“You know why I came here tonight, Zach?”

Jen leaned against the brick wall, her face in shadows.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.” She grabbed his shoulders, pulling him close. “I came here because I want you.”

Zach skimmed his gaze over her body, taking in the tight top and skimpy skirt. “You didn’t have to dress like this to convince me to be with you.” He smoothed his hand down her side, feeling the ridges of her ribs beneath the satin.

A half smile formed on her lips as she dragged the tip of her finger down his throat. “You don’t like the way I look?”

He dropped his gaze to the shadowed valley between her breasts. “Oh, I like it all right.” He covered her breasts with his hands and squeezed gently. “I was dying in there, watching all those men watching you. Wanting you.” He bent and kissed her neck, her flesh silken beneath his tongue.

“Do you want me, Zach?”

“You know I do.”

“Then show me.”

Dear Reader,

Inside every “good girl” is a bit of a bad girl waiting to cut loose. A lifelong good girl myself, I’ll admit to having my own “bad” side. And the older I’ve gotten, the easier it’s been to let my bad side show—speaking up for myself, putting my own needs ahead of others’ expectations and finding out what really makes me happy.

Those of us who love bad boys know that there’s a lot of good behind their tough exteriors. All it takes is patience and understanding for them to let their good sides show.

I received such positive reader response to Syd, a character in Just 4 Play, Blaze #82, that I wanted to write a story about a similar leather-wearing, motorcycle-riding bad boy. When Zach began to take shape, I knew I’d found the perfect edgy but vulnerable guy to write about. And who better to pair him with than a good girl trying to discover her wilder side?

As always, Jen and Zach had a few surprises for me in the course of the story. I hope you’ll enjoy reading about their relationship as much as I enjoyed writing it.

I love to hear from readers. Visit my Web site at www.CindiMyers.com, e-mail me at Cindi@cindimyers.com or write me at P.O. Box 991, Bailey, CO 80421.

Cindi Myers

Good, Bad…Better
Cindi Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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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

Epilogue

1

THE TIME COMES IN EVERY woman’s life when she needs to shake things up a bit. This thought ran through Jennifer Truitt’s mind as she parked her VW Bug across from Austin Body Art on a Tuesday afternoon in late June. She stared up at the neon sign advertising Tattoos, Piercings and Custom Body Art and told herself her heart was only racing because she was excited, not because she was afraid.

She’d been doing what other people expected of her for years. Time to surprise them with the unexpected. She was twenty-three years old, ready for adventure, romance and excitement. A tattoo parlor seemed like a good place to start.

Taking a deep breath, she got out of the car and crossed the street. A string of temple bells sounded when she opened the door, and the man behind the counter looked up. “Hello.”

“Uh, hello.” She swallowed hard and tried not to stare at him. But he was the kind of man who commanded attention. His black leather vest fit closely about his torso, emphasizing his muscular arms and chest, which were decorated with intricate tattoos: tribal bands around both biceps, an eagle feather on one forearm and others she couldn’t make out.

Forcing her gaze up, she saw jet-black hair, worn in a single braid. The black sheen of his hair and eyebrows contrasted sharply with his pale skin. His black eyes seemed to look right through her. “Can I help you?” he asked in a voice that sounded like velvet over gravel.

A flush heated her face when she realized she’d been staring. She tried to moisten her dry mouth. “I—I’d like a tattoo,” she stammered.

“You would?” He came out from behind the counter, the heels of his boots echoing on the polished tile floor. His pants were leather, too, encasing long, muscular legs. A silver concha belt hung low about his hips. The heat from her face spread through the rest of her body as his gaze assessed her. If testosterone were a weapon, this man would be labeled “armed and dangerous.”

“What kind of tattoo?” he asked.

“Um, I’m not exactly sure.” She’d changed her mind about what she wanted at least a dozen times in the past few years. Now that she’d finally worked up the nerve to do the deed, she still couldn’t decide on a particular design. She sought inspiration in the samples posted on the walls, but nothing before her was what she’d expected. Instead of eagles, snakes and hearts, the display featured highly stylized sketches of animals, flowers and tribal symbols, reminiscent of the modern art she’d seen the last time her father had dragged her to the Kimball Museum in Fort Worth. On closer inspection, she spotted a section of the wall devoted to copies of famous artworks, from Andy Warhol’s soup cans to Munch’s The Scream.

“Wow, these are really amazing.” She turned to him. “Do you draw the designs yourself or do you, like, order them from a catalog?”

“No, I don’t order them from a catalog.” His expression was guarded as he took a step toward her. She could smell him now: leather and sandalwood soap and the sharp tang of ink. Exotic and masculine and definitely sexy. “Ever had a tat before?” he asked.

She shook her head, turning to study the designs on the walls once more. He hadn’t exactly answered her question, had he? “This is my first.” She winced at the words. They made her sound so innocent. And the whole point of this exercise was to declare to the world just how innocent she wasn’t.

He crossed his arms over his chest, giving her a too-close-for-comfort view of sharply defined muscles. Her knees felt wobbly. Honestly, she silently chided herself. You’d think you’d never been around a good-looking guy before. But it wasn’t the man’s looks that stirred her so much as his attitude. One look at him and you knew he wasn’t someone who let anyone push him around. Whereas, people saw her and just assumed she would be nice and go along with whatever they wanted. Because, obviously, she was a good girl.

She gritted her teeth and straightened her shoulders. Those days were behind her. From now on, she was going to do what she wanted, be her own woman. And this tattoo would be a kind of declaration of independence. “I want something right here.” She pointed to her left breast, to where the neckline of her tank top dipped down. No way would people miss it if she put it there.

His eyes zeroed in on the place she was pointing to. She felt her nipples contract in the heat of his gaze. “Why do you want one?”

“Because I like them?” Her voice rose at the end of the sentence, betraying her doubt.

He shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

“Because I think it would look good?”

