Just For Kicks

Color washed up her chest and climbed her throat. “So?”

“So, nothing. I just…didn’t expect to hear it.” He took a step closer and the shift of weight caused the sharp edge of the cardboard box under his arm to dig into his inner elbow. It jerked him back to reality. “Here.” He thrust it out at her. “The damn dogs were going crazy, so I signed for your package before their noise made my head implode.”

“Oh, for—” Snatching the parcel from his hands, she whirled away and stalked into the living room. “Don’t even start on my pets. There’s not a dog alive who doesn’t bark at the UPS man.”

“Woman,” he corrected. But he was operating purely on autopilot, for his brain was cutting out like a combustible engine laboring on its last fume of fuel.

The hazy view of her thighs and butt beneath her gauzy skirt didn’t improve matters. From what he could see, only a narrow blue thong that widened to a little butterfly above her firm cheeks stood between her and an indecency charge. Sternly pulling his gaze away, he followed her into her apartment. “You are training Doofus in German?”

“Rufus!” She whirled around, blue eyes snapping. “His name is Rufus! How would you like to be called da Wolfgangsta?”

“I wouldn’t,” he admitted stiffly, his head continuing to pound. “I apologize. I will remember it is Rufus.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Well. All right, then.” She straightened her shoulders and met his gaze squarely. “As for the German command, yes. It seemed to work for you, and contrary to what you obviously think, I’ve been knocking myself out trying to find a way to get through to him.”

“A whip and a chair might do the trick.”

He wished the words back the minute they left his mouth. But it was too late. Carly’s eyes narrowed, her chin shot up and she took an incensed step forward. “Listen, you— Buster!”

Her older dog, the one so goofy-looking he was almost a caricature, with his springy tufts of brindled fur sticking up atop his head and poking out like ruffles around his ankles, stepped between them, seeking her attention. Wolf didn’t know exactly what happened next but thought that Carly must have almost caught the mutt with her foot. It occurred so fast that all he knew for certain was that when she pulled her stride to avoid kicking the dog, she pitched forward.

Buster scrambled aside and Wolf reached out to steady her at the same time that she flung out her hands to be caught. Given their mutual athleticism, they should have been able to right her with the minimum of contact.

But somehow the outsides of her arms slid along his inner forearms, knocking his hands aside. Her hands plowed inside his unbuttoned shirt, shoving back the open sides, then skidded along the bare skin over his ribs. As he reached for her hips to brace her, she grabbed the folds of material and hung on so tightly that she jerked the shirt clear off his shoulders to well beneath his shoulder blades. Her actions yanked his arms to his sides and the reflexive step backward that he took slammed his back against the wall. Her pets scattered, yipping and hissing, and Carly and Wolf slapped together, breasts to diaphragm. Her chin bounced off his collarbone, snapping her head back.

“Ow,” she said, working her jaw. “Shit.”

Wolf didn’t say a word. He couldn’t. Every Y chromo-some he possessed was aware of the scent of soap and heat and woman—not to mention the feel of that long, lush body mashed against his. He was also howlingly aware of the dampness of her thin tank top, which was all that separated her breasts from his flesh. They were real breasts, too, soft, full globes that flattened where they met corded muscle, not the artificially enhanced tits so many of the showgirls seemed to sport these days.

He noticed for the first time that Carly’s eyes had little golden flecks around her pupils and a deeper hue circling the clear blue iris. And her abrupt stillness told him she was suddenly as aware of him as he was of her. Or at least that she was aware of his awareness. Of course, the latter would be damned hard to ignore when he was half erect against her stomach.

Okay, all the way erect.

He saw her pulse tripping madly in the little hollow at the base of her throat, and he reached out to peel her off of him before he did something irrevocably stupid.

Trouble was, his shirt pinned his arms, preventing their usual full range of motion. He could still move well enough to get his hands on Carly’s upper arms, and he did just that, fully intending to move her away from him, if only the couple of inches his currently shackled condition would permit. At least she wouldn’t be pressed right up against the evidence of his happy-to-see-you dick.

That was the plan, anyway.

