Body Work (10 page)

She laughed, and slid her hand down his belly. Blood rushed, desire rose.

“I’d love to do this all over again, but . . . .” he said.

“
We’ve got to catch up to Jason before he breaks the speed limits all the way to Arizona,” she said, finishing his thought.

She propped herself on her elbows and gave him a saucy look.
“Which car do we take? Yours or mine?”

“
My truck’s ready.”

“
Yeah, but–”

“
But, yours is more fun to drive. Is that it?”

“
I told you I like good handling.”

“
That’s exactly what you’ll get.” He growled and pulled her into another kiss.

“
If we take my car we can put the seats back...”

“
Don’t even think about it. There’s absolutely no room for two in one seat, no matter how deep inside you I am.”

“
Well, okay, I guess we’ll have to use the pickup. But I get to drive.”

“
Like hell you do. My truck, I drive.”

“
Have I ever told you you’re no fun?”

She rose from the bed and headed toward the bathroom, gave him a come hither look over her shoulder.

He grinned, already hot and imagining the soapy foam and water sliding and slithering down her breasts and across her smooth belly into her curls.

The shower was better than he
’d thought, the water warmer, Lisa hotter, slicker, holding him deeper. They toweled off slowly.

“
I can already see you stretched out with your back against the passenger side door.”

“
Really?”

“
Yes, and I’ve got your legs draped over my shoulders.”

She shuddered against his chest. Her breathing changed and her voice went soft and husky.
“I can hardly wait.”

The End

For more from Bonnie Edwards
please page forward…

Love in a Pawn Shop

(A contemporary romance novel)

By

Bonnie Edwards

(Beau, this one’s for you…and dog lovers everywhere)

April 1 Seattle, WA 

Dane Caldwell ignored his better judgment at 3:45 p.m. and walked across the street into Dixon’s Pawn Shop. Like millions of others in every city in America, the shop sat in a row of storefronts with overhead apartments. Except for the signs, they were all identical. Each one had a door at the side for the apartment stairwells, and he’d bet each one also had a rear entrance to the apartment from an alley in back.

Cops liked to know where the exits were, but since he was here without backup, he’d take the most direct approach and walk in like any other customer. He was so far out of his jurisdiction he might as well be from Mars.

He’d watched the place since arriving from Philly this morning. But at 3:10 p.m. waves of school kids had begun to visit the store and he had to see for himself what drew them in. He didn’t know much about children, but a pawn shop was a damn strange hangout for nine-year-olds.

Three boys went inside, and he slid in behind them and kept his back to the window as they barreled up to the counter in the darker recesses of the store. He planned to hang back and observe; nothing more.

Then he saw her.

Dark red hair fell in slight waves across her face. Her mouth, pursed in concentration, sat over a strong chin with a slight dimple. It had to be her. His information said she worked alone every weekday.

The woman must be Dix Dixon. She bent over her cash drawer with a screwdriver in her hand.

As the boys raced toward the counter, papers fluttered in their hands. “Hey, Dix! We got our report cards! Wanna see?”

Her chin dimple disappeared when she smiled at the boys. Warm, friendly, and bright enough to clear the gray Seattle sky, her smile packed a punch. He narrowed his gaze as she patted each head affectionately and read their report cards in turn. Each boy preened at her compliments. Dane frowned. She could charm the birds from the sky.

And his grandmother out of the family jewels. For a woman like Dix, conning an old lady would be a piece of cake.

The boys were busy petting some kind of animal; from where he stood, he couldn’t tell if it was a cat or dog.

Dane hung back, surprised that a woman he was half convinced was a con artist would give this kind of attention to neighborhood kids. He supposed that her wide-open smile worked its magic on most people. It was certainly working on him. He fought the urge to smile along with the boys and feigned interest in a carpenter’s tool kit. He’d given in to his curiosity and come into the shop, but he wasn’t idiot enough to move closer.

“I’ll be right with you,” she said to him. After one more set of oohs and ahs, she handed the boys back their report cards.

He gave her a nod and studied the front of the store while listening to the conversation behind him. Older computers, household appliances, and sports equipment filled the front half of the space. Closer to the counter, he saw electric and acoustic guitars hanging from the ceiling. Amplifiers lined the walls.

She clapped her hands, pulling his attention to her again. She said, “Okay, troops, line up single file and head for the exit. I’ve got work to do.”