He stepped closer, and bent to look into her eyes, his face only inches from her own. “Have you been drinking?”

She shook her head. “N-no.”

“I don’t work on drunks. It’s stupid to make a decision about something permanent when you’re drunk. And besides, it messes up the tat.”

She leaned back, trying to stand straight though she felt like melting at this guy’s feet. “I don’t drink.”

He quirked one eyebrow. “Ever?”

She shook her head. “I don’t like the taste of beer or liquor, and wine gives me an asthma attack.” It was the truth, but it sounded so pathetic.

Thankfully, he didn’t make any snide comments. He just continued to watch her with those intense black eyes. “So what’s the real reason you’re here?”

The real reason? Talk about a question with no simple answer. She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “I really do like tattoos and I really have wanted one for a long time.”

He frowned. “So you just woke up this morning and decided today’s the day.”

She lifted her chin. “Something like that.” The argument she’d had last night with her father might have had a little to do with her decision. But, really, all that had done was make her see she’d been living the way others expected her to live—instead of doing what she really wanted—for too long. “You can’t change my mind, so don’t try.” She walked over to what looked like a red leather dentist’s chair and sat down.

He came and stood over her, his shadow falling across her face. “How old are you?”

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Old enough to know what I want.”

For the first time since she’d entered the shop, the corners of his mouth angled up in a smile. “You probably knew that as soon as you could talk.”

He had a nice mouth, with full, sensuous lips…. She jerked her gaze away from him. What was going on with her today?

He sat on a low stool and rolled it toward her. “How old are you?” he asked again.

“I’m twenty-three.”

He nodded. “You still haven’t told me what you want for your tattoo.”

“Something feminine. How about a butterfly?”

He made a face. “Cliché. I don’t do cliché.”

“Then what do you do?” Up close, she could see his own tattoos better, the designs intricate and detailed, vivid against his pale skin.

“You saw the sign. Body art. What I do is art.”

So he was the artist. The passion with which he spoke intrigued her. “What do you suggest I do?”

He studied her a moment, his gaze surveying her body from the scuffed toes of her tennis shoes, up the length of her legs, over her loose terry shorts, across her stomach and breasts, coming to rest on her face once more. She forced herself to sit still, though she wanted to fidget or turn away. What did he see that interested him so?

He leaned back behind him and picked up a pad of paper and a pen from a worktable. With a few quick strokes, he sketched something, then turned the pad to face her. “Something like this.”

She recognized a stylized calla lily, the stem ending in a flourish. It was feminine and beautiful and unusual. Her eyes met his. “Why a calla lily?”

“It suits you. You have that look of innocence, but underneath, there’s a highly sensual quality.”

She swallowed hard. He saw all that when he looked at her? Was he psychic, or merely very perceptive? “I like it,” she said.

He turned back to the worktable. “All right. Let’s take care of the paperwork and we’ll get started.”

She completed the information form and signed the release, aware of his gaze fixed on her as she wrote. Did he subject all his clients to such scrutiny, or was there something about her in particular that drew his eye? She might have been flattered, except that he didn’t look too happy about whatever it was he saw in her.

She handed him the paperwork and pen. “What now?”

“Pull down your shirt and we’ll get started.”

She tugged her shirt lower, past the top of her bra. He turned around and began to clean the area. “You have pale skin, so the color will show up nicely, but you need to wear sunscreen over it to keep the color from fading.”

“Okay.” His arm brushed against her breast and her nipples went on red alert. She’d thought getting a tattoo would be a lot of things—exciting, frightening, painful—but erotic was not one of them.

He tucked a disposable towel over her shirt and bra, then laid another damp towel across the spot where the tattoo would go. He pulled a rolling, stainless-steel table closer and began laying out equipment—packets of needles, wipes and ointment. Then he set out a row of small plastic cups and began filling them from larger ink bottles.

She swallowed hard. “Will this hurt?”

He shrugged. “Everybody is different. People have compared it to being scratched by a cat or stung by ants. The needles move very fast, and your body gets used to it pretty quickly.”

He removed the damp towel he’d placed on her skin and sketched in the lily with a ballpoint pen. “How’s that?”

She looked down and studied the pale blue lines. The design looked as graceful on her as it had on paper. She nodded. “It looks good.”

“It’ll look even better when I’m done.” He picked up an instrument that looked like a cross between a small nail gun and a drill, and began wrapping it in clear plastic. When he attached the needle, she looked away.

“Are you ready?”

Was she ready for big changes in her life? Goodbye, compliant good girl—hello, woman in charge of her own future. Excitement fizzed through her at the thought. She nodded and took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

He leaned toward her, his head so close she could see the dark shadow of his beard beneath his skin. His arm rested against hers and the scent of him washed over her.

“Nice bra.” With one finger, he nudged the white lace half an inch lower. Heat simmered through her and she bit her lip to hold back a moan. “Very virginal.”

She flushed. “I am not a virgin.”

His eyes met hers briefly, then he looked away. “Hey, I didn’t say it was a bad thing, did I?”

“Of course not. Virginity is certainly an acceptable lifestyle choice.” Aaargh! She sounded like a lecture from high school health class. She tried again. “But I’m not one. A virgin, that is.” Well, not quite, anyway. She wouldn’t call her few attempts at sex particularly rewarding. Most men were so intimidated by her father they wouldn’t come near her. The few hasty encounters in cars or dorm rooms had been less than the earth-shattering awakening she’d imagined. The issues of Cosmo she’d read had made sex sound so much more…enjoyable.

Her eyes widened as the tattoo machine touched her flesh. The first jolt stole her breath, but after that it wasn’t as bad as she’d feared.

She’d intended to close her eyes and try to zone out, but she couldn’t stop watching him. He had beautiful hands, long fingers encased in sheer latex gloves. One hand guided the machine while the other held her shirt and bra out of the way, reaching up occasionally to blot the beginning tattoo with sterile gauze. He shifted, and the heel of his hand rested against her breast, his wrist brushing her nipple. She gasped, hot dampness gathering between her thighs.

