Weddings Can Be Murder (21 page)

Holy hell. He was acting like some pimple-faced teenager about to get his first piece of ass!

It’s your first in a long time
. Yeah, that had to be it.

And he’d been up-front with her. He’d told her he wasn’t into
The Brady Bunch
. He had the green light. So, why the nerves?

Inhaling, pushing the negative thoughts away, he went to the kitchen to see what he had to offer her to drink. Two beers. Was that bottle of red wine still in the cabinet?

He found the wine, dusted it off, and set it out with two glasses. They didn’t match. Tomorrow, he’d buy another set. Then he found the neighborhood phone book, which listed the restaurants that delivered.

He heard her footsteps. His heart took a tumble when he turned around. She’d let her hair down and it hung loose around her shoulders. The formfitting jeans she wore did more for her body, and more for his, than the skirt had. Her top, a long-sleeved gray T-shirt, clung to her breasts and told him he’d been wrong: her breasts weren’t just amazing, they were fucking fantastic.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No.” He glanced at the phone book he held in front of his zipper. A good place for it, considering his dick liked her T-shirt, too. “I was deciding who to call for dinner. Chinese? Italian? It’s your call.”

“No quiche?” she teased.

“Hey, I ate my quiche.”

She grinned. “Okay, no more quiche jokes. I guess I can’t tease you about wearing pink either, huh?”

“Nope. I think this might be my favorite shirt now. And I now have two sissy dogs. I can almost say I like them.”

She grinned. “You definitely get points for taking in Tabitha’s dog.”

And what did points get him? His body needed to know.

She glanced at the phone book. At least, he hoped it was the book and not what he had going on behind the yellow pages.

“I’m easy. Most anything will pass these lips.”

Okay, that didn’t help
. He fought back the desire to suggest they skip dinner. “Chinese it is, then.” 

Les knocked on Joe’s door. Flurries of uncertainty swirled in her stomach. She’d called Joe and told him about Katie asking her to help him cancel the wedding. He hadn’t even asked why Katie wasn’t going to come.

So, would someone please explain this to her?

It didn’t make a freaking bit of sense. How in the hell could two people be planning to get married one day and both be interested in other people three days later?

Because they were never in love
. They couldn’t have been in love. Mike had been dead for a year and a half, and the idea of being attracted to someone else felt like trying to walk with rocks in her shoes.

Joe opened the door. His hair hung a little darker, like it was still wet. He wore jeans, a navy T-shirt, and a smile. “Come in.” He motioned her into his well-decorated, contemporary-style condo. Lots of dark wood and chrome.

“Thanks.” She walked in, feeling those imaginary rocks in her shoes, and caught a whiff of his clean, masculine scent.

When she pulled off her jacket, Joe’s eyes widened as he took in her dress. She’d worn it just for him, so the fact that he noticed seemed appropriate. Back in Boston, she’d had her own apparel for such an occasion. But she’d packed in a hurry and hadn’t thought she’d need any special outfits.

So she’d borrowed one. The dress could be described as a typical tent dress, A-line from the neck down. The color was a bright kelly green, with huge orange pumpkins on it. It was in Les’s opinion the ugliest piece of clothing she’d ever been unfortunate enough to lay eyes on. Though she supposed it looked wonderful on Mimi.

Hence, it was perfect to wear to Joe’s. The last—the very last—thing she wanted was for him to think she’d come here out of some sort of perverted interest in him. She was here because Katie had begged her. Here, because
Katie had reminded her of how she’d forced her to sleep on a futon that was about as comfortable as a bed of nails while she and Paul Bakley had noisy, sweaty sex in the only bedroom.

Of all the bad mistakes in Les’s life, Paul was up there on top. Really great noisy, sweaty sex—but a huge mistake nonetheless. And his wife had agreed. Not that Les had known he had a wife until she’d shown up during one bout of noisy, sweaty sex.

Ugh! Les hated cheaters. Even when they were great in bed. Instantly, the memory of what hot sex had felt like tickled her mind. She hit the delete button on that tickle and faced Joe. Head held high and wearing pumpkins, she was ready to help Joe Lyon call off his wedding.

“So, what do you think we should do first?” she asked. “Give me the list of names and I’ll start calling. I figure we don’t need to explain it. Short and sweet. Something like, ‘The wedding’s off. Don’t show up. If you’ve sent a gift already, it will be returned to your store for a credit to your account, or we will mail it back to you.’ Does that sound okay?”

