Читать книгу Real Men: Rugged Rebels: Watch and Learn / Under His Skin / Her Perfect Hero - Jeanie London, Jeanie London - Страница 15

GEMMA LOVED to make love in the morning … when the sounds of the day were awakening: the soft tickle of tree branches brushing the roof … the vibrating hum of insects drinking from dewy grass … the rattling screech of something that sounded like a cross between a wet cat and a woman screaming “Help!”

Her eyes popped open. The inhuman noise seemed to be coming from her front yard. So much for a few extra z’s on her day off.

She pulled on a robe and walked to the picture window, but didn’t see anything from that vantage point. She did glance at the window opposite hers, but it was empty. Chev had probably been awake for hours, she decided, remembering the way he’d looked in the window last night, watching her … a zing went through her stomach and traveled down her thighs just thinking about it. How lucky to find a sexy man living next door—temporarily—who enjoyed watching her as much as she enjoyed performing.

The screeching noise sounded again, and she had a feeling she knew the source. She walked downstairs and into the living room for a view of the front yard. Then she gasped. Piles of new mulch and several clumps of flowers—roots and all—were scattered over the recently cut lawn. And the culprit stood in the middle of the mess holding a healthy marigold plant in his beak.

“Not my flowers!” Gemma shouted. As if the bird, or anyone else, could hear her. She nearly ran outside, then remembered her robe and pounded back upstairs for a pair of shorts, a T-shirt and sandals. Her mind whirled for some sort of weapon as she rushed downstairs. Desperate, she grabbed an umbrella on the way out the front door.

“Shoo!” she yelled, jogging down the front steps and into the yard, waving the umbrella at the peacock. It flinched, then squawked at her, dropping the mangled plant it had been holding.

“Go away!” she shouted.

The bird took a few steps backward, then shuddered and unfurled his tail in its magnificent fan in an apparent attempt to intimidate her.

Undeterred, Gemma opened the rainbow-colored umbrella and waved it at the destructive beast for a little intimidation of her own.

Low, rumbling laughter sounded. Her stomach tightened before she even turned around to see Chev standing at the edge of their property lines, leaning on a Weed Eater, his T-shirt already sweat-stained although the sun had barely begun its climb. His lopsided grin did funny things to her vital signs. She straightened and pushed a few strands of hair behind her ear, realizing how ridiculous she must look. Then she lifted her chin. “This isn’t funny. This … fowl destroyed my flower beds!”

He held up his hand in an obvious attempt to stop laughing. “I’m sorry. But you’re only making things worse.”

Gemma frowned. “How?”

He walked closer and gestured to the colorful umbrella she held. “Now he probably thinks you’re a potential mate.”

Gemma squinted at the bird, who did indeed seem to be strutting his stuff versus scrambling to get away. She sighed. “Do you have any better ideas for getting rid of him?”

Chev pursed his mouth. “We males can be difficult to get rid of once we see something we like.”

Her cheeks warmed as his meaning set in. A tickle of concern curled in her stomach. It was a good thing that Chev’s days here were numbered. Otherwise, he might begin to expect more than she was willing to offer.

He lunged at the peacock, waving his arms, and succeeded in driving it into the air. Flying low, the large bird disappeared into a copse of trees several yards away.

“Thank you,” Gemma said. “Again.”

Chev’s eyes twinkled. “You’re welcome, but I don’t think you’ve seen the last of him.”

Gemma pushed one hand into her hair as she surveyed the damage to her flower beds. To her horror, tears filled her eyes. “I so don’t need this hassle.”

“Hey, hey,” he said, sounding alarmed. He moved closer, touching her arm. “It’s nothing that can’t be fixed. I can give you a hand.”

“That’s not necessary,” she said, wiping her cheeks hurriedly and pulling away from his disturbing touch. “I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Besides, you have your hands full with your own property.”

“Actually, I was hoping I might negotiate some kind of trade.”

Gemma swallowed hard. “What did you have in mind?”

A small smile played on his lips for a few seconds, as if he were considering all the pleasurable possibilities.“Your expertise in return for any handyman work you have around here.”

“My expertise in what?”

“My house,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the Spanish structure. I want to stay as true to authentic Mission detail as possible, but I’m afraid I’m in over my head. I thought with your background in art history, you might be able to steer me in the right direction.”

Gemma crossed her arms and considered his proposal. “For example?”

He shrugged. “Some guidance on the fireplace in the living room, the light fixtures in the bedrooms and things that I haven’t even encountered yet.”