His eyes met hers, the heat of the look pinning her to the chair. He shut off the machine and backed away. “I’d better let Theresa do this.”

Before she could speak, he stood and stripped off his gloves, then disappeared through a beaded curtain into a back room. A moment later, he emerged with a woman. She had black hair, like his, but hers was worn loose, hanging almost to her waist. She wore tight jeans, high-heeled boots and an inlaid leather halter top. A tattoo of a snarling tiger adorned one shoulder, while a Celtic knot nestled in the cleavage of her ample breasts. “This is Theresa,” he said. “She’ll finish you up.”

Theresa took her place on the stool and picked up the machine while the man walked over to the front counter.

“What’s with your boyfriend?” Jen asked, keeping her voice low.

“Zach? He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my brother.” They both turned to look at him. He was seated behind the counter now, hunched over a sketchbook, blatantly ignoring them. Theresa looked back at Jen. “What did you say to him?”

“I—I didn’t say anything.”

Theresa grinned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d shaken him up.”

“What do you mean?” If anything, she was the one shaken here. Her heart was still racing with the memory of his touch.

“He doesn’t usually go for the innocent type, but who knows?” She started the machine again. “Okay, take a deep breath and relax.”

For some reason, it hurt more this time. Maybe because she didn’t have Zach’s closeness to distract her. She turned to look at him again, trying to ignore the pain. He was still bent over his sketchpad, shoulders tensed. She had a feeling he was aware of everything that was going on in her corner of the shop. Was it possible Zach was as attracted to her as she was to him?

Come on! A sex god like him could have anyone he wanted. Why would he pay attention to a plain-vanilla “good” girl like her?

She looked away from him, at Theresa. “That’s a gorgeous top you have on,” she said. The black leather was inlaid with designs of vines and flowers in tan and dark brown.

“Thanks. It’s from a shop over in Lakeway. The woman who owns the place has some amazing things. Clothes and jewelry. I can give you her card if you’re interested.”

“Oh, thanks. But I could never wear something like that.”

“Why not?” Theresa’s eyes, black like her brother’s, bored into Jen, challenging her.

She felt like squirming, but didn’t dare for fear of messing up the tat. “I guess I’ve always dressed a little more conservatively.” But why? Because it was easier to do what was expected than to give in to the little voice inside of her that said wearing leather might be a real kick? She smiled. “But I will take the card. Maybe I’ll find something there I can’t resist.”

“Zach, dig out one of Sandra’s cards for me, okay?” she called across the room.

Zach responded with a grunt, and began rummaging through a drawer beneath the cash register. Jen took the opportunity to study him some more. His tough-guy image didn’t mesh with the sensitive artist who had produced the beautiful work that filled the shop walls. There was definitely a lot more to Zach than his leather and tattoos implied. The idea intrigued her.

And there was his perceptive assessment of her. He’d said she looked innocent, but had a highly sensual quality. Could it be that, maybe for the first time ever, someone had looked past her “good girl” image and seen the real woman who was trying to assert herself? A bubble of hope swelled in her chest. If Zach could see that in her, maybe she could find a way to make others see it, as well.

ZACH JACOBS DIDN’T NEED some gorgeous innocent messing with his head. For one thing, she absolutely wasn’t his type. He went for busty, brazen women who could give as good as they got, not some delicate, timid girl who looked as if a strong wind might carry her away.

Not that she was exactly timid. She looked that way at first, mainly because she was so small, with all that blond hair falling around her shoulders like an angel in a Botticelli painting. But when you really paid attention, you could see the fire in her eyes, hear it in her voice.

That was what got to him most—not her looks, but that fire. That…wanting.

Her response to him had been so obvious. Where some women tried to be coy, her desire was out there in the open. And his own reaction had surprised him in its intensity. When he’d brushed against her nipple, an electric shock had passed through him. His hand had started shaking so badly he knew he’d mess up the tat if he’d tried to finish.

He’d responded not just to her body, but to her obvious need. Talk about ready to explode….

He took a deep breath and tried to focus on the sketchpad in front of him. But he was too aware of her, only steps across the room. Through slitted eyes, he let himself take a longer look. Theresa had pulled the shirt down even farther, and the curve of the woman’s breast swelled above the white lace of the bra, which itself barely covered her nipple. His groin tightened as he thought of running his tongue along that satin skin, flicking it across that taut peak….

She winced, and he winced for her. “Take a deep breath,” he said. “Pick out something in the room to look at and focus all your attention on that. It’ll take your mind off the pain.”

Most people chose to look at one of the flashes on the wall, but she turned her eyes to him. He wanted to look away, but couldn’t. She had unusual eyes, gray and slightly almond shaped, luminous against her pale skin and hair. “Tell me about your art,” she said.

He gave her the general spiel he’d uttered hundreds of times before. “Tattooing has been around since ancient Egypt. People decorated their bodies with images for religious, ethnic or simply aesthetic reasons. At times, it’s been considered a rite of passage, or something that marked you as part of a particular group. Sailors and travelers brought the idea of tattooing to Europe and America from the East. Today, it’s as much a matter of fashion as anything, though for some it’s still a sign of rebellion.” His eyes met hers. Was she rebelling against something? Or someone? What was going on in that gorgeous head of hers? “We specialize in custom designs,” he concluded. “We can do just about anything a customer wants.”

“You’re obviously very talented. Some of your work reminds me of Alex Katz.”

Her mention of the New York artist surprised him. “You’re familiar with Katz?”

“Not especially, but my father has some of his work. He collects modern art.” She flinched again as Theresa began work in a new area of the tat.

“Breathe deep,” he reminded her.

She nodded and did so. “Why did you decide to become a tattoo artist and not a painter or maybe a commercial artist?” she asked when she’d regained her composure.