The boys groaned and she grinned at them. When they turned, he could see them better. Identical triplets.

“Now,” she said. “If you see my brother, tell him to get his butt home. I want to see how he did on his science quiz.”

“Ah, Dix,” one of them said, “Quit worrying. Riley’s gonna make it. All the way.”

“Yeah,” the other two chimed in. “All the way, Riley, all the way, Riley!” they chanted until she whistled loud enough to be heard over the din.

“Like I said, line up and get a move on.” She clapped her hands again to shoo them along.

The boys trooped past him single file until they reached the door. Then they jammed up, arms and legs and elbows wedging their way through.

He was hard-pressed not to laugh, but he managed. He wasn’t here to be amused. He was here to get an overall impression of the woman.

As soon as the boys squeezed their way out the door, he was alone with her.

Center stage.

* * *

Dix’s day was going pretty well. And now she had an honest-to-God browser by the front of the store. After the Fanelli boys had squeezed their way out the door, she sized up the stranger as best she could. He stood with his back to the window, so she couldn’t make out his face. His silhouette was imposing, but that didn’t faze her.

At her size, not many people intimidated her physically, and in her profession, she met a lot who tried.

He stepped closer and out of the window’s glare. He was broad in the shoulders. Good looking, too. “And what can I do for you, Good Lookin’?” She flashed her best shopkeeper’s smile. It wasn’t like her to use flirtatious talk, but it had just popped out.

That’s what happened when she spent too much time alone.

The stranger’s all-encompassing gaze said ‘cop,’ but she knew all the locals and didn’t recognize him. “You must be new around here,” she said in a questioning tone, which he ignored.

He trailed a finger over an amplifier as he moved closer. He leaned over to give it a better look, and she drew in a breath at his profile. Strong nose, commanding chin, high-ridged brow bone. She’d been right: this was one good looker.

“Just browsing,” he said in a smoky blues club voice. She had an ear for voices, and his was strong and warm with just a hint of rasp that could, if she let it, trail down her spine. She closed her eyes to help her absorb the sound and let it slide to her vitals. Mm-mm. Fine.

She suddenly remembered she was alone in the store, except for Razor, who only looked like a nasty dog. He was still in a happy stupor from the kids petting him. She slanted him a glance and toed him in the side. He lifted his head and cocked it. She clicked her tongue and he stood without a sound.

This man had waited for the boys to leave so they would be alone. She hated when that happened.

She idly placed her right hand over the screwdriver she’d been using on the stuck cash register drawer and cupped her other hand over the panic button just under the counter.

She studied him. His new leather jacket said he wasn’t likely a junkie or a robber. Still, he walked with deliberation toward her. Observation, honed by years of practice, told her he never moved quickly. If he were a buyer, he’d be decisive once he found the item he wanted. He would go after anything he wanted. And get it.

Warmth bloomed deep in her chest as she watched him raise his face to the ceiling to study the guitars. She’d been right about his chin.

Razor leaned against her calf and jutted his head around her leg. He peered through his lookout hole in the counter’s swinging door. She could handle just about anyone with Razor at her side.

She knew the exact moment when the man noticed the dog.

Razor wasn’t what anyone would call ‘cute.’ The black and white pit bull was scarred and marked by abuse with one ear half chewed off. Most people stopped dead at sight of him.

Not this guy. His step faltered for a split second, but when Razor didn’t bark or growl, he continued to move toward her.

Which she decided was a sign of character.

Razor continued to watch him but must have seen even less threat than she did, because his tail soon thumped against her leg.

She wanted to see the man’s eyes, but the instruments overhead shadowed his face. Thanks to Paul, her part-timer, she did a brisk business in guitars and amps.

The browser hadn’t said anything more, but a lot of people wanted to be left alone. Good, he wouldn’t waste her time with useless questions. Once he saw something he wanted, he’d ask only the pertinent stuff.

She considered going back to work on the cash drawer, but couldn’t force her eyes away from his easy grace. His grin showed straight teeth and eye crinkles. She gauged his age at around thirty-five, give or take a year. She couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but he was gorgeous. Her breath wheezed out at the sight of his ring-free left hand. “May I help you find something?”

Not that she was in the market for a man, because she’d run for the hills if one asked her out, but still, good looking and single added a touch of spice to her day.

