You've Got Male (18 page)

But she didn’t start crying. Instead she looked away, turning her attention to the computer screen.

“He’s not going to show tonight,” she said.

But her voice was thick when she spoke, and he saw her swipe a finger under her glasses to rub her eyes. She pretended it was eye strain, but Dixon suspected she was trying not to cry. He told himself he was grateful. The last thing he wanted on his hands was a weepy woman. Never mind that Avery didn’t seem the type for that. Never mind that she had a good reason to feel weepy. Hell, he’d felt like crying himself since meeting the Nesbitt clan.

“What makes you think he’s not going to show?” he asked.

“He’s always online by now if he’s going to get online. Unless he’s using a new screen name I don’t know about. But even then I’d be able to find him. Or unless he’s using a different computer.”

“And if he was using a different computer, it would mean…what?”

“Could mean a lot of things,” she said. “That he bought a new ’puter. That he’s accessing the Net from a Wi-Fi café because he’s out of town or something.”

“That he knows your working with us, so he’s starting to hide his tracks,” Dixon said.

“Possibly,” she conceded without flinching. “But why would he suspect something like that?”

Damned if Dixon knew. But Sorcerer had a way of knowing things that was downright mystical at times.

“It’s only been five days since I spoke to him,” Avery said. “That’s not all that unusual. He does seem to travel a lot for his work. Or something. And there were a couple of nights there when I wasn’t online myself, since I was too busy being manhandled and interrogated by a government-sponsored goon squad. Occasionally I have so much work to do myself that I don’t talk to him for days.”

Dixon tried not to take the “goon squad” comment personally. He had, after all, been working without an official partner for a couple of months now, which made him a lone goon.

“Could be he and I just missed each other tonight,” she added when he said nothing in reply. Rebuttal. Retort. Whatever. “We can try again tomorrow night.”

“And what if he doesn’t show then, either?”

“Then we try again the next night,” she said.

“And if he doesn’t show then?”

She eyed him warily. “Why are you worried? Are you afraid he’s suspicious? Or is it that you don’t think I’m attractive or exciting enough for him to be interested in me anymore? Not that he was ever really interested in me in the first place, if what you’ve told me is true. He just wants me to build him a nice virus or something to take over the world. It had nothing to do with my feminine charms, right?”

“Avery…” Dixon began. But what could he say? She was right. Adrian had never been interested in her as a woman. Only as a big computer brain. If he’d found someone else who could help him complete whatever nefarious plans he was hatching, he’d drop her faster than chili through a Chihuahua.

“Yeah, well, here’s a news flash for you, Dixon,” she said, sounding indignant now. “Maybe you don’t think I have much to offer a man, but some guys out there actually look for more in a woman than a pretty face and round heels. Some guys actually
like
it when a woman’s brain is as full as her bra.”

Unbidden, a memory rose in his head of lying atop Avery on the couch in her condo while he searched her that first night. He hadn’t intended for there to be anything more to it than a quick check for weapons. Dixon had searched women before and never felt a flicker of anything other than caution. But he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed the curves and swells and valleys beneath his fingers and just how nicely Avery did fill her B cups. Still, her brain was quite a bit fuller than her bra. What was odd was that Dixon liked that, too.

Not that he normally went for brainless women. But neither was he especially turned on by supersmarts like hers. He had no problem conceding that she had the edge on him when it came to understanding and designing and using technology. But where he’d normally feel competitive in such a situation—regardless of the gender of the other person—with Avery he felt grudging admiration. And he found himself wanting to learn more. About her brain
and
her bra.

It was a troubling thought. But not an unpleasant one.

“Peaches, you have no idea what I want in a woman,” he finally said. Of course, suddenly
he
wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted in a woman, either. But that was beside the point. The point was he was starting to have thoughts about Avery Nesbitt that he really shouldn’t be having. Not to mention that he really didn’t want to have. Therefore, there was only one thing left to do about it.

Flee.

“Well, if you think he’s not going to show,” Dixon said as he leaped up from the floor, “then that’s good enough for me.”

Avery stood, too, clearly confused by his reaction. Which only made sense, since Dixon was surprised by it, too. In fact, so was the cat, who growled something low, jumped down from the bed and slunk beneath it. Would that Dixon could escape so easily, he thought as he watched the cat’s flight with something akin to envy.

“O-okay,” Avery said as he bent to collect the pages that had spilled from his file as he’d hastily risen. “We’ll try again tomorrow night.”