As if etching a design on flesh didn’t take as much—or more—talent as rendering it on paper or in a computer file. “I prefer the human body to more traditional canvases.” It was a stock answer, but not entirely true. “I like to play by my own rules,” he added. “Doing tats lets me do that.”

Her gaze flickered over him, taking in the long hair, the leather. Some women really got off on the whole rebel image; maybe she was one of them. Just like some dudes really went for the innocent-virgin type. But he wasn’t one of them. At least, not before now.

“I imagine you meet some interesting people in this line of work.”

“Uh-huh.” Bikers and college students made up the majority of his clientele, but he got his fair share of businessmen and even the occasional bored housewife. Then there were ones like her, who were harder to classify. “What do you do?”

“I’m a dancer.”

Surprise jolted him. Exotic dancers were also frequent customers, but she didn’t look the type. He took in her trim figure and killer legs, and hazarded a guess. “Since when do ballerinas get tats?”

She smiled and looked pleased. “I do some ballet, but mostly modern dance. Jazz. Hip-hop. Even Latin dance.”

He thought of her dancer’s body. Fluid and graceful. Flexible and strong. The kind of body a man could get lost in….

Don’t go there, Zach. “You must be pretty good if you make a living at it.”

“Right now, I teach at the Austin Academy of Dance. But I have a chance at getting on with a dance company in Chicago. They’re doing a new stage production that combines hip-hop and jazz dance with urban and pop music. Sort of Riverdance meets Stomp. It’s called Razzin’!” Her eyes took on a new light as she spoke, like a student anticipating recess. “They don’t take very many new dancers each year, so to get on with them would really make my career.”

“What do you have to do? Try out, or something?”

“I’ve already had a tryout. Now I have to make it through a three-month internship in Chicago. If I do a good job with that, I can be accepted as an official member of the company.”

It figured she was moving away. Further proof he wasn’t meant to have anything to do with a chick like her. “So is this tat a way of psyching yourself up to ace the internship?”

Little worry lines creased her perfect brow. “Something like that. I’m not worried so much about the internship as getting to Chicago in the first place. My father doesn’t want me to go. In fact, he’s forbidden it.”

The art-collecting father was apparently a bit over-protective. “But you’re twenty-three and can do what you want, right?”

She nodded, though not with any assurance. “I can, but I’d really rather leave home on good terms.”

“Maybe your old man will change his mind.”

“I don’t know. He can be pretty stubborn. And he thinks by saying no he’s protecting me.” She tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. “It’s my own fault, really. I’ve always lived at home. I’ve let him take care of me. I figure it’s time I stepped out on my own and did what I wanted for a change.”

“Like getting a tattoo.”

She smiled. “Yeah. I guess I just wanted to make a statement, you know?”

“Well this ought to do it.” Theresa shut off the tattoo machine and leaned back to study her work. She gave a satisfied smile and nodded. “Looks good.” She cleaned the new tattoo and applied ointment, then plucked a dressing from a sterile container on the cart. “When you get home, take this dressing off and follow the instructions I’m going to give you. How good this looks depends on the care you give it now.” She taped the dressing in place, then stood. “How do you feel?”

The blonde cautiously rolled her shoulders. “Okay.” She stood. “Thank you.”

“No swimming for two weeks. If you see any kind of blistering or unusual swelling, see a doctor. It’s rare, but sometimes people are allergic to the ink.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She reached for her purse. “What do I owe you?”

Theresa’s smile broadened. “Oh, you can pay Zach over there.” She nodded toward the counter.

He shot Theresa a go-to-hell look, but her smile only broadened. That was the problem with working with your kid sister—you couldn’t intimidate her for anything.

The blonde made her way over to him, carefully avoiding his gaze, which let him know she was definitely aware of him. The way he was aware of her. “You doing okay?” he asked when she stopped in front of him. She looked pale.

She nodded and handed him a credit card. He took it, careful not to let his fingers brush hers. He didn’t want to risk the kind of reaction he’d had last time they’d made contact.

He wrote up a ticket and slid the card through the reader, then glanced at it before handing it back to her. Jennifer Truitt.

Did she go by Jennifer or Jenny or Jen? Then the last name registered in his brain. He stared at her. “Who did you say your father was?”

She stiffened. “I didn’t.”

He leaned toward her. “Who is he?”

She flushed and stared down at the countertop. “Grant Truitt.”

“As in, Police Chief Grant Truitt?”

She nodded.

He gripped the edge of the counter and groaned.

“What’s wrong?” She looked alarmed.

He could hardly speak around the knot of anger in his throat. “Your father is the police chief and I’m betting he doesn’t want you here.”

She stuck her chin in the air. On anyone else, the gesture might have looked fierce. She looked like a girl facing down a firing squad. “I’m old enough to do as I please. Besides, he doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Right. And you think he won’t find out?” Just what Zach needed—another excuse for the cops to hassle him and his customers.

“What’s wrong?” She leaned toward him, her fingers almost—but not quite—touching his wrist.

“Congratulations,” he said, turning to her. “You’ve just given your old man one more reason to hate me.”

2

ZACH FELT A MEASURE OF relief at the blatant confusion in her eyes. At least he could be fairly sure she wasn’t part of some plot to trick him into giving the cops a reason to shut him down. Grant Truitt was buddies with the mayor. Between the two of them, they were delivering on a campaign pledge to rid Austin’s Sixth Street entertainment district of any business the mayor deemed “not friendly to families.” He’d specifically mentioned Austin Body Art as the kind of place he’d like to see closed down.

Never mind that the majority of citizens cared more about getting potholes patched than whether or not the tattoo parlors and “gentlemen’s clubs” were run out of business. The mayor and the police chief had zealously harassed anyone and everyone who didn’t fit their definition of a respectable businessman.

“What do you mean, my father hates you?” she asked. “He doesn’t even know you.”