He hadn’t stopped staring at her dress.

“Joe?”

Finally, he raised his eyes and started laughing.

“What?” she asked.

“It’s not going to work. But I give you an A for effort.”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” she lied.

“Right.” He laughed again. “You want a beer? I need one right now.” He laughed his way to the adjoining kitchen.

Okay, maybe the dress was a bit of overkill, but hell, it wasn’t that funny. She caught a glimpse of herself in a framed mirror. Okay, so it was way over-the-top, but it still wasn’t that funny.

She walked into his kitchen. He handed her a beer and shook his head but couldn’t wipe the grin from his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But that dress looks like a bad imitation of a really ugly Halloween tablecloth.”

Les really didn’t mean to do it, but his description fit the dress to a T and she laughed.

When the humor faded, they both sat down, and using their cell phones called the wedding guests and offered apologies for the cancellation of the grand event. Joe ordered pizza, and they both drank two beers. They talked between the calls, laughed about Mimi’s streaking tendencies, and it was, in Les’s opinion, the most fun she’d had with a man in eighteen months.

And that was downright scary.

Katie and Carl had kicked back on his worn leather sofa, eaten fried rice and cashew chicken, and talked. After two glasses of wine, and having been joined on the sofa by two dogs, one wearing a pair of panties, Katie actually began to relax.

“Are you aware that Hades means—”

“God of the underworld and ruler of the dead?” he said, grinning. “When I was ten, I thought it was pretty cool.”

She chuckled.

“More wine?” He picked up the bottle.

Katie ran her hand down Baby’s back as Tabitha’s dog sat in her lap. “You trying to get me drunk?”

He grinned. “Would it help?”

“Not unless you want us both to be in the bathroom fighting over the throne.”

He set the bottle down. “You’ve officially been cut off.”

She grinned. Amazingly, the evening had passed without any awkward silences. They’d talked about personal things, too. But she still had a few questions.

“What’s your favorite memory of your mom?” she asked.

His brows rose as if this question pushed the limits. Then he shrugged. “You’ll think I’m terrible.”

“No, I won’t,” she insisted.

He took in a deep mouthful of air. “The last time her cancer came back…my dad had already missed a lot of work. Ben was in college. I sort of took over taking care of her.” He grinned, but Katie saw a sad shadow in his smile. “Chemo…made her sick.” He hesitated. “She’d take the john and I’d take a bucket. We’d throw up and then laugh our asses off because…I don’t know, it just seemed funny. I think I got to know my mom while sitting on the bathroom floor.”

Emotion tickled her throat. “Why would I think that was terrible?”

He shrugged. “It just shouldn’t have been a good memory.”

She felt tempted to reach over and hug him. “You took a bad situation and made it meaningful.”

He let go of another gasp of air. “What about you?” he asked. “What’s your favorite memory of your family?”

She grinned. “Every Easter, Mom would give us kites and we would go to Lakeview Park. Once, my dad couldn’t get the kite to fly. Of course, he refused to quit until he finally got it up. But he was so focused on keeping it up that he walked right off a pier and into the lake. We were all laughing. Easters were always the most perfect days.”

He smiled, and she noticed he’d scooted closer and started playing with her hair.

She almost asked him about his leaving the police force, but she spotted two framed pictures on the television. Curious, she set the dog down from her lap and went to check them out. One of them was of a young boy. She looked back at Carl still on the sofa, his poodle on the floor with his head on Carl’s feet and Tabitha’s dog already settling in his lap. “Your nephew?”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“Ben mentioned he had a son.” She glanced back at the image. “He looks like you two.”

“There’s a small chance he might outgrow it,” Carl said.

She picked up the other photograph, a picture of a younger-looking Carl and an older woman.
His mom
. “She was beautiful.”

“Yeah, she was,” he said.

She considered what Carl must have felt being fifteen and watching his mother die slowly from cancer. “It must have been hard losing her.”

“Not compared to what you went through.”

She looked back. “I don’t know. I think it might be worse, knowing someone is dying. Then there are times I would give anything to have had a chance to say goodbye.”

Suddenly he was behind her, wrapping his arms around her middle. “You are one tough cookie, Katie Ray.”

“Not really.” She leaned back into him. So solid. So warm. “I fake it mostly. I’m really a marshmallow.”

