Читать книгу Up Close and Personal - Joanne Rock - Страница 12

“DAD?”

Rocco dropped into his bed late that night, exhausted but knowing he wouldn’t sleep until he’d told his father the news. Moonlight streamed over the bed. He’d never bothered to hang blinds, living out in the middle of nowhere had its advantages.

He just hoped his dad was having a good day and would remember what Rocco was talking about with the Escalade. The old man’s health had been slipping lately, but his doctor didn’t think it was Alzheimer’s. Yet. Still, Rocco noticed gaps in his father’s memory and he worried about doing any kind of work that would make him less accessible when his dad needed something. At least now, as his own boss, he had the freedom to drop everything and lend a hand at Easton Luxury Motor Cars or help his father out at home if he needed anything.

“Ricardo, why do you call me so late?” His father’s accent became stronger when he was tired. He’d come over from the old country in the sixties, but being in the States for forty years hadn’t smoothed the strains of Italy from his speech. “I have to work tomorrow.”

Rocco closed his eyes as he laid his head on the pillow and tried not to think of Jessica Winslow’s massaging fingers on his shoulders.

“I know, Dad, but you made me promise I’d call when I found out anything about the woman who hasn’t made payments on her Escalade.” It was because his father had been so upset about it that Rocco had jumped into his investigative efforts without doing his homework. From now on, he needed to remember his father’s condition could make him more emotional. Less logical. But damn it, that hurt to think about. His father had always been so strong.

“You found the redhead and my car?”

“I found out the redhead was impersonating the real Jessica Winslow and that Ms. Winslow is the victim of identity theft, so I’ll have to do some more digging to find out who really has the Escalade.”

His father cursed in Italian and then in English for good measure.

“They try to break an old man’s bank, but thank goodness, my son, he is too smart for them, no?” Anthony Easton sighed into the phone and Rocco could picture his father lying back down in his bed. “You’re a good boy, Giuseppe, you know that?”

A lump stuck in Rocco’s throat. Giuseppe was his father’s first son by another marriage—a son who’d died in a car accident on a California interstate years ago. A son his father never would have mistaken him for unless he was sliding deeper into dementia.

Or perhaps he was just tired.

“It’s Rocco, Dad. And I’ll let you know when I find the Escalade, okay?”

With a soft grunt, his father seemed to agree before he hung up the phone. Leaving Rocco alone with his worries for the man who’d raised him and a renewed determination to find the woman who had ripped him off.

He just hoped Jessica Winslow didn’t spit in his face the next time she saw him, because he had the feeling he was going to need her help if he wanted to catch the redhead who’d faked her way into a brand-new SUV.

BUMPING AND GRINDING to the wail of Hindi sitar music the next morning, Jessica led the day’s first workshop in the hotel’s double suite. She tried to tune out the hum of anxiety that wove through her head louder than the stringed melody.

A fruitless endeavor.

She’d barely slept the night before, spending hours on the phone trying to find real live people at her credit card companies to report the case of identity theft. The police hadn’t been much help, assuring her she needed to follow the official channels set up by the credit bureaus first before they could get involved.

Eventually, they’d admitted they might be able to help her if she brought them a tape of someone impersonating her in order to secure a car loan. Even so, she needed to contact the finance company first.

And, of course, the mere act of talking to the police set her nerves on edge. She’d had too many run-ins with the cops in her childhood to feel any sort of ease in that situation. Even though she didn’t have anything to hide these days—unlike in the past when she’d been forced to make up long, convoluted explanations for why there had been yelling coming from their apartment or why her parents hadn’t registered her for school in their newest hometown—she still felt tongue-tied and anxious when she tried to recite her story. While part of her couldn’t help feeling a twinge of resentment at Rocco for bringing all this to her doorstep, she knew she should be grateful that he’d alerted her to the identity theft. She’d had a few instances of bills not showing up and a handful of purchases on her credit card that weren’t hers and which she’d disputed with her company, but nothing she’d worried about until now.

Still, she definitely nursed more feelings for Rocco than simple gratitude. She couldn’t deny the twinge of hurt she’d experienced that he’d turned away from their heated kisses so easily. She hated that she’d thought about those moments so often through the night, but that revelation of sensual potential inside her had been as big of news to her as any identity theft.

Between the lack of sleep, financial worries and a body overwrought by desire for a man she should probably stay away from, she wasn’t exactly bringing her A game to the morning belly-dancing class. Securing the good opinion of these students should be her number-one priority.

Like that of the woman tentatively raising her hand…

“How do you recommend we incorporate this into our seduction techniques?” asked the quiet blonde who had been the first to arrive for today’s workshop.

The woman, Bryanna, was best friends with the Hollywood director’s wife, and had confided to Jessica this morning that she feared her husband was on the verge of asking for a divorce.

Jessica weighed her answer as she helped one of the other ladies find the rhythm of the music by gently steering her hips.

“I don’t recommend using this to seduce anyone but yourself.” She spoke from her heart, knowing the answer probably wasn’t what the woman wanted to hear, but hoping the message would make sense anyway.

“How can I seduce myself when it’s me who notices all the cellulite every time I contract my stomach muscles?” Bryanna slowed her undulating movements, her harem-girl dancing costume not as sheer as some the other women had chosen.

Jessica wasn’t sure if she should play it safe and make a few suggestions for setting the stage for seduction, or if she should forge ahead with what she really thought. Bad advice could cost her that coveted word-of-mouth business. But damn it, she had to trust her gut on this.

“The dance is meant to help you see beyond the superficial of the exterior so you can feel the sensuality of the movement and tap into a new wellspring of sexual confidence and well-being.” It might sound New Agey, but the approach had worked wonders for Jessica when she’d been at her most sensually vulnerable.

Other students slowed their dance movements to listen, the flow of sheer silk skirts and scarves coming to a halt.

“What good is reclaiming my sexuality if I don’t have anyone to share it with?” Bryanna straightened, her body rigid with tension Jessica could feel from several feet away.

Or maybe Jessica simply recalled too well what it felt like to experience self-doubt after her own sexual confidence had been scared into hiding.

“Tapping into your own sensual power creates an aura of attractiveness and charisma that draws people, without any effort at all from you.” No seduction necessary.

At that moment, someone rapped on the door to the connecting suites where they conducted their workshops. One of the students in back moved to admit the newcomer. The door frame filled with shoulders and one-hundred-percent he-man.

Rocco Easton.

Feminine squeals greeted his arrival as if he was some sort of rock star. Clearly he had created quite a following for himself with his fake persona of sexy waiter. Would these women still admire him if they knew his true identity or that he’d bluffed his way into their midst the night before?

She couldn’t imagine what he wanted anyway. Hadn’t he screwed up her life enough already? Or did he want to embarrass her after all and snatch the keys to her car in front of her whole class? Still, the sight of him in khakis and a navy polo shirt that showed off amazing muscles elicited a purely feminine flutter inside her.

“Rocco, darling.” Ingrid, the director’s wife, drew him deeper into the room. “We need you to settle a friendly disagreement we’ve been having this morning about the nature of attractiveness.”

“If this is about lipstick color or something, I’m not going to be much help.” He sauntered inside, his eyes meeting hers. Holding.

Jessica’s skin tickled with the memory of his touch, her heart picking up speed at just the sight of him. She might have doubts about his motives, but she didn’t doubt their sensual connection for a second. And she didn’t want any part of that sinfully sweet reaction.

He was a repo man, a guy who sneaked onto people’s property at night to make off with the cars that struggling families depended on. He was the guy who told lies to latchkey kids about why he needed to take away a refrigerator housing nothing more than milk and a few precious eggs.