“Oh, we’ve met. Right after the election, he and the mayor made a point of stopping by here, with the press in tow, to point out that I’m the type of person they wanted to run out of town so they could make everything squeaky-clean and bland.” That little publicity stunt hadn’t gone over well, ending with Zach threatening to throw both of them out of the shop. Though he hadn’t seen Grant Truitt in person since, he was sure the police chief hadn’t forgotten him.

Zach had dealt with a barrage of health, fire and building inspectors looking for violations, and nosy cops who had accused him of everything from selling dope to working on underage kids. When they couldn’t find anything to pin on him, they’d laid off him for a while. Having the chief’s daughter added to the mix was just what he needed to stir things up again.

“Why would my father hate you?” Jennifer asked.

“Why does the sun shine? Play-by-the-rules pricks like him can’t stand people like me who don’t color in the lines.”

She looked thoughtful. “I guess you’re not the type of person my father approves of. I’m sorry.”

The words sent an uncomfortable quiver through his stomach. As though she really was sorry, not mouthing words. “Oh, hell, it’s not your fault.”

“Thank you…Zach.” She smiled, a shy, sweet look that made him want to reach across the counter and pull her down behind it. Who would have thought sweetness and light would be such a turn-on?

She signed the charge slip and left, pausing at the door to lift her hand in a wave. Before he realized what he was doing, he waved back. By the time he jerked his hand down, she was gone.

Theresa’s laughter was loud in the sudden silence. “I can’t believe this! She got to you, didn’t she?”

He opened the cash drawer and shoved the charge slip beneath the stacks of bills and checks. “Miss Mary Sunshine? As if.” He shook his head, though he avoided looking at his sister. She could always tell when he was lying.

“Maybe that’s exactly what shook you up.” She busied herself disassembling the tattoo machine and disposing of the needles into the red plastic biohazard container. “She’s very pretty.”

“Yeah, if you like white bread and sugar.”

“I don’t know.” When he glanced up, Theresa had her head tilted to one side, studying him. “I think there’s more to her than that.”

He shook his head. “You’re imagining things.”

“You mean you aren’t interested in seeing her again?”

He gave her a dark look. “If I never see Grant Truitt’s daughter again, I’ll die a happy man.” Maybe that wasn’t exactly true, but close enough. He didn’t need the kind of trouble a woman like Jennifer Truitt could bring into his life.

THOUGH SHE LIVED AT HOME, Jen tried to retain as much independence as possible. With her hectic practice schedule and her teaching job, she often went days without having a real conversation with her parents. But that evening she made it a point to stop by the living room and visit with them.

“Hey, Mama. Daddy.” She kissed her father on the cheek, then settled on the sofa next to her mother and pretended to study the abstract painting of swirls of gray and blue that hung over her father’s chair. He was quite proud of this newest acquisition, painted by some up-and-coming new artist. What would he think of Zach’s work? she wondered.

“Hello, Jennifer. To what do we owe—” Her father looked up from his paper, and his mouth dropped open as he stared at the tattoo peeking above the neckline of her dance leotard.

“What is it, dear?” Her mother frowned at her father.

“Exactly what I want to know.” He stood and crossed the room, looming over Jen.

She set her jaw and forced herself to meet his gaze. “It’s a calla lily.” She thought again of what Zach had said about the flower, and about her—innocent, yet sensuous—and felt a flush of pleasure.

“It’s a tattoo!” Her father spat the word like a curse. “Who did that to you?”

She’d expected him to be annoyed, but the strength of his anger surprised her. Honestly, did he think someone had attacked her and forced her to do this? “I paid to have it done.”

“Where?” he demanded.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I just decided to do it, and did it.”

“I don’t know,” her mother said. “Aren’t you afraid you might catch some disease?”

“Your mother’s right. Some of those places are filthy and—”

“This was a very clean place. I’ve been in doctors’ offices that weren’t as clean as this place.”

“Tell me the name and I’ll check the health department records.”

She didn’t want to tell him, but if he pushed, he could probably find out anyway. “It’s called Austin Body Art. And I checked—it has a great reputation.”

His normally ruddy complexion darkened to the shade of an old bruise. “That’s Zach Jacobs’s place.” He looked at the tattoo again, like someone studying a mortal wound. “He did this?”

She clenched her hands in her lap, struggling not to fidget beneath his angry glare. “Actually, his sister Theresa did the tattoo, but the artwork is Zach’s.”

“So you’re on a first-name basis? You stay away from that thug.”

Honestly, if her father could only see how ridiculous he looked, making this kind of a fuss. The thought gave her courage, and she sat up straighter. “He’s not a thug. He’s an artist.”

“How do you know so much about him? Have you been seeing him before now? Is that why you suddenly decided to do something so totally out of character for you?”

“Maybe this is in character for me. More so than anything I’ve done in years.”

“I don’t believe it. It has to be Jacobs’s doing.” He turned and stalked back to his chair. “I know him and his kind. They do everything they can to flout authority.”

“Zach isn’t flouting authority.” Unless you called having long hair and dressing in leather “flouting authority.” Which her father probably would. Still, despite his appearance, Zach hadn’t looked like a hardened criminal. “He even has a No Smoking sign in his shop.”

“That sign is required by city ordinance. You stay away from him.”

She blew out a sharp breath. “I can’t believe you’re getting this upset over a tattoo.”

“It looks ridiculous!” he said. “How many dancers do you see in pink leotards and tattoos?”

She looked down at her own rose-colored leotard. Okay, so maybe it didn’t have the same cachet as a leather vest. But her new tat would look right at home with the hip-hop threads she’d be wearing as a member of Razzin’!. “Maybe I’ll buy a new wardrobe to go with the tattoo,” she said.

“I suppose the next thing I know, you’ll come in dressed like one of those half-naked pop stars I see on TV.”

“What difference does it make to you how I dress?”

