“I like you, too, Heidi.”

Heidi’s gaze shifted at Jackson’s words, became deeper, sharper, hotter. “But you don’t like me that way?”

He felt his jaw go slack. How could she not know how he felt? The evidence was clear. He could fix her doubt with one kiss, right now. Just a taste. A feeling swept over him, an eager hunger that made him feel surprisingly alive. He pulled her close and kissed her. She moaned and wrapped herself around him, kissing back eagerly.

Slow down, keep it short, just enough to reassure her, he kept telling himself, while he let the kiss go on and on and on. His hands itched to touch her in secret places.

She made a needy sound that threatened to push him over the edge. If they kept this up, he’d start ripping off her clothes—and they were sitting in the convertible in the driveway, the traffic a white-noise roar that made this seem like a hot dream.

Catching the tail end of his sense before it slipped away, he pushed back, holding her by the upper arms. “I think that’s enough.” His voice felt shaky and he knew he was holding on by a thread.

“Oh, no, that’s not even close to enough.”

Dear Reader,

Imagine packing up all your worldly goods and setting off for a new life with hope, excitement and jitters all a simmering stew in your stomach. Will you love your new life or hate it and run home, tail between your legs?

As if that isn’t scary enough (can you tell I like security?), imagine losing everything you dragged with you—money, belongings, car. Talk about starting over. Stark naked. Almost. The idea makes my heart pound and my hands go clammy. That’s what my heroine, Heidi, faced.

I’m so proud of how she handled it. She struggled, she worried, but she kept at it and made her own way. With a helping hand from hunky Jackson McCall, of course. He offered a boost when she stumbled on her borrowed stilettos.

I hope you enjoy Heidi and Jackson’s story. Drop me a line at dawn@dawnatkins.com and watch my Web site for upcoming releases—www.dawnatkins.com.

All my best,

Dawn Atkins

Tease Me
Dawn Atkins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my Aunt Wanda,

Your generous spirit will live forever in my heart

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

1

MY NEW LIFE STARTS NOW, Heidi Fields thought, pulling up to the darling sky-blue town house with white gingerbread trim, her heart so happy it almost hurt. She braked her new Outback with such force her beautician’s kit slid forward and bumped the back of her head.

She’d filled the SUV her brothers had given her floor-boards to moon roof, trunk to dash, with everything she owned, which made her exodus from Copper Corners, Arizona, all the more dramatic.

Leaving her old life completely behind, she’d bid farewell to her overprotective brothers, her station at Celia’s Cut ’n’ Curl, where she served as amateur therapist, and headed off for a future she chose, not one she just fell into.

She wanted to counsel people face-to-face, from a sofa or chair, not looking into a mirror, wielding a ceramic curling iron, blinking against the flash off the foil squares of a weave or shouting over the dryer roar.

She’d helped many a hair client through child-rearing hell, marital strife and personal crisis, and more than one came in for unnecessary touch-ups just to get Heidi’s take on a new development, but she wanted a degree—proof that she knew the science behind her art.

She’d had to leave, before she got stuck in a limited life. She wasn’t going to end up like Celia, who’d sold herself short in a tiny salon in a tiny town instead of becoming a Hollywood stylist, as she’d dreamed when she was Heidi’s age. Sure, college would be hard and it was tough to make a living as a psychologist these days, but Heidi was giving it all she had.

She was on her way at last. Sweaty and stiff from the three-hour drive up from Copper Corners to Phoenix—fried-egg-on-a-sidewalk hot at the end of July—but happy because right outside the factory-tinted window of her brand-new car was her brand-new home.

Which she could no longer afford. She flinched at the thought. Her friend Tina had the lease on the place and Heidi had intended to rent the second bedroom and small bath. Except Tina got a great job offer in L.A. she just had, had, had to take—Tina was so dramatic. She’d left to do just that three weeks ago.

Heidi had decided to take over the lease. She’d get a roommate or work more hours at the new salon where she’d snagged a part-time slot. She had no spare cash at the moment. She had a cashier’s check in her wallet from emptying out her savings account on the way out of town that she would sign over to Arizona State University for tuition in three weeks.

If she had to find a cheaper place, she’d do it. She wasn’t waiting a day longer to start her new life. She was too afraid she’d lose her nerve altogether. She hadn’t told her brothers about Tina’s exodus because they liked and trusted Tina and that made them feel better about Heidi being in the city. She was twenty-four, but they treated her as though she were twelve.

Their parents had died when Heidi was just six, her brothers thirteen and sixteen. Though they’d grown up with their aunt and uncle, Michael and Mark had clucked over Heidi like parental stand-ins, and they saw no point in her leaving the safety and comfort of Copper Corners. She had her associate’s degree from the nearby community college. What more did she need? Small-town boys inside out, neither brother had attended a four-year university.

Mike, Copper Corners’ mayor, had offered to hire her as his secretary, and Mark, a real estate broker, wanted to train her as an agent. Mainly, they wanted her close to home.

And she wanted to get away. She wanted her own place and a private life. A sex life, frankly. No more hurry-up-before-your-brothers-get-home sex with guys intimidated by her brothers’ physical size and political importance.

She’d convinced them she’d worked out the details and they’d accepted her plan. No way was she backing out now. She would solve the rent money problem on her own.

There was a slight slope to the street, so she yanked her steering wheel sharply to the right so the tires bumped the curb. Wouldn’t that be awful? Letting her car slide downhill into traffic or a mesquite tree or a house? Talk about one mistake ruining everything….

She loved the car—a going-away gift from her brothers. High safety ratings and terrific value, they’d told her somberly. If they could have dressed her in combat gear and a flak jacket and trailed her all the way here, they would have. She’d wanted to refuse the gift, but they were so anxious to do something for her that she’d given in.

She smiled, thinking of her brothers’ smothering love, feeling fond of them and a little homesick already, but relieved to be free at last.

She looked out at her new home, gleaming in the bleaching sun. Tina had e-mailed digital snaps, but they hadn’t given the whole fabulous effect. The paint was grayed with age—maybe more of a slate blue than a sky-blue—and the white trim needed touching up. Hell, it had flaked so much it looked like a failed antiquing job. But who cared? It was her place. She already loved it.

The houses on either side looked as bad. Weeds clumped in the patchy grass of both yards, which were filled with weather-beaten kid toys—a swing set on the right, a faded vinyl play pool covered with grass clippings to the left. Both porches were loaded with stuff—bikes, a stack of newspapers, abandoned coffee mugs, beer cans and lots of plants. People spent time there, it seemed.

Not that different from Copper Corners, where everyone gathered on porches in the evenings to gossip and throw back Buds or Country Time. People were people, big city or tiny town.

Take the kids playing basketball in the street behind her. Just like in Copper Corners, she’d had to drive slowly to give them time to get out of her way.

She pushed her bangs off her sweaty forehead and grabbed the sack of goodies from Cactus Confections she would give the leasing agent, Deirdre Davis, for agreeing to meet her on a Saturday. Cactus Confections, Copper Corners’ claim to fame, made jelly, syrup and candy from prickly pear cactus fruit.

Deirdre should be inside, but just in case she hadn’t picked up her voicemail with Heidi’s arrival time, Heidi grabbed her cell phone from the outside pocket of her purse.

The purse was stuffed too tightly under the seat to remove, so she left it, opting instead to free the ficus she’d nestled onto the passenger seat, its top branches bent against the ceiling. She would get the garage open so she could pull in and unload her belongings more efficiently.

She tucked the candy under one arm, braced the heavy pot against a hip and made her way up the sidewalk, her muscles protesting the strain. On the porch, she set down the ficus and examined it. A few top branches had snapped, but the greener twigs had sprung back just fine. She and her tree had survived the drive—a little ragged and bent, but recovering nicely and ready to settle into their new home. Sheesh. She was getting sentimental about a house-plant.

She tugged down the top Celia had embroidered as a going-away present. It showed too much midriff and was too little-girl for Heidi’s taste, with eyelet trim and ivy stitched in a pattern Celia had designed herself. Heidi had had to wear it out of town because Celia had insisted on waving her goodbye as she hit the road. The top symbolized the sweet innocence Heidi wanted to leave in the desert dust, but it had love in every stitch, so she wore it cheerfully.

Ready, she pushed the buzzer and waited for the door to her future to open, a big smile on her face, a bag of candy in her hand.

Nothing happened.

Maybe Deirdre hadn’t arrived yet. She glanced behind her, but no car approached. Two young men stood across the street staring. They tore their gazes away fast, probably embarrassed to be ogling the new neighbor. Something else that didn’t change from village to metropolis.

She gave a little wave, then turned back to buzz again. This time she leaned on it for a long, noisy blast.

She was rewarded by the thud of heavy footsteps heading her way. Whew. She stepped back and smiled, candy sack at the ready.

“Just hold your water,” someone mumbled. Someone male.

The door opened and there stood a big guy who’d obviously been grumpy when he grabbed the knob, but softened when he saw her. Well, well. What have we here? She got a little thrill at the blatant male interest. That was something she wanted—to date a man whose social security number, work history and drinking habits her brothers didn’t know.

This guy’s handsome face was soft with sleep, his longish black hair stood out in all directions, and there were pillow creases on his broad, square cheeks. His coffee-colored eyes were foggy. He looked like a bear dragged early from hibernation. He wore a holey black tank top and gray jersey shorts over muscular thighs, the waistband sagging so low her breath caught.

A tingle of attraction interfered with her alarm. Why was this guy—this hot guy—sleeping in her town house at eleven in the morning?

“Yeah?” he said.

“I’m Heidi Fields. For Deirdre Davis. To get the key?”

“The key?” He scratched himself embarrassingly low.

Heidi averted her gaze. “The key to this place—3210 East Alexander? Right?” She feigned a confidence that was trickling away like water in a cupped hand. “I’m renting it?”

