a fifty-foot radius.

“Is there a decent restaurant you’d recommend?” he asked.

Everything in Monica’s world shifted back into place. This was what Cal had been after all along. A date. Nothing complicated about it. “I suggest you consult a Zagat’s Guide.”

“I could do, of course, but getting a local’s perspective is usually better.”

“There’s a sushi restaurant in Caesars, a steak bar in the Luxor, an Italian place at the Venetian. Ask your concierge, he’ll give you a list.”

“Excellent. Thanks for your help.” And then he hung up.

He hung up.

Monica stared at her phone in disbelief. Just when she thought she had him figured out, he’d do the unexpected.

Exactly five minutes later, he called back. “What?” she snapped.

“Monica, will you have dinner with me this evening? You can play tour guide, show me all the sights. I’d be ever so grateful.”

“Forget it.”

“Splendid. I’ll get your address from Trevor and be there at seven. Look forward to seeing you, love.”

She didn’t have time to say a word, because he’d hung up again. Cal Hughes was driving her insane. Monica planned on telling him so. But first, she needed something to wear.

* * *

Six fifty-three. Monica had been checking her phone for the last fifteen minutes while she paced the empty dining room. The tips of her pointy new heels were a little tight and echoed on the tiled floor. Black pumps. Four inchers.

She’d gone round and round with herself about this date so many times, she felt a little dizzy. Or it could be the fact that she was going to see Cal again in…six minutes and fourteen seconds.

This afternoon, she’d finally broken down and called Evan for support.

“We’re going out. Cal and I. On a date.”

“Just one second.” He’d held the phone away from his mouth. “Hallelujah,” he screamed. “Okay, I’m back. So, you’ve decided to take Evan’s advice?”

“Don’t talk about yourself in the third person, it’s obnoxious. And yes. I’m going to treat Cal like a vaccine. After him, I should either be completely immune to bad boys, or I’ll be catatonic. One or the other.” Standing by the office window, Monica had run a hand over her navy blue jacket. It was the sassiest one she owned, because it featured four brass buttons. “I think I have a fashion emergency, Ev.”

“You’re just now figuring this out? Meet you at Nordies at two o’clock.”

“I only have an hour and fifteen minutes before my next meeting.”

He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’m not a miracle worker, but I’ll do my best.”

Evan was already at the store with an armful of colorful dresses when she arrived. He’d shoved them at her and tried to follow her into the dressing room. “I need to see how they fit.”

“Out, you perv.” Monica slammed the door in his face.

“Fine, but you’re the one with the time crunch.”

Out of the dozen dresses facing her, Monica tried on three, all muted colors, but they showed off a fair amount of cleavage and were much shorter than anything she’d worn in years.

So now here she stood in the dining room, waiting for Cal in a black tank dress. The material was a little sparkly, but not too much. Her arms and legs were completely bare. Once upon a time, she would have considered this dress too conservative.

Not that it mattered how much skin she revealed. Cal had gotten an eyeful of her the other night, and Monica hadn’t been shy then. In fact, she’d all but shaken her tits in his face.

But tonight was going to be different. Tonight, she was in control. Monica’s eyes were wide open, no illusions this time—Cal wasn’t the right man for her, and she knew it.

If nothing else, she could listen to that sexy voice and stare at him all night. Cal was like a flower or a sculpture, here to make the world a sexier place. And since she had no intention of getting serious with him, she could just enjoy him while he was in town. Have a little fun. Bad-boy inoculation.

She heard his car door slam at six fifty-nine. In control. Eyes wide open.

At the door, she gripped the handle and took three deep breaths before opening it. But the sight of him caused that last breath to become lodged in her throat. She should have been prepared for that face, that body, but Cal knocked her for a loop all over again. He stood beneath her porch light, his green eyes looking a shade darker than normal, more pine bough than fresh spring leaves. Even in the sparse light, he was a burst of warmth and sunshine and fresh air.

The ends of his hair were damp and curled slightly upward, turning the natural highlights to a burnished gold. He’d freshly shaved, and his tanned cheeks looked smooth. Monica wanted to touch them to make sure, but rubbed her thumbnail instead as she resisted the urge.

The tight navy T-shirt showed off his pecs—well developed and perfectly defined. They made her cheeks tighten with heat. Faded jeans—no grease stains—clung to his legs. As her gaze slipped lower, Monica purposely avoided looking at his package. On his feet, brown leather work boots were scratched at the toes.

Cal dressed blue-collar casual, wore it with a comfortable grace, but he was the furthest thing from it. Trust-fund baby. Jet setter. Poshly accented mechanic. She hadn’t quite figured him out.

Swiping her tongue quickly over her lips, she glanced up and realized Cal was checking her out just as thoroughly.

His gaze moved over her body, from the bodice of the dress, which dipped a little low, down over her hips. Canting his head to the side, he stared at her bare legs. Although they were too pale, Cal didn’t seem to mind. She read the sexual interest in his eyes.

After a few long seconds, he slowly perused her calves and ankles, all the way down to her feet, taking in the dark, pointy heels. Then his glance reversed, moving upward once more. She felt that heated gaze dance across her skin like a drop of water when it hit a sizzling pan. As his eyes rested on her cleavage, Monica stopped breathing for a moment. Finally, he looked her in the eye. “Bloody fucking hell, woman. You have legs. And they’re spectacular.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as her gaze bounced away from his. “Thanks.” Since working at the foundation, Monica had tried hard to maintain her professional image. But she realized those clothes also made her feel invisible. She liked that Cal noticed and appreciated her body. She felt womanly and sexy for a change. Still nervous, of course, but the flood of anxiety was starting to recede.

Cal held a small pink gift bag in one hand. “If you invite me in, I’ll give you this.” He gave the bag a little shake.

It took Monica a moment to understand the words. “Sorry.” With a quick nod, she backed up and allowed him to enter. “Sure, come on in. Would you like something to drink?”

He openly gazed around the small entryway. The blank ivory walls, the dated ceramic tile flooring. “Beer?”

“Sure. Is a longneck okay? Or I could pour it in a cup, if you’d prefer?” Oh God, she was babbling.

His eyes found hers, and they stared at each other for few seconds. “Bottle.”

Would Monica ever get tired of hearing that voice? It made her nipples hard. She spun, her narrow heels catching in the loops of the tan carpet. She managed to right herself, but Cal’s arm banded around her, underneath her breasts.

“Okay?” His breath fanned the side of her neck. His body felt warm against her bare upper back, but despite his heat, goose bumps covered her arms.

“Yeah.”

He didn’t let her go. “You look smashing, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Cal dipped his head and lightly kissed her shoulder. Then he released her.

You’re in control. Why had Monica thought tonight was a good idea again? Oh yeah, to prove to Cal that she wasn’t bothered by his little games. Right.

Tossing her head, she lifted her chin and strode into the kitchen, mindful of her heels this time. Opening the fridge, Monica plucked out a bottle. When she whirled around, she noticed Cal scoping out her ass. She raised a brow, but he simply grinned.

He took the beer from her hand. “Cheers.” He twisted off the cap and took a long draw. The galley kitchen was too confining with Cal in it. They stood only six inches apart. Monica’s torso still felt warm from where he’d wrapped his arm around her. He smelled good too—that delicious combination of woodsy aftershave and hot man.

“Why don’t we go to the living room?” Monica skirted around him and led the way, parking herself on the far end of the sofa. As Cal sprawled out next to her, there was less than a foot separating their knees. How was this any better? He was still too close. With a beer in one hand and the hot-pink gift bag in the other, he looked sexy and whimsical at the same time.