Her mother stepped between them as they glared at each other. “Both of you need to calm down.” She looked at her husband. “You know Jen’s always been very responsible.” Then she patted Jen’s shoulder. “And you know your father’s only looking out for your best interests.”

That was the argument he always used to justify his interference in her life. And always before, she’d let him get away with it. But too much was at stake to give in this time. “I know you both want the best for me,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “But I have to start making my own decisions for my life—who my friends are, where I’ll live and work.”

Her father sat back in his chair, like an emperor on a throne, frown lines making a deep V in his forehead. “If this is about your moving to Chicago, we’ve already had this discussion. There is no way you’re going off to live alone halfway across the country, and that’s final.” He picked up his paper and shook it open, a signal the argument had ended.

“Why do you say that? This is the chance of a lifetime for me.” She leaned forward, fists clenched. Hadn’t they already been through this a hundred times? Why couldn’t he understand? “This is a dance company respected all over the world, and Razzin’! is already a tremendous hit.”

He laid aside his paper once more. “There’s nothing wrong with staying here and working with the Austin dance group. With your talent, you’ll have plenty of opportunities there.”

Obviously, he wasn’t listening to her. She turned to her mother, whom she could usually count on to get through to her dad. “Mom, you see that this is a fantastic opportunity for me, don’t you?”

Worry lines creased her mother’s brow. “It’s hard to think of you going off on your own to a dangerous city,” she said.

The way her mother talked, you’d think Jen was going to the moon. “How is Chicago any more dangerous than Austin? This isn’t some small town with no crime.”

“Chicago is a bigger city with more crime,” her father said. “And you’ll have no one to look after you there.”

Meaning he wouldn’t be there. “I’m not stupid,” she said. “I’m not going to cruise bad neighborhoods at night or put myself in harm’s way.”

“Of course you’re not stupid.” He looked offended by the very idea. “But you’re naive. You’ve led a very sheltered life.” His expression softened. “That’s my fault, I know. I’ll admit I preferred it that way.”

“If you really want the best for me, you’ll give me your blessing to go to Chicago. I’ll never have another chance like this.”

He shook his head. “I can’t do that. You don’t know the first thing about making it on your own. You’ve never rented an apartment or had to deal with your car leaving you stranded or been sick with no one to look after you. You can’t even imagine all the things that can happen to a woman by herself.”

He made her sound like a child who couldn’t find her way in out of the rain. Obviously, he saw her that way because she’d let him. All those years of doing whatever he’d wanted her to do had led him to believe she was helpless. She was paying for her complacency now. “I can learn those things,” she said. “I can make it on my own.”

Once more he looked offended. “Why should you have to, as long as I’m here?” He nodded. “I intend to make sure you remain safe.”

“I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.” What had happened to the indulgent, loving father who had always given her whatever she’d wanted?

But that was when she’d been the sweet, good girl who never made waves. “I’m going to Chicago,” she said, her voice firm.

“No, you’re not.” His expression was equally rigid.

“I don’t see how you can stop me.”

“I have friends in Chicago. They can use their influence to persuade the dance company to send you home.”

At first, she was sure she hadn’t heard him right. “You wouldn’t do anything so cruel.”

“I would do whatever I had to do to protect you.” Though his jaw remained set, the expression in his eyes softened a little. “Tough love is one of the hardest parts of being a parent. But you’ll see I’m right one day.”

She shook her head, too stunned to speak. “No, you’re wrong this time.” She ran from the room and up the stairs. She heard him calling after her, but she ignored him. Nothing he could say right now would ease the hurt she felt.

She sank onto the bed in her room, the same room where she’d spent most of her life. She’d thought about getting a place of her own many times, but her schedule didn’t leave a lot of free time for apartment hunting, and the salary she brought in wouldn’t allow her to rent anything very nice. It had seemed easier to stay at home.

Just like it had seemed easier to go along with her father’s wishes all these years. Until now.

She couldn’t live like this anymore. She gently touched the calla lily tattoo, her first sign of rebellion. Who would have thought her father would have such a fit over such a little thing? And the move to Chicago? Apparently, she wasn’t the only one with hidden feelings.

She slid off the bed and went to her computer and switched it on. Obviously, her father thought if he put up a big enough fuss, she’d back down and stay home like the good girl she’d always been. But she couldn’t do that this time. She couldn’t give up her dream job to keep the peace at home.

And in her heart she couldn’t believe he would keep her from that dream. When she showed him how serious she was about this, and that she could look out for herself, he’d come around. It might take some doing, but she was as stubborn as he was.

When the computer had booted up, she opened her word-processing program and typed in the address of the Chicago Institute of Dance. “Dear Sirs,” she began. “I am pleased and excited to accept the opportunity of an internship with Razzin’! I look forward to seeing you on September 1.”

She glanced at the calendar over her desk. The first of September was a little over two months away. Two months to make her dad see things from her point of view. Two months to put aside the complacent good girl and find out just how strong she really was.

Her letter written, she was carefully applying ointment to her new tattoo, per the printed instructions Theresa had given her, when her phone rang. She wiped her hands on a tissue and answered it. “Hey, Jen, can you talk?”

Her best friend Shelly’s voice, rich with a Georgia accent, filled her ear. “Sure, I can talk.” She lay back against the bed pillows. “What’s up?”

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing.”

“What has Aaron done now?” Aaron Prior was Shelly’s newly licensed lawyer boyfriend and, to hear her talk, was both the chief love and the chief cause of frustration in her life.

“It’s what he hasn’t done. Don’t you think after dating someone for five years, it’s not unreasonable to expect a ring? A proposal?”

“Have you asked him about it? I mean, where he wants to go with your relationship?”

“Believe me, I’ve tried. But I hardly see him these days. He’s always working or involved in something else. He’s broken dates twice in the past month. I’m worried he’s getting tired of me.”