He blinked and ran broad fingers across his bristled jaw. “I live here.”

“You what?”

“This is my place. I’m Jackson McCall.”

McCall. Ah. The owner of the building, she knew. Tina had said he was a nice guy—reduced her rent for letting him keep some tools in the garage and he’d sent someone to evaluate the AC and furnace just for her peace of mind.

“I guess there’s been a mistake.” Heidi held her tone steady, fighting panic. “Tina Thomas holds the lease, but when she left, Deirdre promised I could take over.”

“There’s your mistake. Believing Deirdre. Mine, too, since she walked off with three months of your friend’s rent. I hope you didn’t give her any deposits.”

“Security and cleaning,” she said miserably. “And first and last months’ rent.” She hadn’t signed an agreement. Deirdre had been so nice. So informal. Just like people in Copper Corners.

“Bummer.” The guy seemed to feel sorry for her.

Deirdre had taken her money? And now the town house owner had moved in? Ice water raced along her nerves, making her go cold even in the pounding heat.

“Don’t feel too stupid,” Jackson said. “I’m the one who hired her. She’d had some bad breaks in Vegas and needed money, so I took her word and gave her the job.” He shrugged. “Come in.” He backed up and motioned for her to enter.

What was she going to do now? Absently, she stepped over the threshold into the living room, where she was assailed by the scent of pizza-drenched cardboard, stale beer, dust and man. Jackson McCall had been here a while, evidently.

A visual sweep took in male debris—clothes, shoes, newspapers and fast-food remnants, a tangle of video game controllers, a huge TV and three shiny car engines on TV trays against one wall.

Weird, but not as weird as the rest of the place, where the motif seemed to be breasts and the nearly naked women they belonged to. The walls held a velvet rendering of a Marilyn Monroe Playboy shot and posters of women in bikinis. A standing lamp featured a plaster nude and the cocktail table was a piece of glass balanced on the bright pink nipples of a woman’s chest.

Calm down, Heidi, she told herself. You’ve seen boobs before. But these weren’t mere boobs. These were jugs, hooters, melons, racks. And the man who owned them was living in what was supposed to be her town house.

“Nice to meet you.”

She started, then realized he was holding out his hand. She shoved the candy sack under her arm and extended her hand. “Yes. Sure. Nice to meet you.” She was so shaken up that she didn’t notice how warm and solid his grip was until he’d let go. “So, if you’re not staying, can I rent from you?” she said in a flash of wild hope.

“Oh, I’m staying.” His tone and the emotion in his dark eyes suggested that was a defeat. He shot her a sympathetic smile. “Sorry.”

“But all that money I gave Deirdre…What am I going to do?” In the background, she heard a car roar to life, then squeal off. Someone was in a noisy hurry. She’d hoped for a quiet neighborhood.

But this was no longer her neighborhood, unless she got Jackson McCall to move out. And she had no money to rent another place. The job at Shear Ecstasy was part-time because of school and meant only to cover living expenses.

Meanwhile, everything she owned was parked at the curb of the place inhabited by a man with a breast fetish and a pile of old nachos molding on the arm of his sofa. She turned to glance out the door. Shouldn’t she be able to see her car? Maybe she’d parked farther down….

“Deirdre and your money are long gone. If you want to call Apartment Hunters or something, help yourself.” He gestured further inside. “I’ll make some coffee.”

“No, thank you. I’ll just…I have to…figure out…this.” She backed toward the door, not wanting Jackson to see her freak. Her joy had snapped like a dry ficus stem and her brain seemed about to explode. She still held Deirdre’s candy. Deirdre, that duplicitous…The word bitch formed in her mind, but that was too vicious. That dishonest person.

On the porch, she grabbed her tree and staggered down the porch stairs.

“Sure you don’t want coffee?” Jackson called to her from the doorway. “Hell, you deserve a beer. Apartment hunting is thirsty work.”

She turned to him, considering the possibility of at least taking some coffee. Then she saw his face, soft with sympathy. He felt sorry for her. She seemed pitiful. That would never do. She was on her own, for better or worse, for richer, poorer and, it seemed, homelessness. She’d made it this far. She was not about to fold at the first crisis.

“Thanks anyway.” She forced a smile she didn’t feel, shifted the tree to her hip and turned on her earth-shoe heel, desperate to get inside her new car where she could panic for a few moments before she figured out what to do.

Except…where was her car? The street was bare of her shiny new Outback. In fact, the block that had been busy with ballplayers was now as eerily quiet as Home Depot on Super Bowl Sunday.

Heidi’s stomach dropped like the first plunge on a roller coaster and her heart flew into her throat. She spun to check both directions. No glory of chrome and steel anywhere. It was gone. Into thin air.

“Oh, my God!”

“What’s wrong?” Jackson took the stairs to the sidewalk, headed her way.

“My car’s gone.” Could it have possibly rolled downhill as she’d feared? She set down the heavy plant, dropped the candy sack and ran a few yards down the sidewalk, peering as hard as she could toward the far intersection, desperate for a glimpse of her vehicle.

Then she remembered something awful. She’d left the keys in the ignition. A common habit in tiny Copper Corners, where people often left even their houses unlocked. She’d planned to zip into the garage as soon as Deirdre let her in to unload.

If only Heidi could take back those two short minutes. Get a do-over. Grab her keys like the sensible person she was.

“What kind of car?” Jackson asked, dragging her back to the terrible present.

“Subaru Outback. Silver. New. With the keys inside,” she added wretchedly. “How could a car get stolen in broad daylight in two minutes?”

“No place in the city is safe enough to dangle your keys in people’s faces.”

“I was going to pull right into the garage.” With a jolt, she realized what else she’d left in the car. Her purse. Not only did the thieves have her new car and everything she owned, they also had her driver’s license, her only credit card and, worst of all, the cashier’s check for every cent she owned. Yeah, it was a big check, but she was careful. Cashier’s checks were stolen everyday. The clerk had warned her….

Fresh icebergs broke off into her bloodstream.

She struggled against the numbing chill. She had to figure this out and fix it. Fast. “There were guys here…playing basketball.” Her gaze shot to the hoop a half block down. “They must have seen what happened.” She started across the street.

“Hang on.” Jackson caught her arm. “I don’t know those guys, but they have a lot of late-night visitors—in and out and I don’t think they’re selling baseball cards. We’ll call the police.”

“But I’m sure they saw. They watched me arrive. I waved at them even.”

“They were probably casing your car. Come on. We’ll call the police.” He reminded her of her brothers, jumping in to take care of things for her.

She had to act for herself, so she took her phone from her pocket and pressed 9-1-1—her first-ever emergency call and due to her own stupidity.

Standing on the sidewalk in the pounding sun, under Jackson McCall’s watchful eye, Heidi explained to the dispatcher what had happened, fighting the wobble in her voice. When she revealed that the car held her purse and her money, Jackson grimaced. He thought she was an idiot.

She was an idiot.

The dispatcher told her to wait where she was for the detectives to arrive. She clicked off the phone and slid it in her pocket, her chest tight and her brain racing. “I’m used to a small town,” she explained to mitigate Jackson’s impression of her. “I expected Deirdre to let me into the garage. It would have worked fine, except that Deirdre wasn’t…and you were…and I was—never mind. I’m an idiot.”

“Forget it. Come inside. You have calls to make.”

She did. She had to cancel her credit card and find out if she could void that cashier’s check. There was no point calling about car insurance. She’d bought only the required liability policy, fibbing to her brothers that she’d paid for comprehensive because she didn’t want them paying her way. She planned to increase her policy when she could afford it.

That had been shortsighted, she saw now. But maybe she’d get back the car. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding.

She felt numb, stripped of everything, even her purpose in being here. She forced herself to move, but stumbled on her first step.

Jackson caught her, supporting her with a hand against her back. His fingers pressed into the bare skin exposed by Celia’s top. She should stand on her own two feet, she knew, but she was freaked and her legs weren’t working so well, so she let Jackson guide her with his big hand.

He picked up the sweets sack and extended it.

“For you,” she said, trying to smile. “My thank-you gift. Prickly pear candy—my town’s famous for it.”

“Prickly pear and beer. Sounds like lunch. Come on and I’ll serve it up.” He seemed to be trying to cheer her.

She wanted to respond, but reentering the boob-adorned hovel that was supposed to have been her glorious new home made her heart sink like a stone into the neighbor’s grass-flecked kiddie pool.

Jackson hefted her plant effortlessly and guided her inside, pulling out a kitchen chair for her. He stuck the tree in a corner and tossed the candy on the table.

Heidi sat, noticing the clock on the wall was part of a bar ad for a German beer. “If you’ve got the time,” was written beneath a barmaid with, of course, huge boobs. Heidi had the time, all right. It was only eleven and she’d lost everything.

She noticed a lump under her butt and extracted a pair of plaid boxer briefs.

Jackson nonchalantly tossed them into the hall. Toward the hamper? She could only hope. The man must have stripped in the kitchen. Did he cook in the buff? Obviously he didn’t clean—dressed or naked. The sink and counters were heaped with dirty dishes. Empty cans of ravioli and Hungry-Man soup, lids bent jauntily, kept company with empty TV dinner containers on every surface. If this was his diet, she hoped Jackson took a daily vitamin.

“Beer, soda or coffee?” He opened the fridge door. The pleasant smell of ripe fruit—peaches?—was quickly swamped by rotting greens. “Whew. Something died in here.” He squatted, then lifted out a plastic sack of mossy lettuce. “Looks like a Chia Pet.” He carried it by finger and thumb to the overflowing under-sink trash. Beer cans and paper plates slid to the floor. He swore and shoved the cupboard door shut on the mess.

“I’ve disrupted your morning,” she said. “Please do what you’d normally do. I’ll make the calls and wait.”