“I have some reference books on the Mission style,” Gemma said, her mind already sifting through options. She recognized a flowering sensation in her chest as pleasure. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had asked for her opinion on anything. Jason had been the resident expert on everything that mattered, she had simply been the attentive sidekick. “Would you like to come inside while I look for them?” she asked.

He nodded, and followed her. Her heart raced as they climbed the steps and crossed the porch. She turned the knob on the door and swung it open. As soon as he crossed the threshold, she regretted asking him inside. She felt guilty and skittish, as if someone might catch them, and found herself practicing explanations in her head. He’s the neighbor … a carpenter … temporary.

“Nice place,” he said, turning his head from side to side.

She saw the house as he might … clean, but dark and cluttered with little piles of Jason’s stuff everywhere—the overflowing basket of mail, the milk crate of shoes and belts and crushed ball caps, the laundry basket of office equipment and thick volumes of books on Florida law. “I apologize for the mess—these are my husband’s things.” She put a hand to her head and gave a little laugh. “I mean my ex-husband. We recently divorced.”

He nodded. “So I gathered.”

She was embarrassed. She should’ve gotten rid of everything after her last phone conversation with Jason. The air seemed especially stifling.

“Sorry it’s so stuffy in here. My air conditioner is on the blink. I’ve been keeping all the windows open, but it hasn’t helped much.”

“It’s helped me a great deal,” he said, his voice low and amused.

His candor shocked her—and pleased her. It was refreshing to speak honestly about a sexual experience instead of flirting around the edges. “I’m glad you think so,” she murmured, and the air between them fairly crackled with static electricity. His dark eyes seemed to pierce her, and behind the blatant physical appreciation, she could sense his mind was racing, trying to figure out why a nice girl like her would be compelled to exhibit herself in such an intimate way. Gemma broke eye contact as a wave of anxiety washed over her. Honesty came with its own price.

“I could take a look at your air conditioner unit if you like,” he offered, changing the subject easily.

“I couldn’t bother you—”

“I might not even be able to fix it,” he interrupted. “But I’d like to do something for you in exchange for your help with the details of the house.”

There it was again, the look that said he wanted—needed—her help.

“Okay,” she relented, then proceeded up the stairs. “The unit is up here in the hall closet if you want to take a look. I’ll try to locate my reference books.”

He strode to the closet with a casual authority that she admired, a man comfortable with houses and the things in them. Unlike Jason, she mused, who saw the yard work as a chore, the smallest repair around the house an inconvenient waste of time. He would often grumble that he had two college degrees, yet he was expected to know carpentry, too. He was too busy to be bothered, she’d always reasoned, hating to see him spend his precious few hours of free time on tedious tasks. Rather than bringing things to his attention, she would attempt the repair herself or call a repair service, with Jason none the wiser.

On the other hand, her mind whispered, Chev Martinez wasn’t the most powerful attorney in Florida, with the ear of the governor, making decisions every day that affected the lives of everyone who lived in the state. If Jason knew what Gemma had been doing, exhibiting her body to a relative stranger, he’d be shocked and disgusted. He’d tell her that she’d gone slumming … that he was glad he had divorced her before he realized the extent of her perversions and perhaps ruined his career. A stone settled in her stomach. The men were too different to compare, she told herself. Besides, she’d had a ten-year relationship with Jason, and had known Chev barely ten days.

Yet his presence in her house had her on edge, his big body seeming to take up the entire hall as he scrutinized the unit and touched a tube here, a wire there. He seemed to fill the house, his male scent crowding the muggy rooms, his thoughtful hum soaking into empty corners, chasing away the loneliness that had pervaded the place since Jason’s departure. Gemma allowed her heart to lift faintly and moved into her bedroom to consult her dusty bookshelves.

“I’m going to check your breakers,” he called.

“Go ahead,” she called back, struck by how domestic they seemed. Pleasure infused her chest—this little exhibitionist fling was exactly what she needed to help her push through the pain of Jason’s rejection. She was suddenly very grateful for Chev’s presence—and hoped that he didn’t press her for … more.

CHEV WAS STRUCK by the domesticity of standing in Gemma’s hallway, doing something her husband would’ve done if he’d been around. Would her ex object to him being here? Probably. He wondered if the guy had had an affair, if Gemma had thrown him out or if he’d left voluntarily. Chev couldn’t imagine a woman more exciting than Gemma, but maybe the guy was a jerk … or gay. Or just a prude.

Chev flipped a breaker and glanced around to check that the section of power extinguished matched what was written on the switch’s label. He moved through the motions of the routine repair, feeling relatively sure he could get the unit running again with a few replacement parts.