“No! He adores you.” Most men adored Shelly. The voluptuous redhead could charm the most reticent recluse, a talent which came in handy in her job teaching junior high school students. “I’m sure it’s just the pressure of his new job.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s found someone else. A cute secretary or paralegal. Or another lawyer.” Shelly sounded utterly bereft. “That would explain why he’s suddenly spending so much more time on the job instead of with me.”

Jen leaned over to replace the lid on the jar of ointment, then arranged herself more comfortably on the bed. “I’m sure that’s not it. You need to pin him down and ask him. If you tell him what you’re feeling, maybe he’ll cut back on his hours.”

Shelly sighed like an overwrought actress told to convey frustrated regret. “I don’t know what I’m going to do about that man. But enough about me. What’s up with you?”

“Well…I got a tattoo today.”

“What!”

Jen had to move the phone away to prevent damage to her eardrum. “I got a tattoo.”

“What of? Where? When?”

Jen laughed, imagining the expression of avid interest on her friend’s face. “It’s a calla lily. Right above my left breast. And I got it this morning.”

“Did it hurt? What was it like?”

“It hurt a little. But…it was an interesting experience.” The presence of one very sexy artist had definitely upped the interest factor. “There was this guy there….”

“Oooh. I can tell by your voice he was hot.”

She laughed. “Yeah, he was hot. His name’s Zach Jacobs and he owns the place. Well, he and his sister do. Or maybe she just works for him. I’m not sure.”

“Who cares about the sister? Tell me about him.”

How to describe Zach? “He’s sort of dark and…brooding. He’s about six-two. Long, black hair in a braid. Gorgeous black eyes. Muscles. Tattoos, but not too many. Leather.” The physical description made him sound good, but it didn’t really tell Shelly anything about him.

“He sounds positively yummy!” Shelly said.

“Yeah, well, he’s really interesting, too. He’s an incredible artist.”

“Maybe I should go see him about a tattoo.”

The thought of shameless Shelly presenting her not-inconsiderable chest for Zach’s study made Jen’s stomach clench. “His sister did the actual tattoo,” she said. “Zach was just there.”

“Uh-huh. And you and he hit it off?”

“Sort of.” What had happened with her and Zach? Nothing really. But, then again, a lot.

“Your father would hate him.”

Shelly sounded so certain of this, but Jen hadn’t seen it coming. Then again, she’d never dated much, and even then only boring, respectable guys her father couldn’t help but approve of. “He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the tattoo, that’s for sure.”

“And you thought he would be?”

“Well, he’s never said anything before about the way I dressed or wore my hair.”

Shelly laughed. “Only because you’ve always been the perfect daughter. You never gave him anything to object to.”

She winced. “It’s not like I set out to live that way. It just…happened.”

“Personally, I’m glad you decided to step out of line a little. So why did you decide to get a tattoo all of a sudden?”

“It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time. I figured, since I’m getting ready to go live in a new city and start a new job, it was a good time to try a few other new things.”

“I thought your dad wasn’t too keen on you going to Chicago.”

“He’s not.” She thought of his threat to use his influence to get her kicked out of the dance company. He wouldn’t really go that far, would he? Her stomach knotted as she remembered his words about tough love. Maybe he would. But not if she could persuade him otherwise. She glanced at the sealed letter on her dresser. She’d made a commitment now. She didn’t intend to back down. “I’m going to find a way to go. I just have to make him see what a good thing this is for me.”

“Maybe you should do something so wild your dad will be happy to see you move out of town.”

“You mean something that would embarrass him because he’s chief of police? I could never do that.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of something that would lead him to believe that getting you out of town would be the best way for him to protect you. Remember when you were ten and wanted to go to camp?”

She laughed. “I’d forgotten all about that. I was so mad when he said no, I started hanging out with that group of wild kids.”

“And the next thing we knew, your dad had signed you up to be away at camp practically the whole summer.”

She shook her head, remembering. “I was so homesick the first week away, I cried myself to sleep every night. But I wouldn’t have dared to say anything to him about it.”

“Maybe you should try the same thing now. But instead of friends, you need to find a guy who would worry him. Someone he’d do anything to get you away from.”

Jen immediately thought of Zach. One look at her with a leather-clad, long-haired tattoo artist would send her father’s blood pressure soaring. “I’m not ten years old anymore, Shelly. I couldn’t do something like that now.”

“Why not? I mean, if you’re going to be this grownup, independent woman, a fling with a hot, slightly dangerous guy seems like a good way to start. Personal freedom means sexual freedom too, right?”

“Right.” Not that she knew a lot about it, given her limited experience.

“Listen, I’ve got another call coming in. Maybe it’s Aaron. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Sure. Good luck with Aaron.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna need it.”

Jen said goodbye and laid the phone on her bedside table. She stared up at the ceiling, mulling over her options. While the idea of a fling with Zach made her heart race, she didn’t think she could pull it off. Better relegate that idea to the realm of fantasy.

But that didn’t mean she was giving up. She’d find some way to make her father see she was serious about living life on her own terms.

As soon as she figured out exactly what those terms were. She glanced again at the calla lily above her breast. The tattoo was a nice start. But her father was right—it looked out of place with her leotard. And most of the rest of her clothes weren’t cut to show it off to advantage.

Okay, then the next step was obviously a new wardrobe. She had some money saved, and charge cards. Time to buy some of the things she’d admired in stores but hadn’t had the guts to wear before. Now, what should she buy?

She remembered the leather halter Theresa had been wearing. Her new tat would look fantastic with something like that. But she’d left the tattoo shop without getting the card for the store. She smiled. “Guess I’ll have to make another trip to Austin Body Art.” She’d ask Theresa for some clothes-shopping advice. And if Zach happened to be there, maybe she could flirt with him a little. Just to see what happened next….

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON ZACH WAS FINISHING AN elaborate design on a customer’s back while another artist, Scott, worked on a college girl, when Jen returned to the shop. The sight of her silhouetted in the sunlight in the doorway set every nerve in Zach’s body on red alert. She was wearing a dancer’s leotard and tights and a short, wraparound skirt that showed off every curve and muscle of her petite body. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice gruff.