“Normally, I’d be sleeping, but I’m up now. I’ll make us both coffee. Just make yourself at home—” He stopped abruptly, realizing what he’d said.

She’d lost her home, too, along with her car, her clothes, her computer, hundreds of dollars in beauty supplies and equipment, and all her savings.

She swallowed hard and blinked back tears, tilting her head so they’d drain inward, but it was no use. They spilled over her lids. She swiped them off her cheeks and sucked in a breath that turned into a choked noise way too close to a sob. She jumped out of her chair, thinking to head to the living room to keep Jackson from seeing her dissolve completely.

But he caught her upper arms. “You get to cry, Heidi. You got the rug yanked out from under you. It’s okay.” He pulled her into his arms for a hug—the kind given to a sorrowing friend.

For just a heartbeat, she let herself enjoy the sensation of his broad chest under her cheek, his bay rum and warm man smell, his fingers splayed across her shoulder blades.

But that only delayed the inevitable. She backed away fast. “It is a shock, that’s for sure. But I’ll figure out what to do and where to go…and everything.” Her voice faded as the enormity of her problem sank in.

“You can stay here,” he said with a shrug. “Until you figure it out.”

She froze. Stay here? Her first reaction was relief. That had been the plan, right? This was supposed to be her place. But she couldn’t impose on Jackson, no matter how sincere his offer. “Thanks, but I’ll get a hotel or something.”

“With what?” He looked at her doubtfully.

Good point. She had no money and no credit cards.

“Do you know anyone in Phoenix?”

“My new boss. I’m working at a hair salon. Just part-time, since I’m a student really. Going to ASU…” With no tuition money. And she didn’t exactly want her first words to Blythe to be, “Can I sleep in one of your salon chairs?”

She could call her brothers. On her first day? Three hours after her escape? She didn’t even have bus fare to get home, if she were willing to give up. Which she was not. She swallowed across a dry throat.

If she stayed with Jackson, did that make her weak or merely practical? She needed to know before she said yes.

The doorbell rang. “That’s the police,” she said, delaying her decision. “Maybe they found my car.” She didn’t need the doubt in Jackson’s dark eyes to tell her she was dreaming. She needed something to cling to. Her new life had just taken off down the road without her.

2

JACKSON WATCHED HEIDI race toward the entry hall, around the corner from the living room, the tight bounce of her backside distracting him a bit. He heard the door open and her say, “Did you find my car?” with too much hope in her voice.

He didn’t catch the mumbled response, but her “oh” was so dejected he felt it in his bones. Hell, the car was chopped or halfway to Mexico by now.

She could stay with him for a few days easy. Probably she had family who would come fetch her, poor thing. Though she’d jutted that pixie chin and blinked back tears so fiercely, he figured she’d take some convincing to call them.

She led the cops to the living room where he stood and she cleared the couch for them as though she already lived here. “Were you making coffee, Jackson?” she said. She had a husky voice like that woman on Cheers. Kirstie Alley, wasn’t that her name? It sort of locked into him like invisible hooks on a cholla cactus spine.

“Right. Sure.” He’d have to talk her into staying—for her own good. He sometimes let the girls from Moons live with him when they had troubles with boyfriends or landlords. You always have to be the hero. That’s what his ex, Kelli, said about him. Everybody’s big brother, nobody’s one and only.

What was the point in fighting his nature? If someone needed help, he helped. Period.

These days, maybe, he was the last person who should offer though. His radio station—his dream—had gone belly-up after six months, taking everything he had, everything his parents had given him. He’d thrown it out as stupidly as Heidi leaving the keys in her car. Only he’d written Take Me in shoe polish on the windshield.

To cut his losses and keep expenses down, he’d sold his house in Scottsdale and moved into his rental town house—supposedly investment income. Yeah, right.

But he wouldn’t think about that now. Now he’d brew some java for the sprite in the living room who was about to hear the cops weren’t likely to recover a hubcap.

Leaning over the coffeemaker, he got a blast of scent from his shirt, where Heidi had pressed her face. Flowers and something tropical and it made him go soft inside. She’d sort of folded into him, then stiff-armed herself away—not offended by the hug. More as if she didn’t dare let herself feel better.

He pinched up some fabric and took a big sniff. Mmm. Made him think of down pillows and that lip gloss girls wore in middle school, when the first wave of testosterone had knocked him to the sand. Those middle-school girls. Batting their lashes, pursing their lips, jiggling those curves—not fully aware of their power over him and the other hapless boys under their spell.

Heidi was hot that way. With big eyes that shimmered blue—like the metallic paint on the Corvette he’d rebuilt. She had some stare on her—innocent and all-knowing both.

At least Kelli wasn’t around to give him grief about taking in another stray. She’d cut out right after the station folded and her departure hadn’t hurt as much as it should have. He’d been kind of distant. Still was, he guessed. Gigi had stayed here for ten days and he’d turned her down flat. That wasn’t like him.

But his neutrality would make Heidi feel safe, he hoped.

How could he get her to stick around? She’d hitchhike or sleep in the bus station before she’d take charity or money, he’d bet.

Listening to the coffee hiss into the pot, he watched a fly take a lazy header into a blob of ketchup on the counter. The place was a sty lately, true. Comfortable, but messy. The kind of messy women loved to straighten out….

So she could be, like, a housekeeper. He’d trade cleaning for rent. She’d go for that, he’d bet. She seemed to have a lot of energy. And a cute little jiggle. Mmm. He felt a strange zing. As if something in him was waking up.

She’s your guest, man. Or soon would be. Shut it down.

When the coffee was ready, he loaded the pot and some mugs onto a pizza box and carried it all out to Heidi and the cops.

Heidi stood to help, but when she caught sight of the mugs, she sucked in a breath, then swooped them up, hiding them against her chest.

“What the…?” he said.

Keeping her back to the cops, she raised one mug—a gimmee from the opening of the Toy Box sex boutique, it showed a topless girl—and frowned before she bustled off.

Like the cops would care.

He made small talk with them while she rattled around in the kitchen, finally returning with two white mugs from Moons. If the cops recognized the bar name they’d think worse thoughts than over a couple of naked chests, but the slivered moon design looked innocent enough.

They all sat and drank, while the cops took down Heidi’s statement, and Jackson wondered what kind of a roommate Heidi would be. If tits on cups freaked her out, she’d hate his decor. What if she was a neat freak? Was he ready to never find his stuff where he had put it? Prepared to have the newspaper tossed out before he read it? And no hot water whatsoever? What was it with women and baths, anyway?

At least Gigi had been a slob like him.

Maybe he could get one of the girls at Moons to let Heidi stay with her. Not the best influence, though, the girls. And Heidi struck him as a babe in the woods.

The detectives finished the interview and Jackson walked them to the door. He returned to find Heidi slumped on the couch, elbows on her knees, chin in her palms, looking as though she’d just been turned down by the last foster family in town.

“Maybe you’ll get some stuff back,” he said to cheer her.

“Maybe.” She lifted the pizza box with the coffee crap and climbed to her feet, moving as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. “I’ll clean this up, make a few calls and get going.”

“Hold on a sec,” he said to stop her. “Now that you mention cleaning…I was thinking maybe you’d help me out.”

“Excuse me?”

“You can see I need a housekeeper.”

She looked around the room and gave a droll smile. “You think?”

“So, how about I trade you a room for cleaning? Save me calling a service.”

She seemed to doubt his intentions. “Thanks, anyway, Jackson. I’ll ask my boss about…options.” She snatched her lip between her teeth, looked toward the sofa.

He noticed a basket of nachos on the arm. They looked pretty gross—the cheese shriveled and an unnatural orange. “If you weren’t here, I might actually eat those,” he said.

She turned shocked eyes on him. “You wouldn’t!”

“Take the job. Save a life.”

She smiled, then studied him, scrunching up her short nose and the freckles like sprinkled cinnamon that decorated it. “What were you planning to pay?”

Hell, what was the going rate? “Twenty bucks an hour?” he threw out. “Thirty?”

She frowned, ferreting out ulterior motives. “Not more than twenty. Let’s see…I was going to pay Tina three-fifty a month for the room. It would take maybe six hours to clean up the first time, three after that. At twenty an hour, that’s…sheesh…not even close to rent.” She looked suddenly ill.

“Don’t sweat the money now. Get back on your feet and we’ll work it out.”

She sank back to the sofa in despair, jarring the nacho basket, which landed on her lap upside down.

“Damn!” She swept the chips back into the container, leaving a grease spot and a smear of hot sauce on her tan shorts, nicely tight across her thighs. She must work out.

She scrubbed at the spots. “These are the only clothes I own.” Her husky voice cracked and wobbled with the motion and she was chewing her lip raw again.

“There are some clothes in the spare room.” Gigi was careless about her clothes, as well as her men, her rent and her job. “They’re yours.”

She looked guilty and relieved—like a person who’d screwed up her courage to make her first sky dive, but gotten a bad-weather out and taken it.

“Come on,” he said, holding out a hand. “It would have been your room anyway, if Deirdre hadn’t screwed up.” And he hadn’t gone broke and had to move into his rental property.

She held his gaze, a million thoughts behind her eyes. Doubts, hope, worry, but mostly relief. Then she gave him her hand. The contact made them both go still. A surprising jolt skimmed through him. It had hit her, too, he guessed by the color in her face and the way she blinked her big eyes at him.

Then she collected herself, gripped more firmly and yanked herself up, as if he’d boosted her onto a high step, but now she was in charge. He’d felt the heat, though. It lingered like a whisper in his ear.

