We crossed the yard. The lights in the converted garage were already on, illuminating the red door. The cameras at the entrance to the studio looked like they worked. More motion-sensor floods.
She stopped when she had her hand on the knob. The light of the floods lit the fringes of her straw-colored hair as they escaped her ponytail. Her profile was perfect. Sharp. Patrician. Almost flawless except for a little bump in her nose that made her even more perfect.
“You know what’s funny?” she asked.
“Old Abbott and Costello reels.”
She laughed softly. A real laugh. Not some fake stoned cackle.
“Sure. No. It’s funny that I don’t know anything about you. Not really. And I let you into my house. And now the studio. I mean, what’s the point of all this security if I just let Mr. Rando have the run of the place?”
“Mr. Rando? You mean the way middle schoolers say ‘random’?”
“I’m not trying to insult you.”
Of course she wasn’t. She was trying to engage me. She had a couch in front of the television and cameras at every entrance to her house. She had access to the best parties and the most exciting people in the city, but she ate alone on a single stool set at the kitchen bar. I envied all the space she had to herself. But she seemed lonely.
“You’re protecting yourself against a specific threat. Not every guy in Los Angeles.”
She opened the door a crack as if I’d convinced her.
“I’m from the South Bay.”
“How nice.”
“Torrance, actually.”
She opened the door. “Not a lot of hometown pride in your voice, there.”
“It was terrible. There was nothing to do but drink in whoever’s basement and get into fights. We called it Borrance.”
She laughed again and stepped into the white light of the studio. The garage door in front had been walled off from the inside. Two sides of the room had floor-to-ceiling mirrors and a barre.
There was a stereo system mounted into the wall and a small table with a notebook.
“Where do you live now?” She stepped into the center of the room, reticence gone. She was all grace, curving her body so naturally I was sure she didn’t even realize she was dancing.
“Not far from here.”
No one but Carlos knew where I lived, and I didn’t want that to change. I didn’t tell her why I was there, really, or why the reason I’d bought the house was irrelevant now. I didn’t tell her the size of the house or who lived in it. I couldn’t answer all the questions; I could only hope she wouldn’t ask.
That scared me into changing the subject. “You didn’t tell me where you’re from.”
“Just outside Chicago, same as Darlene. You can read all about our friendship in the trades.”
“I bet that makes you comfortable.” I tapped the barre.
“I’m just a prop.”
“That work for you?”
“Very much. How did we end up talking about my life?”
“I’m not that interesting.”
She crossed her arms. “Parents?”
“Yes.”
“Do you dance?” She clicked the stereo and a light, lilting classical piece came over the speakers.
“No.”
“Okay, here’s the deal.” She was close to me in two steps and pulled my forearms forward. I let her because I was curious and because I wanted her to touch me. She wasn’t my client. Not exactly. She wasn’t the principal. “You answer the questions or you dance.”
She pulled me to the center of the room, and I let her. I never gave anyone control, yet for those seconds, I couldn’t resist her.
“You wouldn’t call what I do dancing.”
“Tell me about your parents.”
“One male. One female.”
“Wrong.” She slid her hands down my arms and took my hands. Before I could react, she turned, let the left hand go, lifted the right, and spun, taking the left again.
“It’s going to get harder next time,” she promised.
“My father was a cop. My mother was a nag.”
“Was?”
“He’s not around to nag anymore, so she had to change careers.”
She didn’t ask a question, but she pulled on my hands as if she were going to do another move. I laid my hand open, and hers spread over it. She was so tiny against me. Her bones were short and narrow. I ran my hand along her forearm and to the elbow. All muscle, bone, and skin. I could break her but wouldn’t. Not physically.
I wondered just how tight she was.
Enough of that.
I interrupted my train of thought with an answer to her question.
“Divorce,” I said. “He left when I was little. Speaking of . . .” I ran my thumb over her collarbone, into the divot at the base of her neck. I couldn’t help myself.
“Speaking of what?” Her eyes fluttered, half-closed. She had freckles on the lids. Everything about her made me wild.
“You’re so small. I didn’t realize until now.”
“Why?” She whispered it.
My dick stretched against my pants. “You have great presence when you dance. You seem ten feet tall.”
“You’re really good at this.”
“Touching you?”
“Calculating and avoiding.”
I held her fingers tight and pulled her to me. She resisted enough to do a dance move. Not enough to keep me from getting her close enough to smell her peach soap.
“You’re really good at this too,” I said.
“Good at what?”
“Pretending you’re flirting.”
“I’m not,” she said.
“Not flirting?”
“Not pretending.”
She tried to pull into another dance move, but I held her close and kissed her before I could talk myself out of it. I gave her my tongue, and she took it willingly, letting my hands go so I could get my arms around her waist and she could get hers around my shoulders.
I hadn’t kissed a woman in a long time. I wanted to eat her alive. Put my hands on every inch of her. Take her body on the hardwood. Everything. I was about to completely lose control when alarm bells went off in my head.
She’s vulnerable.
So are you.
CHAPTER 10
EMILY
The kiss was such a surprise I lost control of my body, falling into it like a perfectly warm bath. His lips moved gently against mine, his tongue flicked against mine with care as if reading a foreign language he knew he’d understand if he were careful.
I’d never been kissed like that. He kissed as if he were listening to me tell a story, and I kissed him back as if I was.
He pulled back gently. He wasn’t an asshole about it. He was perfectly fine. A gentleman. But when I realized he wasn’t pulling away so he could breathe or kiss me at a different angle, I got mad. Defensive. Butthurt. Whatever.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t.”
And you know, he could go screw himself. I was in no mood. I was weird from a pot brownie and tired, and I had work the next day. One-two-up-turn-what-the-fuck-ever.
“Yeah. It’s fine.”
He paused as if he wanted to make some other pathetic excuse for . . . what? Not kissing me longer? Not having sex with me? Not marrying me? What did I want from the guy anyway?