An Offer He Cant Refuse - By Christie Ridgway Page 0,34

a little noise.

"What?"

"Sounds boring."

That made him smile. "Ouch," he said. 'Then I suppose I'm obligated to prove to you just how fun I can be." He thought once more of her mouth beneath his, warm and wet. Of the heat of her curvy body beneath yet another matronly outfit. "Now boring, if we're talking about that, are your wardrobe choices. You shouldn't be hiding behind those bland colors and schoolmarm suits."

"Now you sound like my sister."

"But I don't kiss you like your sister, do I?"

There was a startled pause, and then she let out an embarrassed laugh. And as if he'd lit a fuse, that sexual time bomb between them started ticking across the phone lines. He relaxed, settling more comfortably against the pillows he'd doubled behind his back. This was more like it. This was why he'd called.

Yes, he'd felt guilty about getting involved with Tea. Yes, he'd come close to bailing on the whole idea. But that mouth-to-mouth outside her office had made one thing perfectly clear.

There was an honest-to-hormones, sizzling chemistry between him and Tea that was too hard to ignore. And why should he? After all, if they'd met in another time, in another place, that potential combustion between them meant he would have done his damnedest to hustle her into his bed.

His conscience had no reason to squeal about him doing that very thing now. If it furthered other goals, so what, right?

He crossed his ankles on the mattress, ready to play the next hand in the game. "And about that kiss - "

"Maybe we shouldn't talk about that."

Oh, but she was already thinking about it, he could hear it in her voice. "I'm with you, I'd much rather repeat it, but - "

"Johnny!"

He had her laughing that scandalized laugh again, and he wondered -

"Are you blushing?"

"I - what? It's dark." She was trying to sound brisk and unaffected, but he didn't buy it for a second. "I wouldn't know."

'Tea. Come on. You don't have to have the lights on and a full-length mirror to answer the question. Are you blushing? Does your skin feel hot? Tight?"

The little catch in her breath made his own skin feel hot. Tight.

"Just slip your fingers between the edges of your pajama top," he coaxed. 'Tell me if your heart's beating faster."

There was a pause and he tried to picture a mix of temptation and trepidation on her exotic face.

"What makes you think I'm wearing pajamas?" she finally said.

He grinned. "My imagination says no, but - "

"I also say no." She took a breath. "We are not continuing this conversation. At least not like this."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The kiss... I need to explain, apologize... surely you can concede that it was a mistake."

Right. His tongue in her mouth, her warm body grinding against his was an error. As if he'd let her get away with that.

"I'd been startled by the flowers, okay? And then there was the broken glass and all that blood on my hands..."

Blood. Blood on her hands.

Blood on his hands.

Johnny's gaze jumped to the alarm clock. 1:09:09.

The numbers receded, the hotel room receded. Sixteen years vanished.

He ran his fingers through the blond buzzcut that was his hair, knocking askew the headphones blasting The Beastie Boys. Before he could resettle them, he heard the noise.

Pop.

Pop. Pop.

Pop pop pop.

Johnny leaped up, flinging the 'phones away. As tires shrieked against the driveway outside, he tripped over the pair of Air Jordans he'd left out, then ran in his stocking feet along the cool floors through the dark house. After only a few hours in his father's new place, he made a wrong turn, jamming his toes against the leg of a sturdy side table.

"Dad?" he yelled, switching directions and limping as fast as he could toward the front door. "Dad?"

The silence turned his heart into a battering ram. It pounded against his chest as he flung himself through the entry and into the warm night, running down the path and past the newly completed lagoon to the circular parking area by the garage.

"Dad?" Even the insects had been silenced.

His father lay on the ground beside his Cadillac, the driver's door still open. Bullets had shot out the interior lights.

Bullets had left dark holes in Giovanni Martelli's body.

Johnny tried to keep those holes from leaking, pushing hard here, there, and there. Shoulder, chest, arm. But it kept bubbling out. Blood. Life.

He ran for the nearest phone, leaving scarlet prints on floors, doors, walls. The 911 operator told him