He led the way to the room and she padded behind. In the doorway, he waved her forward. She looked around, a little daunted. The room was pretty jammed. He’d kept some of the station’s sound equipment and shoved it in here with his own amps, bass and keyboard. There were unpacked boxes from his house—albums, CDs, books, tools, car parts and miscellaneous junk he hadn’t missed in the three weeks he’d been living here. Framed posters and photographs he hadn’t yet hung rested against the walls.

Even the bed was piled high—blues records he’d been sorting for a set at the bar. Though he didn’t have his father’s talent, he had an ear and he used it however he could.

“Wow,” she said, studying the wall of equipment and CDs. She turned to him. “You’re a musician?”

“I fool around. Play a little. I DJ at the bar I manage sometimes.” The customers came for the girls, not the music, but what the hell. He kept up with the local music scene, too. Followed new bands, hung out at recording studios, and played back-up bass or keyboard when he could.

“You manage a bar? How interesting.”

“Sure.” He started to tell her about Moons, then thought better of it. “Check out the clothes.” He opened the closet and picked out the first dress—fake snakeskin, pretty much a shrink-wrap job that had barely covered Gigi’s substantial rack. Heidi didn’t have much up top, but the dress was tight, so she could keep it in place. He held it up to her. “This’ll work.”

She blushed and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“You’d look hot.” Every woman wanted to hear that stuff. Truth was, the thought of her wiggling into it made his throat clog. He cleared it.

“Thanks, anyway.” She put the hanger firmly back in place.

“There’s other stuff.” He shoved through the rack of slinky, slithery, see-through, mini, micro, strapless stuff that Gigi had looked natural in. Heidi would look as though she’d dressed as a hooker for Halloween. She was the gingham and rickrack type.

“Shoes, too,” he said, looking down at the floor covered with feather scarves, running shoes and colorful high heels. Definitely Gigi. “This stuff belonged to a friend of mine. Any girl junk she left in the bathroom is yours, too.”

“Thanks, but—”

“If you want cash for fresh stuff, I can give you some.”

“Thanks, anyway. I’ll make do.”

He was probably lucky she’d turned him down. He had little to spare since he’d broken his dad’s number two rule: keep plenty between you and the wolves. That came right after look out for the ones you love. Which his dad had done in spades. All the way through his death. Then Jackson had flushed it right down the rat hole of his dream.

He got that tight knot in his chest, as if someone was punching his ribs from the inside out, but he ignored it, turning to watch Heidi prowl the room. She’d zeroed in on his breast alarm clock, a gag gift from the girls at Moons for his birthday. One nipple set the alarm. The other turned it off.

“That’s a joke,” he said, feeling like a kid whose mother had spotted a Playboy in his bathroom.

“So, you’re a breast man?” The question was direct, as if she’d asked what position he played in football.

“Pretty much.” Yeah, he liked breasts—the way they jiggled when women walked fast in heels, how they felt like flesh pillows in his hands when a woman hung over him in sex, the way the nipples knotted when he touched them. Breasts were miracles.

She crossed her arms tight and spun away from him.

Shit. She thought he didn’t like hers. Hold on, they’re fine. And nice nipples, by the way. Breasts didn’t have to be big to be great. Too late to fix her reaction, though.

She bent over, looking so good that he looked away to be polite, and picked up the framed photo of his dad and the band in 1971, before they went to New York without him.

“This has to be a relative.” She tapped his dad’s picture and turned the time-bleached photo to him, her gaze digging at him. “Your father maybe?”

“Yeah. He played trumpet with Tito Real—the guy beside him. Tito was percussion.” In fact, the poster at her feet was the band after they’d made it big. Wish you were here, man, Tito had signed it. He’d still wanted Jackson’s father to join them. Jackson’s mother had been pregnant with Jackson when opportunity knocked, and his father turned his back. Family tops the charts, chico, he used to say to Jackson whenever the subject came up.

When he was young, the words and the wink that went with them had warmed Jackson like a bonfire on a crisp night. My soul is with you and Mommy. That was his dad’s message.

But as he got older, Jackson was bothered by all his dad had given up for the family. His dad had made a living as a mechanic, but poured his heart into weekend gigs with various bands. Jackson had felt his father’s disappointment like a smoke wreath circling his head, making the man’s eyes water with what might have been.

“Is your family nearby?” Heidi asked.

“My parents are…gone.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” She didn’t seem shocked and she didn’t look away. Instead, she searched out his eyes, offering support.

Which made him want to explain. “Car crash two years ago. They were driving out here from Chicago and a snowstorm blew them into a barrier. It was quick. Over like that.” He snapped his finger, the sound sharp and short.

“They were coming to see you?”

“Yeah.” They’d poured all their love and all their hope over him, drenched him in it. And nagged and prodded him until it made him nuts. How about settling down with a wife? What about our grandkids? That pain in his chest started up again, so he turned away from Heidi’s gaze. “I’ll clear out this junk for you.”

“All I need is the bed. And just for a couple of nights. I’ll pay you with housekeeping, like you suggested, if that’s okay.”

“Fair enough,” he said and gathered a stack of records, which he moved to the shelves. She took a pile, too, and they brushed arms in the narrow space between the bed and the shelves.

“Sorry,” she said, her eyes slipping away. Definite heat, which made him uneasy because she was so…sweet. Not a virgin—there definitely was a knowing glint in her eye, plus no one this hot could reach midtwenties without getting laid—but close enough to innocence to make him queasy. Naive and wide-eyed and absolutely hands-off to a guy like him. He looked down at the cleared bed, fighting the fleeting picture of her tight body curled up under the spread.

She raised her eyes to his and caught his look. Her cheeks went pink and she grew flustered. “Anyway, thanks for letting me stay.”

“My pleasure.” Don’t say pleasure like that, you ass.

Luckily, her cell phone tinkled, changing the subject. She scrounged around in a pocket for it and put it to her ear.

“Hello?” she said. After the caller spoke, her face tightened. “Oh, yes, I’m here and everything’s great.” Her voice cracked with tension. She glanced at him, asking for privacy, so he left the room but remained in the hall, shamelessly eavesdropping.

“Just getting situated…I’m excited. Sure…I’m tired, that’s all. I start work on Monday…. Everything’s great, Mike.”

Everything’s great? Why was she lying? Someone back home she wanted to not worry about her.

“Tina and I will have a great time. Tell Mark…. Yes, I heard every word. I can use MapQuest as well as the next person…. What?…No. I don’t need money. I saved up what I need…. What?…Oh, I forgot about the self-help books. I promised them to Celia. She’s going to loan them out to the customers…. Yeah, the time will fly. It’ll be Thanksgiving before you know it…. Okay, maybe I’ll come for Halloween.”

He grinned. She’d lied about Tina, turned down money she needed and was fighting off a visit home. There was a story there.

“Sure. Great…I know you do…. I worry about you, too.” She said the last as though she was teasing the caller, but her voice shook. “Gotta go,” she said brightly. “Tina wants to…um…talk. Bye. Give my love to the Lesser Worrywart…. Bye…. Bye…. I’m fine. Really.”

She whispered, “God,” as if to herself, so he knew she’d hung up. He slipped down the hall, not wanting her to know he’d listened in. In the kitchen, he looked for something to bring her, settling for a glass of water and the candy sack.

He found her sitting on the floor, braced against the side of the bed, legs out, staring down at her cell phone.

When she noticed him, she quickly brushed at her cheeks. Shit, she’d been crying.

“So, who was that?” he asked, pretending he hadn’t noticed the tears.

“My big brothers. Worrying about me, as usual.”

He sat beside her, legs parallel, and thrust the open sack at her direction.

“Thanks.” She smiled, pawed around inside the bag, tickling his palm through the plastic, then pulled out two red rectangles covered in sugar crystals. “The signature jellies. Try one.”

He took one from her, the brush of her skin giving him a tiny shock, like the tart fruit at the back of his throat a second later. “Good,” he said as he munched, placing the sack on the floor between them.

She stared at the jelly she’d bit into.

From here, he could easily catch her perfume, mixed with the light scent of clean sweat and whatever tropical stuff she used on her hair, which was straight and thick and brushed her neck, light brown with gold streaks. The freckles made her look youthful, but he figured she was twenty-five. At least five years younger than he was. Not that it mattered how old she was….

“You tell them what happened?” he asked her.

She turned, her hair swishing back, revealing her neck and the soft pulse at her throat. “Heck, no. They’d be doing the big-brothers-in-shining-armor bit. Our parents died when I was young, but my brothers think it’s their duty to carry me around piggyback as long as they can.”

“They’re just looking out for you.” He would do the same thing in their place.

“With handcuffs,” she said.

“That’s love.”

“That’s not trusting someone with her own life, her own decisions, and mistakes and—” She stopped, then forced a smile. “I bet if someone constantly told you what to do, you wouldn’t put up with it for a minute.”

“Depends on what she was wearing at the time.” He waggled his brow, trying to cheer her up with humor.

“Oh. Right.” She blushed, then laughed, a sexy sound in her rough Kirstie Alley voice. “What a mess I’ve made out of my great escape.” She huffed air through her bangs, which flew every which way. “If I’d just grabbed my purse I’d at least still have tuition money. The check’s been cashed. Washed and written over or forged. Happens all the time, the bank manager said.” She swallowed hard and pulled her feet close to her body, bracing her forehead on her knees, wrapping her arms around her shins.

“So what are you studying?” he said to keep her from sinking too low.

She turned her face to rest her cheek on her knees. “Psychology.”

That explained the steady stare—part curiosity, part support. Perfect for picking people’s brains apart. He shifted slightly away. “You want to be a shrink?”

“It’s not contagious.” She smiled slightly. “Counseling scares you?”

“Who wants to be under a microscope?”

“You’d be surprised. I was sort of the amateur therapist for the town. People got a cut, a style and free advice at Celia’s Cut ’n’ Curl.”

“So you worked over their hair and their lives. Sounds like pure hell.”