He nodded, thinking that by tomorrow night he’d be in a better position to work anyway. It had been a long day, coming on the heels of another long day and another long day before that. He was in an environment that was alien to him, one he hadn’t had a chance to scope out in advance. He was mostly on his own, since Avery wasn’t an agent and Cowboy was just barely. Another day would give him a chance to get some rest, to acclimate himself to his surroundings and the situation.

Yeah, that had to be what was wrong with him, he thought as he looked at Avery again. At the huge, incredibly blue eyes behind her geeky glasses and the long, silky hair she wore in that frustrating braid and the soft, womanly curves beneath her shapeless clothes.

Long day, he told himself again. Really, really, really long day. And strange situation. Really, really, really strange situation. That had to be it. Had to. And it was also why he only managed to mumble a quick good-night to her and not another word as he exited. Nor did he look back a single time once he left the room. Not that he didn’t want to.

But because he didn’t dare.

T
ANNER
G
ILLESPIE ROLLED
over in bed to see the glowing blue numbers on his travel alarm clock informing him that it was a little past 5:00 a.m. Earlier than his usual waking time of five-thirty, but he was sleeping in a strange bed, so that wasn’t surprising. Hell, he was sleeping in a strange room, in a strange place, surrounded by strange—to put it mildly—people, so it
really
wasn’t surprising. And since he hadn’t logged more than a few nanoseconds of sleep, that additional twenty or thirty minutes would have been welcomed.

Then again, how was a man supposed to sleep in a room that had been decorated for Louis XVI? Even in the dark Tanner could see the gilt on the lush furnishings glistening. The walls, he recalled, were a deep velvety blue, the puffy sofa and chairs a rich Fort Knox gold. The bed was even more overstuffed than the rest of the pillowy furniture, one of those mattress-on-a-mattress things that was supposed to make sleeping easier. And it might have worked, had it not been piled high with all kinds of pansy froufrou like tasseled pillows and ruffled…stuff. His testosterone had been seeping from him little by little ever since he walked through the door.

There was only one thing a bed like this was good for, he thought as he folded his hands behind his head and gazed at the canopy—a
canopy,
for God’s sake—overhead. Tumbling a too-expensive woman and introducing her to the joys of the working-class man.

Naturally Tanner was thinking of one too-expensive woman in particular. And of one working-class man in particular, too. But it was the woman who really occupied his thoughts. A woman with rich black curls and Caribbean-blue eyes who just so happened to be sleeping a couple hundred feet away from him. He’d heard Carly Nesbitt come to her room a little after one o’clock—hell, he’d been awake, what else was he supposed to do but listen for her return?—and he’d immediately started picturing her going about her end-of-the-day rituals. Locking the door behind her—since, hey, there was some lowbrow, low-income, lower-class lowlife sleeping right across the hall—then arching her lithe body into a leisurely stretch and kicking off her really high heels. Then, in his mind’s eye, she’d walked toward the bathroom and started the shower, hot, steamy water gushing down over slick black tile.

Not that he had a clue what her place looked like—he was, after all, a lowbrow, low-income, lower-class lowlife who would never be invited inside—but he’d had a vivid imagination since he was a boy and he wasn’t afraid to use it. And after Carly Nesbitt had started her shower, she’d peeled off her little black top and reached behind herself for the zipper of that red leather skirt to tug it down, down, down, exposing the creamy flesh of her back, the skinny strap of a black lacy bra and skimpy black panties. And then black garters. Attached to black stockings. Hey, it was Tanner’s fantasy. He’d dress her—and then undress her—however he damn well pleased. Not that black lacy stuff was outside the realm of possibility, all things Carly Nesbitt considered.

After stepping out of the skirt, she’d settled one foot on a chair and unhooked the first smoky stocking one fastening at a time, rolling down the filmy silk over inch after inch of milky skin. Then she’d done the same for the other leg before unfastening the garter belt and tossing it aside. The black brassiere had followed, spilling perfect, ample breasts topped by wide, rosy nipples. She’d hooked her fingers into the waistband of her panties, turned her back on Tanner’s mental eye and wiggled out of them, revealing a full, flawless, incredible ass. Then she’d stepped under the jet of the steamy shower and reached for the soap.

