Make Me (3 page)

Manny folded his arms over his chest. He didn’t like what her tone implied. “I stayed in a hotel for two weeks and blew through a chunk of cash I hadn’t planned on, hoping to get in touch with you.”

“I’ll pay you back,” she said, her tone raking his nerves even more. “Just tell me where to find my stuff.”

Manny had a sudden urge to show her the fastest way to the curb. He glanced at the open magazine he’d left on the table by the door.
New York Life & Style
wasn’t his usual thing—he was more of a
Guns & Ammo
kind of guy—but the cover had caught his eye on the way out of the bakery and he’d raced home to read it. So yeah, Rebecca could go, and he could get back to brooding over the article on Kyle Hunter, Manhattan’s Bachelor of the Month. Three pages of pure torture waited for him, starting with a full shot of Kyle in his US Marine dress blues, with those intense eyes looking straight at the camera and a joke ready to sneak from his slightly curled lips. Manny wondered if the joke was on him.

Rebecca wrung her hands, and he cursed inwardly. His conscience wasn’t about to let him put her out on the street. “Slow down. Do you have some place to stay?”

He watched her wring her hands some more and open her mouth only to close it again. Then she straightened her back and extended her elegant neck. Manny wondered just how prissy she could look.

“Don’t you worry. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as you give me the key to the storage facility.”

He cocked his head to the side. Ms. Fancy-pants had a pretty face—pink, full lips that didn’t need any goop to be kissable as hell, high pronounced cheekbones, and gorgeous gray eyes that looked like they just might tear up any second.

“As you can see, I have no hair.” Manny ran his palm over the neat, stiff bristle of his near-nothing cut. “Besides, it’s pouring outside. At least wait out the rain some. I was just going to make myself a sandwich. Do you like turkey and Swiss?”

She nodded stiffly, and he smiled at her.

“Good. Sit down.” He motioned to the navy blue futon placed opposite his new sixty-inch flat-screen TV. “It doesn’t come close to that ridiculously heavy couch you have, but—”

“It’s fine,” Rebecca said with a tight mouth.

Manny shook his head and started to try to reassure her again, but remembered what an epic fail that had been the first time.

She sat with her delicate hands in her lap and looked around the apartment. “How did you know which items were your grandmother’s and which were mine?”

He pulled out two ciabatta rolls from the bag he’d brought back with him on his bike. “I kept the things I was sure of. There might be some newer things of hers mixed in by accident with your stuff, though.”

Rebecca was silent for a minute. “No, she only left a few pieces of hers behind when she moved out, and they’re all here.” Another beat of silence and she continued. “I suppose you packed up all of my underwear.”

He laughed. “There wasn’t much left. Except for the good bits that I guess weren’t necessary for your business trip.”
And the stack of erotic photographs at the bottom.
He had to admit, he wished he could catch the blush no doubt blazing across her cheeks, but a peek around the bend separating the living area from the kitchen would have been way too obvious. He’d admired the tint of rose on her cheeks once before when she’d asked him to put on a shirt.

At that moment, he realized he still hadn’t actually done it. When the sandwiches were fixed, he grabbed a hoodie from the doorknob and put it on. Entering with the two plates and two cans of soda, he couldn’t help feeling a bit of déjà-vu as he set it all down on the cloverleaf marble cocktail table.

“My grandmother served me plenty of these here,” he said, kind of mindlessly, and noticed a flicker of disappointment flash in her eyes as she dropped her gaze to his sweatshirt.

“Marines, huh?”

“You don’t like Marines?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. I have the utmost respect for anyone who serves their country.”

“Don’t like sweatshirts, then?” he said with a smirk. He couldn’t help himself.

She shifted, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Thanks for the sandwich.”

“You’re welcome.” He took a bite and watched her nibble at hers. “You know, my Nana wouldn’t be happy with me if I let you go without feeding you and making sure you had everything you needed.”

“I told you not to worry.”

“Well then, maybe you should let me invite you to stay here.” He took another bite. “Unless you can convince me that you have somewhere else to stay.”

She huffed. “What? Do you want me to say that I don’t have any friends here in New York?” Rebecca paused, before continuing in a defensive tone. “Well, I don’t. I work like crazy, and this city isn’t the friendliest place to try to fit in.” She covered her mouth with one of the napkins, as though a bat had just flown out.