“Lots of people value neutral help sorting out their troubles.”

“I’d rather have bypass surgery.” Kelli had always quoted Dr. Phil or Dr. Laura or the latest pop psych book she’d inhaled. You’re repressing, blocking, deflecting. Hell, she’d made his quietness sound like a martial art. Now here he sat with Dr. Heidi in the making. His roommate. And she was looking him over again, trying to figure him out. Damn.

“So what’s wrong with being a hairdresser?” he said to distract her.

“Nothing. I’ll be doing hair part-time still. But if I want to be a therapist, I’ve got to do internships, get at least a master’s degree.” She lifted her head from her knees and looked at him more closely, eyes narrowed. Jeez, now she was reading his mind? He tried to clear any stray horny thoughts, just in case.

Then she reached for a strand of his hair and rubbed it between her finger and thumb. “You could use a hot oil treatment.”

“A what?”

Her lips had wrapped around those words like they were pure sex. She seemed to realize it. And liked it, judging by the way her fingers slowed on his hair and her next words were soft and low and deliberate. “For your hair…It’s dry…. The ends are…damaged. I’d be glad to…do it…for you.”

A couple of words dropped out in his head until he heard I’d be glad to do you. A charge shot through him like touching a live battery cable. Innocence was sexy, he realized. A million schoolgirl strip routines couldn’t be wrong.

“You have such nice texture.” Now her voice was huskier. She was flirting with him. Damn.

He imagined her fingers on his scalp, the snip-snip of her scissors near his ear, the tickle of hair sliding down his neck. Maybe he’d have his shirt off and it would cascade across his chest to his thighs like the brush of eyelashes. He pictured her lifting his chin, turning it to the angle she wanted, maybe with a little yank. He’d be eye level with those gentle mounds of breasts with their berry nipples that had tightened against her snug top as they talked.

“Men neglect their hair because it doesn’t seem masculine,” she continued, blinking her big eyes, sending waves of lust through him. “You like engines, right? Think of your hair as an engine. You want it all shiny and tuned up, don’t you?”

The woman was hitting on him. Great. Heidi was the kind of woman who saw sex as a first step to forever and the last thing he wanted after a hot night was to wake up to eyes like hers demanding wedding rings and babies and 401Ks. God, no.

“So, a hair tune-up, huh?” he said to joke her away. “I’ll think about it.”

She blinked. “Uh. Sure.” He’d made her feel foolish. He’d like to tell her she was plenty sexy, but he couldn’t figure out how to do so without screwing up the moment. He was off the hook. Leave it be.

“Well, I guess I’d better start earning my keep.” She shook her head, her hair swishing back and forth, a thick curtain that would feel great against his…

“Huh?”

“I’m your housekeeper, remember?” She jumped to her feet so fast he missed the chance to help her up. “You just do what you’d normally do, Jackson, and I’ll turn this place spic-and-span.”

She bounced out the door, a perky little cheerleader, who bobbed through life on the balls of her feet, wagging her pom-poms in everyone’s faces.

That could be exhausting. How long would she be here? A couple of days probably until she worked something out with her boss. He could handle that, right? Even with the attraction?

He tried to act normal, starting in on Gran Turismo, his favorite racing video game, but she kept zipping in front of him like some Tasmanian devil of a virgin French maid. Then she got out the vacuum—he didn’t know he even had one—and the roar got on his nerves.

Not to mention the gasps of horror whenever she found any little distasteful thing. Pork rinds didn’t get good until the third day out…moisture made them chewy.

He crashed his Mazda R-X 7 for the tenth time and looked at her. She’d bent to reach under the sofa, muscles rippling across the backs of her thighs and tightening that fresh peach of a backside. He forced his eyes back to the TV screen, feeling irritable.

“This will be perfect,” she said.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her stand with a wadded cloth. She trotted away, but when he heard spraying he looked over to see her smothering his favorite T-shirt with some dusting spray—where the hell did she find that junk?

“Hey, not that shirt,” he said, jumping up and grabbing the jersey out of her hands.

“Sorry,” she said. “It looked worn out.”

“It’s barely worn in.” He whipped off his tank top and pulled it over his head to prove his point, uneasily aware that she’d stared while he stripped.

“See?” he said.

“It’s full of holes and stained.”

“It’s fine. It’s perfect.” Except the junk she’d doused it in burned his nose, so he’d have to throw it in the hamper.

He hoped to hell Heidi’s boss had a spare room. Something told him the woman could mess up lots more than his favorite T-shirt.

3

HEIDI GRABBED the dish soap from among the cleaning supplies left from Tina’s regime and squirted pink liquid into the rushing hot water. It was all too surreal for words.

Two hours ago, her happy new life had peeled away from the curb and now she was cleaning a stranger’s town house. A handsome stranger, whose bare pecs she’d admired and with whom she’d flirted by fondling his hair. She was losing her mind.

How else could she explain hitting on a guy in the middle of the ruin of her life? Had to be an escape from the tension. When Jackson had whipped off his tank top, she’d stared and blinked like a kid. Oh, what gorgeous abs you have. He was so big and so male. Almost scary. He could crush her in an instant, except for the gentleness in him. She trusted him implicitly.

She scrubbed ketchup off a plate—the man put the red stuff on everything, it seemed—then rinsed it, fighting off what was going on in her mind…the desire to have sex with Jackson McCall.

She grabbed another plate and scrubbed it hard, pushing down the thought. It bobbed back up. No wonder. Her secret personal goal was to have wild sex with a wild man. And Jackson would be perfect.

She grabbed a really dirty plate and dug at it with the Brillo pad. Sex so far had been fast and fumbling and not all that satisfying. Jackson would be slow and skilled, she’d bet.

Scrub, scrub, scrub. He had hot, knowing eyes and a smart-ass grin that made her go tight in private places. Plus, he looked a little dangerous, so big and rugged, his jaw bristling with whiskers and masculinity. She could see him as a hardboiled detective in an old movie, unfiltered cigarette dangling from a lip, shoving up the edge of his fedora with a thumb to get a load of her.

So, why not have sex with him? Talk about making lemonade from the lemons of this catastrophe. She’d been hyperaware of him sitting beside her on the floor, feeding her a jelly. How about some candy, little lady? Actually, it had made her tooth zing. Getting that molar looked at had been one errand she’d neglected before she left Copper Corners. After the zing passed, though, the tart taste and sweet scent had added pleasurably to the spark and sizzle of being that close to Jackson.

And then she’d wrecked it. Blurted stuff about hot oil, dry hair and shiny engines.

And Jackson had treated it like a joke. As though she was just goofing around. Unfair. She could be as sexy as the next woman, couldn’t she? Well, maybe not in her cute little embroidered top.

She wasn’t getting anything right.

The only good news was that she’d stuck to her plan, not crumpled when Mike called. She hadn’t cried or confessed or asked for help or even sympathy. And she wouldn’t. Her pride was at stake. Her determination. And her future.

At least Black Saturday was nearly over. She’d get through Blue Sunday somehow—maybe the police would find her car, her purse or even her beautician’s kit.

For now, she’d get a small advance from Jackson for basic needs. On Monday, she’d go to Shear Ecstasy and talk to Blythe and at least get more hours. Maybe Blythe had a spare bedroom she could stay in? She hated to ask—it made her seem flaky—but Blythe seemed like a person who rolled with the punches.

She could ask her brothers for money. Maybe tell them Tina had moved out and she needed more for rent. But then they would doubt her judgment. Plus, if she took their money, she’d have to listen to their advice, and she was done with that.

Somehow, she’d save enough for tuition. She’d miss the first semester, but that way she’d have a few months to get oriented and make friends without being buried in her studies.

That was a relief, actually. She’d been geared up for ASU, but a little worried about how hard the classes would be. She’d agonized over the catalog and course descriptions and Googled all the professors. The result of her careful preparation was that she was a bit intimidated. So an adjustment period was good—needed, in fact. She’d go with this plan for now.

Which started with earning her rent money by cleaning Jackson’s place. She’d finished the main living areas, emptying five trash bags, dusting and vacuuming, and was closing in on the kitchen. The drawers had been easy. They were mostly empty, except for paper goods, a few mismatched pieces of flatware, can and beer openers, some tools—including an entire set of weirdly shaped wrenches—and some fancy knives.

The pantry was decently stocked—obviously Tina’s doing, since Jackson seemed to be a fast-food guy, judging from the six thousand packets of soy, plum and taco sauce she’d found.

Fast food and easy sex, she’d bet. She’d ruined her chance at that by suggesting she tune up his hair. Oooh, baby, so not sexy. Even worse, she couldn’t even do what she’d offered. She had no oil treatment, no shears, not even a comb to her name.

Though her lame attempt at flirtation was not the real problem. Jackson went for chesty women who wore clothes like the ones in the closet—things so tight and short they barely covered critical anatomy. Heidi was way too small-boobed and small-town for Jackson.

She’d be his housekeeper, not his love slave.

He seemed lonely to her, she thought, wiping something gross off the counter. At loose ends. He’d gone visibly still when he talked about his parents’ death. She wondered if she could help him talk through that a little. If she tiptoed very, very carefully around his gruffness. I’d rather have bypass surgery.

She’d bet that was true. He could sure sound fierce, but his basic tenderness showed through. Or maybe she was seeing that because he had her urges in turmoil.

In the glass-fronted cupboards, she turned the naked-women mugs so the plain sides showed, then dried the mugs she’d given to the detectives. They were plain white except for “Moons” in black script below a line drawing of two slivered moons. Heck, if you squinted, they almost looked like a drawing of a naked backside. All the nudity around here had her seeing body parts everywhere.

Her own derrière was nice, she’d been told. She considered it her best feature and worked hard to keep it in shape—running for miles and doing hours of toning videos. Just her luck that Jackson was into breasts, not butts. So much for the wild sex part of her plan.