Tanner groaned as he rolled over in bed again, his waking boner surging higher. Hell, no wonder he hadn’t slept last night after thinking about all that. But
why
had he been thinking about all that? He didn’t even
like
Carly Nesbitt, so why was he fantasizing about her being naked and rosy and naked and wet and naked and hot and naked and steamy and naked? Oh, right. Stupid question. Because she had a body that wouldn’t quit. Whether or not he liked her was immaterial.

Still, sex with Carly Nesbitt? He could safely say that wasn’t on his to-do list anytime this century. Not unless, you know, anything vaguely resembling an opportunity presented itself.

Doing his best to push aside the rampant thoughts, Tanner jackknifed up in bed stark naked and scrubbed two hands through his insomnia-rumpled hair. The reason he awoke at five-thirty was so he could stop by the Y on his way to work and catch a few laps in the pool. He’d packed his trunks for this trip, just in case he had the chance to do likewise here. But as far as he could tell, there was no Y in the Hamptons. Kinda unnecessary, he supposed, when anyone who wanted the use of a gym here just installed one in their own home. The Nesbitts, he knew, were no different. Old Man Nesbitt himself had told both Tanner and Dixon they were welcome to use any of the facilities as long as they were staying here…provided no one else was around. So that must mean the Olympic-size swimming pool at the back of the big house was included…provided no one else was around. And at 5:00 a.m., it was a safe bet no one else was.

He thought again about Carly Nesbitt and her underthings and all the things she had under them. And suddenly a few dozen laps in a cold swimming pool sounded like a very good idea. Of course, with his luck since arriving at the Nesbitt estate, that pool was probably heated, something Tanner definitely did
not
need at the moment. Nevertheless, the physical exertion would do him good, two nanoseconds of sleep notwithstanding.

His mind made up, he rose to brush his teeth and don his Speedo.

C
ARLY COULDN’T REMEMBER
the last time she’d been awake at five-thirty in the morning. Except for those occasions when she was returning home after partying all night. But she couldn’t recall ever
waking
at such an hour. Not even when she was going to school.

So now she had another reason to resent Gillespie’s invasion of her home—not that she needed another reason to do that. Still, the little riser-and-shiner had been anything but quiet when he’d left his room a little while ago—the
guest
room, she hastily corrected herself—to go only God knew where. Her curiosity getting the better of her—it
wasn’t
because she actually cared—she’d risen from bed to look out the window and had watched him cross the foggy, ill-lit yard to the pool entrance on the side of the big house.

Swimmer, she’d deduced. Liked to get in those early-morning laps. Health-conscious lad. But then, he was still young. He didn’t know any better. He didn’t realize that no matter how hard you tried to fight it off, age still found you. And it didn’t treat you particularly well, either. It was the beautiful people like Tanner, too, who seemed to be hit hardest.

Not that Carly cared.

And to prove it, she’d gone straight back to bed with every intention of going back to sleep and forgetting all about Tanner Gillespie. Unfortunately, instead of forgetting about him, she’d suddenly seen him bathed in a spotlight at the very center of her brain. Wearing nothing but swimming trunks. His wet hair slicked back from his finely carved features. His smooth, powerful chest crisscrossed by slowly undulating runnels of water. His attire making more prominent his already outstanding, uh…manhood.

Which was when she’d realized her sleeping was done for the night.

Dammit. What was the matter with her? Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? He couldn’t be more than twenty-five or-six. Biologically speaking, she was old enough to be his mother. She was normally attracted to men twice his age. Men who had prospects. Men who had maturity. Men who had careers. Men who had money. Tanner Gillespie wasn’t seasoned yet. He couldn’t know what it was like to be knocked down and have to pick himself up again. He couldn’t have traveled much, was barely out of school, couldn’t know anything about life. As cocky and confident as he seemed, he was probably clumsy and self-conscious in bed. What could she possibly find sexy about all that?

Okay, so he was gorgeous. Big deal. Yes, Carly knew people considered her shallow, but she really wasn’t the type of woman to go solely for looks. She liked men with depth. Men with style. Men with smarts. Men with spice. She liked
men.
That was the point. Men with lines on their faces and gray in their hair and thoughts in their heads and checkers in their pasts. Not some fresh-faced, squeaky-clean, gee-whiz, all-American boy.

But then, maybe that was the attraction right there, she thought. His cleanness. His artlessness. His innocence. Not that she thought for a moment Tanner Gillespie was innocent. But neither did he seem to have learned all the games men and women played when they reached a certain age. Or maybe it was a certain social standing that demanded the politeness of behavior Carly usually encountered in others. But Gillespie didn’t have that, either. He was completely out there—there was no artifice in him that she could see, and he didn’t give a damn about polite behavior. His blatant inspection of her yesterday had been unlike any reaction she had ever received from a man. Oh, she’d been ogled plenty of times. But never so obviously. And never in a way that had made her feel so…exposed.