A big marshmallow about to end up on someone’s Poked List
.

“Could have fooled me.” His arms tugged her closer. His five o’clock shadow came against the side of her face, his scent surrounding her. Spicy. Male.

She closed her eyes. This was where
probably
ended and she decided which side of the fence she fell on. Sex. No sex.

His lips brushed her ear. “I want to make love to you.”

Okay, the man didn’t beat around the bush!

“I want to feel you against me. No clothes. Nothing but skin. Your skin…against my skin.”

Okay, she’d read about verbal foreplay. Read how it could melt a woman to jelly. And yup. She had jelly to go with her marshmallow interior.

“I want to touch you, Red. I want to taste you.”

Her breath caught when she realized that verbal
foreplay wasn’t his only specialty. His hands were on the move. Up, up over her ribs, to…oh, boy…her breasts.

Stop him now or forever hold your peace
.

Too late. He was there. Both hands. Both breasts.

Katie held her breath.

“I want to taste you,” he said. “Right here.” He teased her nipples. Her breasts felt instantly fuller, heavier. Her mind created the visual image of his lips on her naked flesh. She exhaled. Oh, yes, she wanted that. Plea sure rushed through her. Liquid heat pooled low in her abdomen, anticipation of what was to come. And if she’d had any question as to what that would be, she could feel the hardness between his legs pressed against her lower back.

One of his hands inched downward, sliding over her abdomen, past her belly button. “And here,” he whispered. “I want to lick and taste every inch of you. But I really want to taste you…” His fingers slipped inside the front of her jeans, down, over her belly, under her panties, “Right here.” He found her most sensitive spot and her knees almost gave out. “I want to make you come with my tongue, at least once. Maybe twice.”

A moist, wet kiss moved across her ear. “What do you want, Red? Tell me what you want.”

She opened her eyes and stared at the dishes on the coffee table. Her knees wobbled. “I want…to help you wash dishes.”

She felt him flinch, and he pulled his hand out of her panties.

Embarrassment swept through her. What had possessed her to say that?
I didn’t mean it
, she almost blurted.
Life’s too short not to listen to bells
. Les’s words echoed in her head.

She turned around and met his eyes, which were filled with disappointment. Right then, she’d have given anything to take her words back. To trade them for something suave and seductive.
I want to taste you, too
. Or,
What
are you waiting for? Taste me
.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice husky. “I thought…”

You thought right
, she wanted say. Where was the rewind button? Couldn’t she have a do-over? Okay, she knew do-overs weren’t real, but maybe…

“Washing dishes can be fun,” she said in her best sultry voice. Then she didn’t have a clue why she did it, or what possessed her to do it, or what she planned to do next, but she reached down and pulled her T-shirt off. Holding it with the tips of her fingers for a second, she then tossed it into the middle of the floor. “You want to wash or dry?”

His eyes rounded as his gaze whispered over her low-cut bra, or rather what was falling out of her bra. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple dancing up and down. She had the crazy urge to adjust her bra, but then, he seemed to go for the bulging-out look.
Deep breath
.

“I’ll dry.” Never taking his eyes off her, he tugged his own shirt over his head.

She watched him. Watched his chest become open for viewing. And what a view. Antonio Banderas had nothing on Carl Hades. His skin shone golden and a soft spray of dark hair spanned across his chest. The spray, silky soft in appearance, tapered down his flat abdomen, thinned into a sexy trail, and disappeared into his khakis.

He tossed his shirt on the floor with hers. Leaning back on the heels of his shoes, he studied her as if daring
her to remove another piece of clothing. The temptation was there, but why play by his rules? This was her game. She called the shots.

And yes, she planned on making them up as she went along. She grabbed the dishes off the coffee table and cruised to the kitchen. Her hair moved against her bare back as she walked. She looked over her shoulder and almost laughed at his dumbfounded expression.

“Coming?” she asked in her best sultry voice.

“Try and stop me.” He followed.

She set the dishes on the counter and started filling the sink with water. He edged in and traced a finger over her bra strap as if to remove it. Goose bumps rose from the sweet seduction of his touch. She fought against falling under his spell and letting him take charge. No, she wanted to tease, to cast a spell of her own.

“Dishes first.” She brushed his touch away.

“Dishes?” he repeated, as his focus stayed on her exposed cleavage.

She became so aware of his gaze that her nipples grew harder against the satin of her bra. Turning to the sink, she squirted some soap into the water, then held out her hand. “Sponge?”