JACKSON WALKED OUT of the gym feeling cranky. Heidi had messed up the rhythm of his Saturday. Because the gym’s weight circuit was crowded on the weekends, he usually only swam laps there and worked out at home. But with Heidi bustling around, distracting him, he had needed to get out of there. She’d completely blown his video-game Zen.

The delay at the gym made him late for the recording session he wanted to listen in on. There were two studio musicians who had a great sound he thought would go well with Heather Lane, a singer/keyboard player he’d been tracking. But they’d come and gone before he arrived.

Probably too much trouble to put them together, anyway. The fiasco with the radio station had taught him his lesson—stay clear of stuff he didn’t know cold.

So he climbed into the Aston Martin to head for Moons, the bar he managed and his home away from home. With the ragtop off, the car was hot, even though he’d parked in the gym’s shade. He headed to the bar on a slow cruise, the breeze in his wet hair cooling him down.

At Moons, he parked by the Dumpster to keep the car from getting scratched, tugged up the ragtop and put on the canvas cover. Old-man fussy, but this was the only car he’d hung onto when he sold everything to help fund the station. He was taking prime care of his last prize—his baby.

He headed to the back door, glancing up at the smaller version of the sign out front. He liked the logo—two quarter moons you had to squint at to notice they made the perfect curve of an ass. A classy hint at the titillation inside. Come to think of it, that perky little rump looked exactly like Heidi’s…or as much as he could tell through her shorts.

He wondered what kind of underwear she had on. Some sweet flowered thing. Certainly not a thong. He was sick of thongs. And those crotchless things, too. If it was that easy to get to, what was the point in going after it? There was something really hot about daisies…. Forget it, Bucko.

Liquor deliveries came in the afternoon, so Taylor, his bar man, was already there and the door was unlocked. Jackson pushed inside, blinking at the blue-black light flashing off the mirrors and chrome poles, getting used to the dark. He’d convinced Duke Dunmore, the owner of the bar, to add sparkling drapes and soft, upholstered chairs, which Jackson had pushed away from the stage for a classier effect. The girls said it made them feel more professional.

Professional. He shook his head, amused. Stripping was a perfectly respectable way to make a living. It was an act. If a little wiggle-jiggle brightened the dreary lives of the slobs who came in here, where was the shame in that?

But the girls insisted he call them exotic dancers, not strippers. Well, la-de-da. Still he called them what they wanted to be called.

He would love to bring live music here, but it would be expensive. Music was only background to what the customers came to see. Jackson settled for taking over the DJ booth when the regular guys needed time off or when he was in the mood.

Nevada, one of the dancers, trotted his way. She was small with long, fake blond hair and a decent boob job. Some silicon sets looked like bowling balls about to burst their bags. Felt like it, too, and cool to the touch. He preferred a nice warm human handful himself.

His thoughts flipped back to Heidi. Her breasts were high on her chest, her nipples perky, delicious pebbles against the tongue….

What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn’t that hard up, barely cared that he hadn’t gotten laid in months. Something about his new roommate….

“Glad you’re here,” Nevada said, wiping sweat from her face with a towel. “I need fresh tunes. Will you help me, Jax?”

He got that rush he always got when someone asked him about music. “Show me.”

She headed to the main stage, where she launched into some spins, splits and a pole climb worthy of a trapeze artist. Nevada didn’t settle for the usual tit-waggle, ass-thrust, and her pole routines were athletic. She’d been a gymnast and danced in New York, she’d told him once.

He half closed his eyes and did a mental music sort. Right away an instrumental jazz/salsa thing his father’s band had recorded popped into his head. “Got it,” he called to her and headed upstairs to the DJ booth where he kept a lot of his music. He put the record on the turntable. Nevada listened, head cocked, swayed to the music, frowning, testing the sound with her new moves. Soon she shot him a thumbs-up and went at it hard, into the sound. Great. A grin split his face. Couldn’t help it.

Afterward, he met her downstairs at the bar, where Taylor had already set out two seltzers. Taylor was eerily silent for a bartender, but he had a telepathic sense for when to take an order and a solid work ethic. Bartenders could be squirrelly, with all that cash passing through their hands, but Taylor was rock solid. Jackson hired no one he didn’t trust.

“So, what do you think of the new routine?” Nevada asked, sucking down her drink.

“What do you think I think? You’re good.”

“You say that to all the girls.”

“Only when it’s true.”

She winked at him, stirring her drink with a straw. “If I didn’t play for the other team, I might consider taking you for a test drive, Jackson.”

“I’ll hold that thought.” He winked at her.

She shot him an open smile—rare for her. She’d had a raw deal in life and seemed half braced for blows all the time. Her girlfriend—also hot—tended bar at a lesbian club across town. They had a stormy relationship, he knew from talks like these. Nevada practiced more than the other dancers—always trying new bits—so they had these leisure hours to shoot the shit.

He leaned back, bracing his elbows on the bar and looked around. He liked Moons like this—quiet and dark, just stirring for the night to come, a few folks hanging out, setting up, throwing jokes and kicking around their news.

The door opened, sending a long triangle of sunlight into the place, burning his eyes like a vampire. He’d been living the nocturnal life of the bar for six months now and it felt right. He liked the dark. Everything looked better with the details blurred.

The door closed and he saw that Jasmine, another dancer, had entered, trailed by her eight-year-old daughter. “But I don’t want to read,” Sabrina whined. “I’m tired of reading.” Transportation snafus sometimes meant Sabrina hung around the club for a while before it opened.

“Hi, Jax,” Sabrina chirped, climbing onto the stool between him and Nevada, and giving him a smile bigger than her face. She had a little crush on him. He’d dated Jasmine for a while until they both lost interest, though Sabrina didn’t know this.

“I thought you were going to day camp,” he said.

“Cash flow.” Sabrina sounded too adult for her years.

“Horseback riding lessons are pricey,” Jasmine said, coming to stand behind them, beads and bells clinking in her gypsy skirt. Her dark, slanted eyes added to the effect, except she’d dyed her hair a fake blond.

“What can I do? I’m bored,” Sabrina said to her mom. “Can I try on your costumes?”

“No way.”

“Why not?” she said, halfheartedly, spinning the stool.

“Because they’re itchy.” The real reason, Jackson knew, was Jasmine didn’t want Sabrina to have anything to do with dancing.

“I’ll take her to the swim club,” said a voice from behind them. It was Autumn, the third of Moons’ best dancers. She wore her reddish-brown hair short and had great breasts, courtesy Mother Nature. “My cousin works there and at least she’ll get some exercise. She needs it. It’s summer.” Autumn was the most practical of the three. And the most blunt. She harped on Jasmine’s bad decisions about money and mothering, but she loved her like a sister, and Sabrina like a niece.

“How ’bout I teach you to play blackjack,” Jackson said to Sabrina, wanting to nix the tension. Jasmine did the best she could and Autumn could be harsh.

“Cool.” Sabrina stopped spinning and beamed up at him.

“My daughter is not learning how to gamble.”

“We’ll play for fun, won’t we, Sabrina? No money involved.” He leaned back to mutter to Jasmine, “Teaches her math. All the adding up to twenty-one, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. I guess so.”

“Excellent idea,” Autumn said, patting his cheek.

Now that he noticed, she was Heidi’s height and build—well, not counting the jugs. “Listen, you got some clothes you could spare?”

“What for? You got secret habits, Jax?”

“It’s not for me. I’ve got this situation at home. With a woman.”

“A woman at home? Oooh,” Jasmine said. “I thought Gigi went back to Ohio.”

“She did. This woman, see…there was a misunderstanding about my place being for rent. She got her car and her money stolen right outside the door, so I’m letting her stay for a few days.”

“Letting her or making her?” Autumn said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Autumn said. “Just that you tend to be kind of…”

“Smothering, Jax,” Jasmine said. “You smother people. Like a big, hairy blanket.”

Somebody had to steer the girls away from trouble. Jasmine, especially. Dancers made good money, and customers offered more for favors after hours. He wasn’t about to let them ruin their lives without saying a word. “Well if it weren’t for me, a certain dancer I know would have paid fines up the ying-yang for late taxes.”

“I’m teasing, okay. Kind of.”

“And you didn’t bitch about the book work I got you,” he said to Autumn. She was great with numbers and he’d asked her to double-check the bar receipts, as well as the monthly financials for Duke.

“Just keeping you humble,” Autumn said. “So, what’s this naked vagrant’s name?”

“It’s…Heidi. And she’s not naked.” Had he said that weird? “She’s about your size, except not so much in here.” He held his hands out, shaping breasts. “Maybe some shorts, jeans, shirts and slacks—something she can wear to work. She’s a hairdresser.”

“A hairdresser, huh?” Autumn said. “Heidi the hot hairdresser. Sounds perfect for you.”

“It’s not like that.” He felt himself redden.

“Then why are you acting all twitchy?” Autumn asked.

“I’m not.”

“You do sound weird, Jax,” Sabrina said mildly, not even looking up.

“You have a thing for her,” Autumn declared.

“She’s from a thumb-suck town, she doesn’t know what she’s doing here. She was supposed to go to college, but she lost her tuition money. She’s just plain lost.”

“Exactly,” Autumn said. “And you have to save that poor lost girl from the big, bad…hmm…who is it you’re saving her from again?”

“I’m just getting her some clothes, okay? Maybe some makeup? Any of you have any extra face goo?”

“Give me a few bucks and I’ll buy it,” Nevada said. “I’ve got to snag some major pancake for this razor rash on my thigh. I look like I’ve got leprosy.”