“No, thanks,” he replied to her offer of help, “I haven’t been in before and wanted to check the place out.” He looked at the guitars threatening to brain him. His eyes caught and lit up. “Is that a Fender Mustang?”

“Hand made in ’65,” she replied, easing her grip on the screwdriver.

“Nice.” He looked around again, but kept Razor in his peripheral vision. Smart, too. She liked smart men.

So few of them came into the store that this one stood out. Who was she kidding–he’d stand out anywhere.

“You’re a musician?” she prodded, wanting to hear him use that voice again. There was no harm in chatting, because he’d leave soon and wouldn’t return. Smart men with great teeth and new leather coats never did.

“Nah, I just did the garage thing when I was a kid. But a buddy of mine had a Mustang. He told me Jimi Hendrix used one in the studio.”

His gaze wasn’t on the guitar now but on her. Her belly dropped hard, like an egg into a hot frying pan. Ker-splat. Sizzle.

A shaft of primal awareness steamed up her spine. She couldn’t for the life of her remember the conversation. Her face heated and she blinked, trying to come up with something, anything, to say to cover the full silence. In the end, all she could do was stare and remind herself that she wasn’t in the market for a man. Not now!

He reached up and smoothed his hand across the guitar’s finish, reminding her of what they’d been bantering about.

“Yes, Jimi did use a Mustang, but only for one album. He liked the whammy bar. I doubt it was that one, though.” She leaned her elbows on the counter and gave him her cheekiest smile. “But I could tell you it was if that’d make a sale for me.”

He grinned again, all sex and male interest. His gaze dropped to her cleavage and back to her eyes. Her temperature rose with his eyes.

Trouble. Six feet four inches of trouble.

Sexy trouble, fun trouble, and the kind of trouble she hadn’t had in a long, long while. The kind she couldn’t afford now.

Razor picked that moment to send a waft of pure stink into the room. His opinion stated, he groaned and circled at her feet until he landed with a thud. Clearly, he didn’t see the harm this man was doing to Dix’s equilibrium.

“Oh, man! My eyes are watering,” he said as he backed up out of harm’s way. “What are you feeding that dog?” He waved his hand in front of his face.

Empathy enveloped her and she turned on the ceiling fan. “This will help.”

But the moment was ruined, and he looked at his watch and backed away. “I’m late,” he said, and walked to the exit, his head turned to see the contents of the jewelry case as he cruised by.

“Too bad you didn’t find anything you liked,” she said to his retreating back. For a moment there, she’d thought he had. She supposed it was a good thing he’d had a look around and wouldn’t return.

He left without a backward glance. Just as well, because men like him were dangerous. She had no time for dangerous men. Especially not men who looked like him– all sex and hard lines. If she got involved with a man like him now, it would ruin everything.

And nothing–but nothing–would ruin her plans; not a man, not sex, not a sexy man, not a man with sex on his mind, not even a smart man with sex on his mind.

She checked the time. Here it was after four and still no sign of Riley. She tried a practice conversation in her mind, a dialogue in which they actually communicated. Hey, sis. How was your day? Tolerable, she’d answer, and they’d play a hand of gin rummy the way they used to. They’d laugh the way they used to. Have fun the way they used to, and she’d be his big sister again instead of the nagging bitch she’d become.

In her wildest imagination, she couldn’t see it happening.

She sighed. She loved her brother, would do anything to help him through these teen years, but most days he was a pain in the butt.

She picked up a pile of mail. Mostly flyers and junk mail, but then she found the letter. Her heart stopped. The school in Paris.

She sucked in a breath. Held it to a count of three then let it whoosh out again.

Paris.

L’ecole Poirot and the life she’d been meant to live. The life that Fate had taken from her when her dad was shot. She blinked twice to force away her terrific sense of loss and injustice, and tore open the envelope.

“It was with great surprise that I read your letter, Mademoiselle Dixon. I remember the tragic events that prevented you attending your final year of school here.” It went on in a sympathetic tone until Dix wanted to scream, but she read every word.

She was hired.

An American housemother would bring an interesting element to the students’ lives, the letter said. It was imperative she be ready to start work on September first. Her legs gave way and she sank to the floor, where Razor did his best to crawl into her lap. He licked her face and wriggled against her. She draped her arms around him and cried against his bony head.