He opened a drawer and held it out. “What do I get for it?”

She took the sponge and decided he might need a reward. She dropped it in the sink and leaned down, offering him a good view of her breasts as she removed her shoes. Rising up, she tossed the white leather Keds into the dining room.
Thump. Thump
.

His brow arched as if he now understood the game. And if he’d just explain it to her, she’d feel better. Faking it was hard. But fun, she had to admit.

He removed his shoes, and one by one, tossed them beside hers. With each
thud
of a shoe, her heart thudded with it. Okay, it was time to come up with a game plan. How in hell was she going to make washing dishes a sexual
game? Or maybe he would just keep staring at her boobs and not care?

She reached into the warm water and drew out a plate. Slowly, she moved the sponge over it, caressing the plate like a lover. His gaze shifted from the dish to her breasts. Raw desire flashed in his eyes. It actually seemed to be working. Her hope flared.

He moved closer. She passed him the dish. For a minute, he just stood there, plate in hand, his gaze locked on her breasts spilling out of her bra. His chest rose with his breaths.

“You rinse, dry, and put away,” she said.

He pulled the nozzle out of the side of the sink, halfway sprayed the plate, then set it in the dish drainer. Licking his lips, he looked back at her with expectation.
Another reward
, his gaze demanded.

She considered it. Slowly, she unzipped her jeans, let him get a glance at her white lace panties, and turned back to the sink.

“Not fair,” he mumbled, but he lowered his own zipper.

She faced him. “My game. My rules. Besides, you didn’t finish the job. I said you rinse, dry, and put away.”

“I’m not much of a rules player,” he said, his voice husky.

“That’s a shame.” She sighed in feigned disappointment.

“But I could learn.” He grabbed a towel from another drawer, swiped the dish, and stored it in the cabinet. Turning back to her, he leaned against the counter—waiting.

She didn’t move.

“Done,” he said, his eyes traveling to her unzipped jeans as if hinting at the particular piece of clothing he wanted removed.

She reached down, touched the bare skin where the jeans lay open; then, smiling, she leaned down and removed
one sock and tossed it into the living room with their shoes.

“Tease.” He released a deep gasp of air, then he stood on one leg to remove one of his socks and toss it beside hers.

Enjoying this more than she’d thought possible, she slipped her hand inside the warm water and picked up the second plate. She ran the sponge over it with slow precision. Once. Twice. Three times.

He leaned close, feigning interest in the dish. “I think it’s clean.” His bare shoulder brushed up against her arm. Skin to skin, and it felt wonderful. So wonderful, her breath caught.

He must have noticed, because he leaned in to kiss her.

She ducked away just before his lips met hers. If he kissed her now as he’d kissed her at the gallery, this would end. And she was enjoying the game too much.

“Dishes first.” She looked from the plate to him. “You, Mr. Hades, need to work on your patience.”

“Yeah, I’ve always had a problem with that,” he said.

She held the dish up and studied it one more time before handing it off.

He pulled the nozzle out, rinsed, picked up the towel, dried, and had the dish in the cabinet in seconds. Turning, he folded his arms over his bare chest. His right eyebrow arched as if demanding she pay up. His gaze went back to her open zipper, where she knew he could see her panties. He really wanted her pants off.

“You work fast,” she whispered.

“You work slow,” he countered. “You’re killing me, Red.”

And she wasn’t finished yet. First, she toyed with her bra strap, slipping her finger under it and watching his eyes widen. Then, sending him her best sultry look, she leaned over and took off her other sock.

He groaned, but his second sock hit the pile of clothes at almost the same time hers did. “You do know I have a dishwasher, right?”

Smiling, she pulled a spoon from the soapy water. She scrubbed it, rinsed it off, and then wrapped her hand around it suggestively. Feeling braver, she pressed it to her lips and slipped it inside her mouth, bringing it out slowly, then taking it back in.

He gripped the edge of the sink. “You’ll pay for this.”

She dipped the spoon in the soapy water again and set it in the empty sink. He let go of the counter, shot a spray of water at the utensil, and dropped it in the drainer.

Clicking her tongue, she eyed the spoon. “You have a bad habit of not finishing what you start.”

His eyes tightened. “I think it’s you that’s a little slow in the finishing department.”

“My game. My rules,” she whispered seductively, and reached out and ran her wet hand down his chest, then pulled back and pointed to the spoon.