“The best thing is to stay out of the spotlight,” Autumn said. “If you work the far stage, the lights are newer and…”

He played a few rounds of blackjack with Sabrina, while the girls kicked around technical issues, then went to check with Taylor on inventory and got busy with his routine—verifying the dancers scheduled for the night, checking in with the DJ, the waitresses, testing the lights and sound equipment, inventorying supplies. All the little things that ensured a smooth night.

Jackson hadn’t really wanted this job, but Duke had begged him. They went back for years and the man had loaned Jackson the money to start his auto shop, so he had to help out, as annoying as Duke could be.

Jackson took pride in having turned the place around. Receipts were modest, but steady, and he’d hired a good crew and set new rules. Everything decent and aboveboard. No skimming, no hint of drugs and pure respect for the dancers.

Duke seemed under assault these days. Family stuff, Jackson had gathered. His nephew Stan, whom Jackson disliked, shadowed Duke, showing far too much interest in the nightly receipts. The kid hung with some malevolent-looking guys, more than one of whom Jackson had eighty-sixed for getting grabby with the girls.

The night flew by, business was brisk and he even spun some tunes. Got some praise from a guy from L.A.—PR flak for a record studio—on the mix of retro punk that went well with the night’s dancers and their routines.

At 2:00 a.m., he locked up and headed out. He loved the drive home. Top down, middle-of-the-night quiet, warm air wicking the sweat from his skin. This time of night, he owned the streets.

He reached his place and pulled into the garage, filled with that comfortable peace he always got. He would listen to some music, then hit the sack.

Except he had company. Heidi. Yeah. He got a charge of anticipation, which he squashed flat. She was off-limits. That annoyed him and made him tense. Dammit. He needed to unwind at home, not hold his breath and tiptoe around not thinking about cuddling up to all that sunshine and sweetness.

At least this was only a temporary interruption of his peaceful life. He grabbed the sack of clothes from Autumn and cosmetics from Nevada and headed for the door, braced for the smell of cleanser and lemon oil, since Heidi had been cleaning like a fiend.

Instead he got the sweet aroma of something baked—fruit and pastry. By the stove light Heidi had left on for him, he saw there was a pie on the counter. Cinnamon-streaked peaches oozed from holes in the center. She’d baked him a pie?

Eager saliva flooded his mouth and he felt ravenous, with that hand-rubbing delight he used to get sliding up to his mom’s holiday table. He grabbed the pie knife she’d set out—he didn’t know he had one of those—cut a piece and took a huge bite, not even sitting down. Sweet peaches exploded against his palate and the crust melted like butter. It was so good he had to shut his eyes.

When he opened them, he noticed how peaceful the kitchen was, clean and gleaming even in the dim stove light. The mugs in the glass-front cupboards were in straight rows and strangely blank. Ah. She’d turn the naked ladies to the back. He smiled. Heidi was a trip.

Then he noticed a note in swirling letters sitting on a folded pair of jeans—his favorites, he realized, getting closer—which had gone missing. He thought Gigi had taken them by mistake.

Thanks for helping me out. I’ll try to make your life easier…H

The pie and the jeans were a great start, for sure. He sighed and took another bite. A roommate who cleaned house and cooked wasn’t half bad. So what if she vacuumed when he was battling for number one in the virtual Indy 500? Or made him want to jump her bones when she cleaned? She could take all the hot baths she wanted, for sure. He’d need plenty of cold showers anyway.

He wrote her a note back, thanking her for the pie. He peeled the stickers from the cosmetics, so she wouldn’t know he’d bought them. He almost wanted to get up early enough to see her face when she saw it all. Too stupid. He put a spare house key on top of the note. She’d need that while she was here.

Finished, he headed down the hall, tiptoeing so as not to wake her. He paused outside her room.

What was she wearing? Was she naked? Wearing her daisy panties? He pictured her lying on her side, one leg bent, her cheek in the pillow, one perky nipple making a tiny dent in the sheet, ribs swelling and subsiding with her soft breaths.

He fought the urge to push open the door—already cracked a bit—just to peek, maybe find out if she smelled as sweet in sleep as she did awake, and backed away, toward his room.

And plowed straight into hard metal—his weight bench, he figured from the clanking. What the hell was it doing there?

“Ow. Damn. Shit.” He rubbed the back of his head, then the back of his thighs, which had whacked the kick bar.

“Jackson?” Heidi’s voice was husky with sleep and sharp with alarm. “Are you okay?” There she stood in her doorway, softly lit by his hula-girl nightlight wearing, of all things, his torn-up Hawaiian shirt.

He didn’t know which was worse—the goose egg forming on the back of his skull or the hard-on in his jeans at the sight of her in that pinned-together old shirt sagging to the middle of her thigh. Just plain begging to be ripped off. All he could say was, “Great pie.”

4

“I’M GLAD YOU LIKED IT,” Heidi said, fuzzy-brained from being jolted awake by Jackson’s crash into the weight bench and subsequent cursing. She’d barely drifted off. Even as exhausted as she was, tension about her plight made it tough to sleep. “I moved your bench because it fit better there. I guess I should have warned you in my note.” She’d never imagined he’d back into the room or not turn on a light. “Are you hurt?”

“You’re wearing my shirt.” He swallowed visibly, still rubbing the back of his head, and blinked at her. Repeatedly.

“I hope it’s not a favorite.” She’d found it under the dresser, buttonless and streaked with washed-out grease, so she’d been positive he’d used it as a rag. She’d washed it, along with her only clothes, in the tiny washer-dryer combo unit, figuring it would do for pajamas.

“Used to be my lucky work shirt. I had a vintage car repair shop. It’s just a sweat rag now.” His voice was faint, his eyes transfixed. “On you it looks new.”

She blushed to her toes, hoping he couldn’t see how easily she’d reddened. The only light was from a nightlight in the hall featuring a topless native woman with a hibiscus in her hair.

Jackson perused her body, top to bottom, and back again, lingering here and there—her toes, thighs, breasts, then settling on her mouth. Something very male showed in his eyes. Maybe she hadn’t blown it completely with the hot-oil-shiny-engine remark. He sure wasn’t joking now.

He smelled of bay rum and car leather and cigarettes, a combination that made her think of clinking ice in smoky liquor and dangerous promises made in dark bars. Excitement coursed through her. The narrow hall felt intimate and they were very alone.

“Sorry I woke you,” he said.

“Sorry I hurt you.”

“Mild concussion. Couple bruises.” He shrugged, still looking transfixed.

“I wasn’t really asleep.”

“No? Worried?”

“A little, I guess.”

“So how about a nightcap? Loosen the tension.” He gestured for her to accompany him. “Come on.”

Come on. He’d said that to her before, just being friendly, and she’d liked the way it made her feel as though she belonged. This time there was sexual interest in the words, and she felt a thrill. Maybe something could happen after all. Right now. Tonight.

She followed him down the hall, liking the way her smaller steps echoed his big thuds. In the kitchen, he grabbed highball glasses from the cupboard and went for ice.

She noticed a heap of cosmetics beside a stack of folded clothes on the table and a key on a note. “What’s this?”

“Some extra stuff from girls at the club,” he said, not looking at her.

She fingered the containers. “But this is all new. You bought it for me?”

“God, not me. I’m not that kind of guy. Nevada picked it out.” He grinned, but he was glossing over his thoughtfulness. “Just drugstore stuff.”

“That was very sweet.” She picked up the key. “And this?”

He glanced her way. “For as long as you’re here.”

She liked having a place until she figured out what to do, even if it reflected poorly on her self-reliance.

“You need a ride to work?” He twisted the ice tray over the glasses, his forearm muscles twining nicely.

“A bus line goes right by the salon. The stop’s just on Thomas.”

“I’ve got two vehicles. You can borrow my van, no problem.”

“I’ll be fine.” Jackson was a generous guy. Probably in bed, too. And sex was an important step in her journey. Lemonade from lemons, right?

She watched him slide the empty ice tray back and forth under the faucet, his muscles swelling and subsiding. She imagined those arms around her body, those blunt-tipped fingers on her skin. He shoved the refilled tray back into the freezer.

“Bar’s in the living room.” He tilted his head toward the pass-through, grabbed the glasses, and headed that way.

She followed him to the tiki bar, pulled out a bamboo stool, which turned out to be fragile and wobbly, creaking wildly as she situated herself on its scratchy surface.

Jackson set the glasses on the bar, then reached past her to turn on the hula-girl lamp, his finger brushing the bare plaster breasts ever so lightly, a move she felt along her spine. Soon it might be her he touched so lightly…or not so lightly. She shivered.

To distract herself, she took a prickly pear jelly out of the snifter into which she’d emptied the Cactus Confections sack during her cleanup. Slowly, she munched the tangy treat. The golden light drenching the plaster hula girl made the bar an island of warmth in the intimate dark.

Jackson ducked behind the counter and rose with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He twisted the lid with a fist and splashed their glasses, efficient as a bartender. He managed a bar, after all. She leaned her elbows on the glass surface, which made the hula girl bobble under her lamp shade. Her painted-on eyes seemed to wink at Heidi: You go, haole girl.

She intended to.

“Welcome to Tiki Town,” Jackson said, handing her the drink. He gave the expanse of bamboo and glass a look of possessive satisfaction. “Bought it off a roadie for Jimmy Buffett who hauled it out from Florida.”

“I’m honored to be here.”

Jackson clicked his glass against hers, the sound sharp in the middle-of-the-night quiet. “You look right at home, dressed like that.” He looked as if he wanted to swallow her whole. She wanted him, too. This felt like their own private club and it was very, very late. They surveyed each other, energy crackling like heat lightning.

“I feel like I’ve been shipwrecked on an island…and now it’s just you and me…all alone.” She spoke over the glass, which she held close to her lips. The smoky liquor made her nose and eyes sting. How could anybody drink something this poisonous on purpose? She preferred chocolate martinis or prickly pear margaritas, something that eased the bite with sweetness.