Manny just stared and then finally blinked. He hadn’t seen that outburst coming. “You know you’re kind of making it hard to be the hero here.”

“A sandwich and an offer to sleep on your futon and now I owe you something?”

He shook his head, scratching absently at the back. “I don’t know what just happened, but you’re making my head hurt.”

He watched her frown and then bite her lip as the flash of anger pinching her delicate features dissipated into something more like fear. Everything about her spelled pain-in-the-ass right down to the prissy, if not filthy, strappy high heels she wore. High maintenance wasn’t his first choice when it came to women—not normally—but something about this stubborn, pouting, knockout of a rain-drenched ex-tenant of his grandmother’s had him reconsidering.

“OK, listen. If you’re worried about me being some kind of psycho killer, here’s the number to my probation officer. He’ll totally vouch for me.” He watched her closely, holding back the grin begging to break free on his lips. One side of his mouth curled, and he arched an eyebrow at her.

“You
could
be a psycho killer,” she said, taking another careful bite of her sandwich.

“I could have sniffed your panties too,” he said with a shrug. He lost it on the outraged look she flashed him, laughing hard enough to need to cover his mouth. “But I didn’t. I promise.”

She pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes.

“Really,” he snorted. “I was only joking with you. Should have seen the look on your face.”

“You’re an asshole,” she said, fighting her own grin and losing the battle.

“Hey, at least get to know me before you come to that conclusion,” Manny said, winking at her. He stood up. “I bought some cookies at the bakery too. They make the best fudge-chocolate chip concoction.” He felt her following him with her eyes, and when he turned back to look, there they were, big and gray, with a clarity that made his hairs stand up. “What do you say? Are you in for cookies?”

“In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess.” She took a few from the plate he carried back with him. “Are these from that great little bakery on 83rd?”

“You know that one?”

“Of course. There’s practically a snare trap with my name on it waiting right outside that place. The awesome smell gets me every time.” She took a nice big bite of the cookie, a bit of chocolate fudge smearing on her bottom lip. He could have licked it right off. It would have been an act of charity, right? Just like the offer to put her up overnight. Pure and innocent, not an errant thought to be found of what that black lacey contraption he’d found in her drawer of unmentionables would look like on that gorgeous body of hers.

“Hey, Manny?”

“Huh?” He shook off the image of her just about naked and blinked.

“I was asking if you ever tried their tarts.”

“Mmmm, yeah. What haven’t I tried?”

She seemed pleased somehow with that answer. “All right, if you like the baked goods at Petite Fours, then you can’t be a complete lunatic,” she said, taking another nibble and stealing a sideways glance at him.

“See. Trust your instincts.” Manny winked again at her. “So do you have any other bags you’d like me to get for you?”

“I have two more in my car, but it’s parked way over on 96th Street.” She raised her chin toward him. "You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the red Camaro parked in my garage space?”

“You mean Holly?”

“Oh, it’s your girlfriend’s car.” Her voice took a sharp dip in volume. “How’s she going to feel about me staying here? Wait, does she live here with you? You know what? I really think I should—”

“Stop.”

She had been right in the middle of tugging her purse strap onto her shoulder, but upon that one word she froze. As amusing as her little rant was, he wasn’t cruel enough to let it continue. He leaned over and gently took hold of the strap, slowly moving it down her arm.

“Holly
is
my red Camaro. She’s hot and fast, just how I like ’em.”

“Your cars or your women?”

“Come again?”

She sighed and stared blankly over his shoulder, rubbing absently at a faint scar on her collarbone. “Because hot and fast is so much better than homely and slow, right?”

He cast a cautious look at her, not really knowing what the right answer to that question was. “Cars. Women, I’m learning, aren’t so simple.”

She nodded at him suspiciously and sighed. “Well, I think I have everything I’ll need for the night in the bag I brought with me. Tomorrow I’ll get to work on finding a new place to live. Thanks again for letting me crash here.”

* * *

Mission accomplished, she’d be safe tonight and hopefully not too out of sorts. So it turned out she’d been away on business in DC. That explained why there’d been no sign of her for a whole month. After so long, he’d started to worry that something bad had happened. Now, the guilt of uprooting her scraped at him and wouldn’t quit. This was the least he could do.