“I wanted to see Theresa.” She walked into the shop and looked around, those gray eyes flickering over him.

“She’s not here.” He forced his attention back to his work.

“When will she be back?”

“I don’t know. She went to lunch.”

“I’ll wait.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her walk past. She moved with a dancer’s grace, her back a long, elegant line. He followed her with his eyes, distracted from his work and annoyed that he would let a woman do this to him.

“Maybe I can help you with something.” Scott looked up from the transfer he’d just applied to a coed’s ankle. A young, lanky blonde, Scott fancied himself a lady-killer.

“That’s okay. But thanks.” The smile she gave Scott made Zach tighten his grip on the tattoo machine. He didn’t miss the way Scott looked at her.

“How’s the tat?” Zach asked. If she had a simple question about that, he could get rid of her quickly.

She put a hand to the tattoo. “It’s great. Theresa did a beautiful job.”

“Let me see.” His customer, a beefy kid who played tackle for the University of Texas Longhorns, grinned and motioned her over.

She walked toward them, hips swaying, and leaned over, giving them both a great view of her cleavage. Her breasts weren’t very large, but they were nice and round, with pert nipples that pressed against the thin fabric of the leotard. Zach got hard watching her, while the customer all but drooled. “That looks great,” the kid said, his eyes almost bugging out of his head.

“Hey, watch it!” The guy flinched and shot Zach an angry look.

Scott laughed and Zach glared at him and shut off the machine. “Sorry. Didn’t realize I was bearing down so hard.” It was difficult to concentrate on his work with Jen so near.

She smiled and touched the tribal band etched around the customer’s bicep. “You have some very nice tattoos, yourself.”

When she reached out to touch the guy, it took all of Zach’s self-control not to shove her hand away. As it was, the kid was puffing up like a muscle-bound toad, ogling her as if she was a particularly juicy fly.

“Did Zach do all the work?” Her gaze flickered to him again as she asked the question.

The kid nodded. “Oh, yeah. Zach is the best.”

“Yes, he is the best, isn’t he?” Her smile made him hotter than ever.

“You told me you were the best!” The coed pouted at Scott.

“I do the best butterflies,” Scott said soothingly. “Now lie back and relax.”

Zach started up the machine again and returned to etching the feathers of a highly stylized eagle. Jen leaned over to watch him. “That’s gorgeous.”

The kid grinned. “Really slick, ain’t it? People that know tats know Zach’s work. No one else does anything like this.”

“Zach is definitely a talented artist.”

He tried to ignore the flush of pride that swept over him at her words. What did he care what this ballerina—or whatever kind of dancer she was—thought? “Why do you want to see Theresa?”

She straightened. “I’m hoping she can give me some advice.”

He almost laughed. His sister as Dear Abby? Hardly. “What kind of advice?”

Jen sat in a low-slung leather chair and crossed her long legs, the poor excuse for a skirt sliding up her thighs. The customer leaned forward, his mouth gone slack. Zach squeezed the kid’s shoulder, not too gently. “Sit up straight.”

He forced his own gaze back to his work, determined not to let her get to him. “What kind of advice?” he asked again.

“I’m trying to change my image.”

“I thought the tattoo was supposed to do that.”

“It was a start, but I need to do more.”

“Didn’t shock the old man enough yet, huh?”

She sat up straighter, her cheeks flushed. Bingo. He’d read her right, then. “I’ll admit, I want my father to see me differently. But I’m doing this for me, too. Moving to Chicago is a chance for me to start over, with a new image. Reinvent myself.”

“I thought your old man wasn’t going to let you go to Chicago.”

“He’s still against it, but I’m going to change his mind.”

She sounded so determined. But Zach wouldn’t have bet against Grant Truitt. “Why not just go, and the hell with what daddy says?”

“Yeah, why not do that?” the kid chimed in.

She frowned. “Because he’s promised if I do, he’ll contact some influential friends who owe him favors and they’ll put pressure on the dance company to kick me out.”

“He’d really do that?” the customer asked. But Zach already knew the answer to that question. Grant Truitt did whatever he damn well pleased. Before the “Clean Up Sixth Street” hoopla had died down, he’d been a frequent figure on the local news, pledging to rid Austin of “less desirable” elements. If the mayor hadn’t turned his attention to the more pressing issues of budget shortfalls and his chief aide’s involvement in a minor scandal, Chief Truitt and his minions would probably still be frequent, unwelcome visitors to the neighborhood.

“My father wouldn’t see anything wrong with forcing me to stay in Austin, because he’d see it as ‘protecting’ me,” Jen explained to the kid.

“So what makes you think you can do anything to change his mind?” Zach asked.

She sat back and smoothed her hands along the arms of the chair. She had nice hands, with graceful fingers and neatly trimmed nails painted a shell pink. He wondered what those hands would feel like on him. Would she be tentative? Or more assured?

“I don’t know what I’m going to do just yet, but I’ll think of something. The important thing is that, from now on, I’m going to live my life the way I want to live it, and stop worrying so much about what he or anybody else thinks.”

“Your old man sounds like a real prick.” The kid came out of his lust-crazed stupor long enough to comment.

Zach agreed, but it didn’t seem the thing to tell a woman her father was a prick, even if he was.

“He just…gets ideas in his head and won’t let them go.” She shrugged. “I think he still sees me stuck as a ten-year-old, needing Daddy to look after me. It would be sweet if it weren’t so annoying.”

Zach thought there was nothing sweet about her father, but that was probably a matter of perspective. “I don’t see how you think my sister’s going to help you.”

She smiled again and her eyes met his, the look of determination in them was stunning in its intensity. “She looks like a woman of the world. I figure maybe she can give me some tips.”

Tips about what? he wondered. Then again, maybe he didn’t really want to know what this woman was up to.

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