He snatched up the spoon, dried it, and put it away. Then he looked back to her. “Pay up.”

She tried to decide what came next. The bra, or the pants. Wanting to tease him, she slowly reached back to unhook her bra. She looked at him, his attention riveted on the front of her chest, waiting for her bra to fall.

Pulling her arms back around, she slid her palms down her abdomen all the way to the edge of her panties. Then as if she had all day, she pushed the jeans open a little more. His gaze zeroed in on every move.

Smiling at the anticipation on his face, she wiggled the denim over her hips, careful not to take the silk white panties with them. Bending at the waist, she stepped out of the jeans, stood, and with a flick of her wrist, she added them to the pile of socks and shoes.

His gaze moved over her with a slowness that had her heart hammering. Meeting her eyes, he held up a finger and motioned for her to turn around. Her pulse raced, and more heat pooled between her legs. Trying really hard not to blush, she did a slow turn for him.

Facing him again, she saw the heat in his eyes as they whispered down and up her body again. Finally, after he’d taken in every inch of her, he reached and pushed his khakis over his hips.

She watched his cotton, blue and white–striped boxers become exposed. But it was the heavy bulge in the front of the boxers that had her heart racing. She considered running a finger over the length of him. But she knew they had a few dishes left, and if she touched him now, the game would be over.

He stepped out of his pants, and they went flying through the air. The khakis landed right on top of her light blue denims. And something about the pile of clothes heaped together, as if they belonged together, made warmth fill her chest.

She looked back at him wearing only his boxers. Remembering what he’d done to her, she motioned for him to turn.

Not blinking an eye, he began a slow circle. “Meet your expectations?” he asked at half turn.

She inhaled as her gaze followed the contours of his tight butt, and when he came around, she noticed the size of the bulge had grown behind the soft cotton material.

She blinked. “You’ll do.”

“Ouch. Now that was uncalled for.” He grabbed for her.

She held up a hand. “The dishes aren’t done.”

His tongue passed over his mouth, reminding her:
And
I want to taste you here
. The ache between her legs grew. She yearned to be touched. And yes, to be tasted. She almost gave in, called the game over, when the sound of a door being opened and then closed chased all the wonderful, sexual bliss right out the window.

The dogs barked.

“Son? I brought your cameras back. Caught ol’ man Johnson doing exactly what his wife thought he was doing.”

Carl wearing only boxers and a hard-on, tore out of the kitchen. “Got some good shots, too,” Carl’s dad said.

“Stop right there!” Carl’s voice boomed.

Joe offered Les another beer, but she turned it down. He knew she would. Twice in the last ten minutes he’d seen her reach to her chest to touch the ring. He’d love to personally remove that damn chain, but he didn’t dare. Frankly, he was surprised she’d even agreed to come over here to night. Almost as surprised as he was at himself for going over to her house today.

Honestly, what were the chances of something actually working out here? His situation reeked of rebound. People would talk and accusations would fly. Never mind that he hadn’t loved Katie in the right way.

And Les’s situation—well, it was just a damn waste that she preferred to hang on to the dead man than live in the present.

She looked up, and he knew her words before she said them. “I should be going.”

He nodded. “I understand.” No, he didn’t understand, but it wasn’t his place to question it, either. Well, at least not again. He’d had his say today in Les’s kitchen.

She stood and gazed down at her dress. When she looked up, she smiled. And damn if her smile didn’t reach down into his gut and pull out a wad of courage. Screw the odds against them. Screw what people would think.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

“Tomorrow?” she asked.

“To return the gifts. I just assumed you’d help me.”

She blinked, indecision played in her eyes. “I guess I can.”

He grinned. “I can’t wait to see what you wear.”

Her smile widened. “I promise, I’ll dress normal.”

Their gaze held—one of those moments that usually led to someplace better. Then she touched that damn ring.

“Does that mean you won’t wear a dead man’s ring
around your neck? Because that ring offends me a lot more than that damn ugly dress.” He hadn’t meant to say it—or maybe he had.

Her green eyes shot fire at him. He almost apologized, but he realized maybe this was what Les needed, needed to get mad, needed for someone to force her to see the obvious.

Her chin shot up. “How dare you judge me when you and Katie are the fuckedup ones. I mean, look at this. You’re coming on to me, and Katie’s off sleeping with some PI she just met.”