He had good taste in music—she could say that about him. Rebecca found herself humming in the shower to Amy Winehouse’s famously ironic hit. She wiggled to the rhythm, while lathering up her strawberry-blond curls into a tizzy. She kind of remembered Jeanette mentioning something about a grandson who was an officer in the military. Warranted or not, she felt a little more safe knowing he’d been sworn to a code of honor. Rebecca danced under the spray with her eyes closed, feeling better by the minute.

Suddenly, with an overenthusiastic whip of her head to the song’s hook, she felt her foot slip from under her on a blob of shampoo. She grabbed desperately for the vinyl shower curtain, only to feel the rod give way and come crashing down. The thud her body made against the side of the tub sealed her mortification. She hadn’t screamed out at least—somehow she’d managed to bite back the squeal—but it hadn’t mattered. Manny came busting through the door anyway.

“Rebecca! Are you all right?”

Amy Winehouse sang low and smoky,
No, No, No
. Rebecca snatched at the vinyl puddled around her and water bounced off of her soapy head, sending sudsy rivulets into her eyes.
No, No, No.

“I’m fine. I just slipped.” She scrubbed at her eyes and pawed at the air, reaching for the towel she thought she’d left folded atop the sink. It appeared in her hand along with the wisp of Manny’s fingers over hers. “Thanks, um, can you get out now? That’s why locks were made for doors, you know.”

He cleared his throat. She peeked at him beyond the towel. He looked genuinely flustered; except she was the one naked on the floor of his tub.

“Sure, yeah. I was just worried. I didn’t know what the—” He smiled weakly and nodded once in a firm, sharp gesture. “Cool. OK. I’m heading off to bed.” Turning to the side, so that he wasn’t actually looking at her, he continued. “Don’t worry about getting that fixed. I’ll take care of it in the morning.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just glad you’re all right.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

He shook his head and closed the door.

Why did she have this rankling need to be mad at him? It must have sounded like World War III in there when she fell. Anyone would have been worried. But did he have to bust the door in? Sheesh!

Rebecca scraped herself up from the bottom of the bathtub and switched the water from the shower to the tub faucet, electing to rinse her hair from the more controlled stream and saving the bathroom from a bigger mess. Bent on her knees, with her head hung upside down under the warm water she imagined how crazy it would be for Manny to see her like this. She made quick work of her hair, but she wasn’t able to resist the urge to slip a hand over the weighty globes of her breasts as they swayed beneath her, and then her fingers moved lower, between her legs.

How would it be for him to see her now? The sheer lunacy of it made her laugh a little. Lunacy or not, she couldn’t deny that the idea made her wet.

Rebecca emerged from the bathroom in her pink “Kiss me, I’m Irish” nightshirt to find the futon open and Manny reclining on it with nothing on but a pair of basketball shorts. A sheet lay folded next to him, and he used his arm, tucked under the back of his head, as a makeshift pillow. TV images blanketed the darkened room in a shadowy blue wash. He didn’t look her way. On the screen, the detective made an arrest, and his sidekick cracked a one-liner.

“I changed the sheets on my bed for you, in case you were wondering.”

“Your bed? No. The futon is fine.”

“I wouldn’t subject my worst enemy to sleeping on this thing. Besides, I went through basic training, remember. I can sleep anywhere.”

Her heart melted a bit. Manny seemed to have that effect on her. Feeling nervous all of a sudden, she wrung her hands together. “Thank you. I know I was kind of a bitch earlier.” He didn’t look her way. She really wished he’d look at her. “It’s just that this whole thing has taken me off guard. I’m not so good with surprises.”

“You wanna watch some TV with me?” He patted the spot next to him on the futon without taking his eyes from the screen.

She chewed on her lip. What harm was there in that? She was definitely not going to be able to fall asleep in some strange guy’s bed so easily. She may as well hang out with him until she at least felt sleepy. She didn’t answer, since he didn’t seem in the mood for sharing too many words. She simply eased into the place next to him and sat there with her legs tucked underneath her, thankful for the dark and how it disguised the outline of her braless breasts. She’d never really been comfortable with the attention her generous helping in the boob department had garnered throughout her young adult life. Sitting there in the thin cotton nightshirt made her feel oddly like being back in high school.