“Aloha,” he said with a wink and took a quick swallow of the booze.

She did the same, and it burned like crazy. “Mmm,” she said to cover her gasp.

He burst out with a belly laugh. “You hated that.”

“It was…startling, that’s all.”

“You don’t have to drink like me, Heidi. Go ahead, scrunch up your freckles. It’s nasty stuff.”

She wished he hadn’t mentioned freckles. They made her seem young.

He rested his elbows on the bar, leaning close enough that she could see the crinkles around his eyes, the smooth planes of his face, golden brown whiskers just emerging from his jaw.

He grabbed a jelly and handed it to her. “Wash it down.”

“I can take it. Really.” She leveled her gaze at him.

He came to attention and let the jelly fall into the jar.

“One of my goals in moving here was to have new…experiences.”

“Experiences?” His gaze drifted to her mouth and he unconsciously licked his lips.

“Yes. Like drinking whiskey in the middle of the night with a man I hardly know in a little private bar called Tiki Town.”

“I see,” he said softly, pulled into her energy, despite the resistance in his posture, the wariness of his shoulders.

“Drinking whiskey…and other new things.” She leaned closer, making the bar jiggle and rattling the bottles behind the bamboo. The hula girl’s hips swayed wildly. Heidi’s stool squealed in agony, but if she shifted back she would seem to be withdrawing. And she was pushing onward. As far as she dared.

“What did you…have in mind?” he murmured, eyes gleaming.

“Exactly what you think.” The husky quality of her voice made her sound more sure than she felt, and that was good. In this quiet moment at Jackson’s bar, she wanted to be a woman who went for what she wanted. Without hesitation, without waiting for him to make the first move…Would he make the first move? Hell, didn’t look like it.

So she grabbed the soft fabric of his T-shirt, tugged him closer and said, “This,” before she closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his.

He froze. Shocked, no doubt. He tasted of liquor and toothpaste and his lips were strong, but soft. She pushed the tip of her tongue the tiniest way out, offering it.

He didn’t move, didn’t reach for her, didn’t meet her tongue, but she felt him start to tremble. At least that. He was holding back, so she’d show him she meant business.

She tilted her head and kissed harder, pushing up from the stool so she stood on the rung, letting him know she wanted more.

Abruptly, her lips were ripped from his and her feet slammed to the floor. The stool rung had given out beneath her heel.

Jackson grabbed her upper arms to steady her. Her stool thudded to the carpet behind her. “Those chairs are kind of rickety.”

So were her legs. And her ego. Her sexy move had practically become a pratfall.

“You don’t want this,” he said, low. His steady gaze still held heat and at least he wasn’t laughing.

“Yes, I do.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“One swallow.”

“Your life’s up in the air. You’re confused.”

“Not about my…um…needs.” Flames of mortification washed over her. The hula girl, rocking wildly, now seemed to be jeering. You screw up big-time, haole girl.

“You don’t want me,” Jackson said.

Yes, I do. She opened her mouth to say that, except her gaze caught on the picture on the wall beside his head—Marilyn Monroe in velvet with full, lovely breasts. To her left, the hula dancer’s endowments jiggled. To her right, a hugely be-knockered model in a bikini smiled from a sports-car hood. Jackson was a breast man. She wasn’t want he wanted. The realization stung her cheeks the way the Jack Daniel’s had her throat.

“But it is late,” she said, pretending to sigh. “And I’m probably overtired.”

“You’ve been through a lot.”

“True.” She bent to upright the stool, then took a backward step. “Thanks for the drink.” She’d left the full glass on the bar. “Good night. Sorry about the head injury.” She turned and moved off, just wanting away from her humiliation.

“Can I cut you a piece of pie?” Jackson called to her, trying to make up.

“No thanks,” she called over her shoulder.

Hightailing it to her room, she flopped onto the bed, glowing in the dark, she’d bet, from the embarrassment. If only she could take back the last five minutes. She could still taste the sting of the liquor in her throat, feel the burn of Jackson’s turndown on her cheeks. Restless, she glanced at the clock. In the middle of a pink breast, the LED display said 3:30. Breasts to the left of her, breasts to the right of her, breasts all around her. What was the deal with breasts? She felt the urge to throw the clock against the wall, but instead she shoved the thing under the bed so it couldn’t mock her.

She would use her phone as her alarm. Speaking of which, she’d have to buy a charger if she wanted to keep phone service until she’d established an address with a land line. She’d need money to pay the bill, too. Despair threatened. She’d have to ask Jackson for a cash advance.

If she could even face the man after he’d rejected her. It didn’t seem possible, but somehow she’d made things worse.

AS SOON AS HEIDI left the room, Jackson sagged against the bar, making the thing rock like a shack in a hurricane. He felt as though he’d just survived one—or maybe an electrical storm and his hair was still standing on end. What a mouth she had. Soft and sweet and wholesome as the peach pie she’d made him. He’d wanted to sink into that kiss, savor those lips, drag her over the bar and into his arms for hours, for all night, for night after night.

Thank God for that Popsicle stick of a bar stool. Thank God for his ability to piss women off by saying the wrong thing at the worst time.

He’d hurt her feelings, but it was all to the good.

And tomorrow he’d steer way clear. Sleep in late and zip out early—play some basketball, visit Heather, his singer friend, maybe drop by Jasmine’s for more blackjack with Sabrina. No way was he hanging around the house to be tempted by the mouth he’d just tasted—those lips, slippery and fleshy, had melded with his like a missing part of his face. He wished he’d cupped her cheek, checked out the rest of her skin, pulled her close enough to run his thumbs over those nipple buds.

Forget it. He’d done the right thing. She’d given up fast, gotten hurt in a flash. Which proved how vulnerable she was. And made him certain she’d turn sex into a big, friggin’ deal. He was decent at the deed, judging from his partners’ reactions. He paid attention, mainly, and he knew how to hold back. Ladies first and all that. But the women he slept with were in it for the sex. Period. Heidi’s heart was as tender as her lips had been, he was sure. She’d want more. Much more.

He finished his drink and took hers into the kitchen to dump. Once there, he noticed that goofy tree she’d brought. It looked a little wilted, so he poured her JD into it. Was whiskey too harsh for the roots? He dumped some water in to flush away the liquor. That damn tree was the only thing the woman owned. The last thing he wanted to do was kill it.

SHE LOOKED LIKE A HOOKER, Heidi concluded, checking herself out in the bathroom mirror on Monday morning. She wore the closest to a normal outfit she could make from the clothes in the closet and the ones Jackson had brought her—a shimmering white, see-through blouse over a red, spaghetti-strapped tank top and a pair of zebra-stripped clam diggers that almost cut off her circulation. Everything else was cropped, skin-tight or ultrashort.

The earth shoes she’d worn to drive up here were too casual, so she’d chosen a pair of sky-high platform wedgies in a tiger stripe from the closet.

At the best, she looked, well, festive.

She checked her watch. Just enough time to eat breakfast before catching the bus that would get her to the salon by nine.

She hadn’t seen Jackson at all on Sunday. This relieved and mortified her. He was avoiding her. What did he think she was going to do? Force her tiny breasts into his hands?

After her Sunday morning shower, she’d walked to a nearby apartment complex to check out availability and price. By the time she’d returned, Jackson had gone, leaving a steamed-up shower smelling of bay rum, a cereal bowl in the sink, and some heavy metal playing on the stereo. He’d obviously been listening for her to go and leaped into action.

So embarrassing. All because of the Tiki Town incident. Now she felt like an unwelcome interloper.

Living here was strangely intimate, even with Jackson gone all the time. It was like a relationship without the closeness. Her bathroom served as the main bath, since the pressure was low in the master bath, so Jackson’s toiletries were there and she’d had to use his comb, deodorant, shaving cream and one of his disposable razors. It was all so very personal.

Now she ate a bowl of Jackson’s corn flakes, rinsed the dish, then watered her ficus for luck. If things went well, she would not only have more hours at the salon, but a possible place to stay that got her out of the awkward position of being in Jackson’s debt, inconveniencing him and lusting after him all at the same time.

The beer-maid clock told her she had just enough time to make it to the bus stop, so she tiptoed out, locked the door and slipped Jackson’s spare key into what passed for a purse—a leopard-spotted nightclub clutch with a rhinestone clasp. It held a pencil and a small tablet for notes and her phone, along with twenty dollars, including change for the bus, which Jackson had thoughtfully left for her last night. The only things that actually belonged to her were her cell phone, her watch, the small gold hoops in her ears, and the bra and panties she’d arrived in.

From the porch, she surveyed the house where the guys who’d stolen her car might live. She had the urge to march over there, bang on the door and demand info, but that wouldn’t be wise. She would call the detective in charge of her case later today to see if he had any news.

Besides, maybe it was a good thing that she was nearly naked in her new world. This would be a test of her resolve to make it on her own in the city.

Throwing back her shoulders, she took a deep breath and started down the stairs, determined to make the best of the situation. This was an adventure, a new experience. Sure, the thrill she’d felt when she pulled up on Saturday was gone, but at least she’d gotten past the horror of running up and down the sidewalk looking for her stolen car. She set off at a strong march, but the stiltlike shoes turned it into a clump-clump. Oh, well. It was the thought that counted.

The first morning of the rest of her life looked to be a warm one. Already heat burned her scalp and blasted her from the sidewalk and it was barely eight o’clock. Still, with her hopes high, the sun felt warmly encouraging, not hotly brutal, and she clumped downhill to the bus stop and her second fresh start.

Three hours later, Heidi descended from the bus and limped toward the town house, painfully aware that the return trip was an uphill climb. She paused to remove the shoe with the worst blisters on her big toe and heel. Getting off the bus, she’d twisted an ankle, which hurt, too. Damn those platforms.

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