He heard Gemma moving around in her bedroom. Setting his jaw against the hunger that surged in his chest, he walked to the doorway and rapped lightly. His gaze swept past the picture window where she had undressed for him and over her unmade bed before coming to rest on the sight of her standing in front of a bookshelf, thumbing through a hefty volume.

She looked up, then flushed and gestured vaguely toward the tangled sheets. “Excuse the mess. I slept in this morning until the peacock woke me up.”

He nodded, swallowing hard to control the reaction of his body to the image of Gemma undressed and lying beneath him on that bed. But his cock was having none of his stall tactics and began to swell against his zipper. She still looked tousled from sleep and he’d bet the sheets were still warm from her hot body. No wonder the air conditioner had blown. “The compressor is working. I think you need a new thermostat.”

“That sounds serious,” she murmured.

“Not really,” he assured her, shifting slightly in an effort to reposition himself more comfortably. “I’ll get everything you need on my next trip to the home center.”

“I appreciate your help.”

He nodded toward the book she held. “I appreciate yours.”

She smiled and held up the book. “What do you want to talk about first?”

“The fireplace,” he said randomly.

“Let’s walk over so I can take a look.”

“I’ll follow you,” he said, partly because he wanted to view her backside, and partly because he wanted to hide his growing erection. She picked up a sketch pad and swept by him in a cloud of feminine scent—fruity shampoo, heady womanliness and earthy sleep aromas. Downstairs he noticed blank spaces on walls and shelves where pictures had been removed and whatnots were missing. Containers of random men’s things sat on the floor—her husband’s leavings, no doubt. The rooms were clean, but appeared neglected and unused. She seemed eager to get outside, and he wondered if his presence made her nervous—more proof that she preferred distance between them.

They picked their way across her trashed yard. “I’ll help you put things back in order,” he offered.

“I’ll do it later,” she said with a wave. “I’m sure you have plenty of other things to keep you busy. Do you have a drop dead date for getting the house done?”

“Three weeks from now,” he said. “This week is demolition and getting supplies. The serious work starts next week.”

He led her inside the musty house and she went straight to the fireplace, all business. She touched the broken clay bricks as if they were old friends. She asked Chev what he was looking for in the restoration, but he was so distracted by her he could barely think. He loved the way her brow wrinkled when she concentrated, the way she angled her head as she sized up things. He fell back on what little he knew about the Mission style, describing the fireplaces in his grandparents’ home. She made notes in her sketchbook, then some simple line drawings. He leaned in close and added his comments, getting caught up in her enthusiasm.

“All of this doesn’t seem like much in return for fixing my air conditioner,” she said. “So I’d like to offer to replace the mural in the kitchen.”

He smiled. “You’re an artist, too?”

Suddenly she seemed shy. “Not accomplished by any means, but I think I could paint a passable landscape, if you’re willing to let me try.”

“I accept,” he said happily. A delivery truck pulled into the driveway, horn honking.

Gemma tucked a strand of shimmering blond hair behind her ear. “I guess I’d better get to my yard.”

“I’ll let you know when I get the thermostat for your HVAC unit,” he offered as they walked back to the entrance. “Will you be around tomorrow?”

“I have to work tomorrow.”

In yet another provocative outfit? He set his jaw against the images that exploded into his head. “I’ll let you know.”

She nodded, then turned and walked back to her own yard, seeming lost in thought. Chev spent the rest of the day finding excuses to look out the window or go outside to his truck so he could catch glimpses of her working in her yard, wearing her big hat and flowered gloves. It seemed incongruous that the woman was so … normal and yet so … titillating.

He had a feeling she wouldn’t appear at her window that night, but it didn’t stop him from looking. He gave up around midnight, lying on his cot with perspiration beading on his pent-up body as his mind played images of Gemma over and over. The woman confounded him, affected him like no other woman ever had. His body ached for her. He wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to be tentative around him, that he would take whatever she had to offer for the short time he would be there.

But what if her erotic nighttime shows were all that she had to offer? The woman was still suffering from the breakup of her marriage. Maybe the window performances were her way of safely acting out.

Or maybe her behavior had led to the end of her marriage. Lots of couples had bedroom secrets, but the state attorney general’s career probably would’ve been compromised if anyone knew that his wife was an exhibitionist.

On the other hand, Gemma didn’t seem the type to.

He groaned in frustration. The woman didn’t fit any “type” he’d ever known. Intelligent but unhappy, educated but badly employed, homey but sexy, bold but unsure of herself … complementary and contradictory.

Chev sighed, willing himself to put her out of his mind,to find sleep. He’d just begun to relax when a honking, plaintive noise sounded outside his window, again … and again … and again.

The peacock was back, calling for a mate.

Chev put his pillow over his ears. It was going to be a long night.