And the way he’d spoken to her. No man had ever dared speak to Carly the way Gillespie had. Not to her face. Oh, she knew about the boorish and crude things men said about her behind her back. But that was just it. Men were always ever so polite, ever so amiable when they were in her company. Tanner wasn’t. Not polite. Not amiable. On the contrary, he had behaved toward her in the same way he would anyone else who challenged him. And maybe that, more than anything else, was why he was commanding so much of her attention.

She looked at the clock again, then at the window, lighter now than it had been when she’d watched him stride across the yard. The sun was coming up. The night was ended. The servants would be stirring now, getting the day ready for the Nesbitts.

Not asking herself why she did it, Carly rose, too. Although she didn’t normally swim during the colder months, she knew exactly where her suit was, and it was readily accessible. More to the point, she knew where Tanner Gillespie was. But was he accessible, too? And why, she wondered, did she want so badly to know?

H
E DIDN’T NOTICE SHE WAS
there until he’d finished his final lap—and Carly couldn’t help noticing that he had a
very
nice stroke—and was hauling himself out of the pool. By then she had been watching him for a good ten minutes, noting how his powerful arms sliced effortlessly through the water, how his nimble body moved gracefully forward, how focused he was on his task. Despite the humidity in the cavernous room and the condensation streaking the glass that surrounded the pool like a giant ice cube, she felt her mouth go dry while she watched him.

He swam to the side where she stood and pushed himself up out of the water, his biceps bulging with the action, his forearms anchored firmly on the tile edging the pool. Then he was standing and stretching an arm out for the towel he’d draped over a nearby chair, something that gave her a wide-open view of his nearly naked body, and her brain suddenly went dry, too.

She was helpless to stop the little sound of disquiet that bubbled up from someplace deep inside her, and any hope she’d held that he hadn’t heard it fled when his head snapped up and his gaze fell upon her. For one scant scintillating moment, neither of them said a word. They only looked at each other as if each was equally surprised to see the other. Then Tanner’s gaze shifted, dropping lower, over the flaming-red maillot bathing suit that scooped low over her breasts and was cut high above her thighs. She’d shed her shoes and outerwear while she’d watched him swim and had left it folded neatly on one of the tables poolside. The suit wasn’t exactly modest, but neither was it blatantly revealing. Nevertheless, when his gaze found hers again, she could tell he’d liked what he’d seen. A lot.

But his voice was disapproving when he said, “You get lost on your way to Grandma’s house, Red? Maybe you shoulda left some bread crumbs to follow.”

“You’re mixing up your fairy tales,” she replied evenly. “Which surprises me, because it couldn’t have been that long ago that your mommy was reading them to you.”

He frowned, his blue eyes going absolutely glacial. But he offered not a word of rebuke. Which didn’t surprise Carly, unfortunately. She was excellent at leaving men speechless. Somehow, though, she’d expected better of Gillespie. Ah, well. Good to know early on that he’d be an easy mark. Still, it wasn’t going to be nearly as fun now.

Although she knew it wasn’t wise to push a man after impugning his masculinity, she couldn’t quite keep herself from adding, “Oh, don’t pout, Gillespie. Even if you do mess up your fairy tales, I still think you’re plenty grim.”

Just to show him that he and his broodiness didn’t scare her one whit, she slung her towel over her shoulder and walked right toward him. Smiling, she never once broke her stride, walking past without saying another word, content that she’d gotten the last one rather handily.

Until his fingers snaked around her wrist with lightning speed and he tugged on her hand. Hard.

She had no choice but to stumble backward, catching herself just before she would have tumbled face-first into him. Tanner dropped his hands to her waist before she could pull away, pinning her to the spot without a care for how she might react to his manhandling. Then he dipped his head low, until scarcely a breath of air separated their faces. His wet hair hung over eyes that seemed even bluer with the pool behind him, giving him a faintly menacing look. Water beaded on his forehead, and she watched, fascinated, as one slow trickle streamed from his left temple to his cheekbone to his jaw. God help her, all Carly wanted to do was lean forward and lick the errant drop from his skin. Her heart hammered hard against her breastbone, but she did her best not to show an ounce of interest. Or fear.