But somehow his hands, which had reached out with every intention of following the exact commands his brain issued, slid right up those smooth, firm arms and onto her warm-skinned shoulders. Then, since they were already in the neighborhood, they eased up her slender throat to frame her face. With a will of their own, his thumbs gently pressed the underside of her chin, which had a shallow dimple he’d never noticed before, and his fingers tunneled into her short, damp hair. He tilted her head back and to one side while tipping his own in the opposite direction.

Then, his heart thumping against the wall of his chest in slow, hard thuds, he rocked his mouth over the soft curves of her lips.

And, ah, God. They were sweet and pliant, and he wanted them to open up and let him in.

Now.

He widened his mouth around Carly’s, then dragged it closed, sipping at her with steady, demanding suction. Let me in, let me in, let me in.

His eyebrows furrowed when that didn’t gain him the immediate entry he sought, and he raised his head, came at her from a different direction. He tickled the seam of her lips with the tip of his tongue.

She made a sound deep in her throat, and her fingers unpleated the shirt they gripped and shook free of its voluminous folds. A second later, her hands were splayed against his back, bare skin to bare skin.

And her lips parted.

Yes! Wolf plunged his tongue inside.

She tasted even richer and more addictive than he’d imagined she would and every coherent reason why this wasn’t a good idea evaporated like dew in the desert when she kissed him back. The control he took such pride in disintegrated and his mouth turned rapacious.

Carly wrapped her arms around his neck and rubbed her breasts against his chest, returning his kiss with one that was every bit as voracious.

He stroked his hands down her soft nape, over her shoulders and down her back, following the long line of her spine to her round, firm ass. Gripping her through the thin, silky material, he bent his knees and yanked her to him—and his hard-on discovered a little piece of heaven in the soft, giving notch between her thighs.

But it wasn’t enough. He wanted his hands on the bare skin her diaphanous skirt had hinted at, and he began gathering fabric up by the handfuls, inching the garment up the backs of her thighs. Got to have some of this, his out-of-control testosterone insisted, and he wedged a thigh between hers and widened his stance, nudging her legs farther apart.

Got to have some of this now!

Nothing else mattered at the moment. Not the fact that she wasn’t a woman who fit into his master plan. Not the fact that they didn’t even like each other. Not Niklaus waiting for him next door. Not—

Oh, shit, Niklaus!

Damn, something did matter. The recollection of his nephew, who could come looking for him at any minute, splashed cold water all over the hot haze of lust that had made every other consideration seem incidental. Hell, he’d left Carly’s front door wide open when he’d followed her into her apartment, and it was only blind luck that no one had poked their head in to see what was going on.

Dropping her skirt back into place, he jerked his hands away from the tempting territory they’d roamed. He reached up to thread his fingers through her short hair and pull her head back.

She blinked unfocused eyes at him and licked her bottom lip. Then her lips, ruddy and swollen from his kisses, curled up in a sultry little smile and he groaned, his new resolve seriously threatened. He wanted to return that carnal smile, wanted to dive back in and pick up right where they’d left off.

But indulging the Jones wild streak wasn’t in his makeup—even if he had forgotten that fact in a moment of blistering arousal. He gave her a stern look. “I can’t do this.”

She returned a melting, slightly dazed smile that he felt clear to the pit of his stomach and rotated her pelvis against his erection. “Oh, honey,” she assured him. “You can.”

His hips pushed back at her until he caught himself and forced them to still, and he slid his fingers from her hair, gripping her shoulders instead to set her back a step.

The damn shirt pulled him up short again, but he shoved away from the wall so abruptly that it did the chore for him, tumbling her back a step. While she was still off balance, he hitched the shoulder seams of his abused shirt back into place. Then, heart pounding a savage beat, he stared at her.

What the hell had he done?

“No,” he finally said when she locked eyes with him. “I really can’t. You’re not part of my plan.”

Her eyes held confusion. “You have a plan that doesn’t allow for sex?”

“No.”

“No?” She took a tiny step forward. “Well, then…”

He put a hand up, warding her off. “I mean yes, I have a plan that doesn’t include unscheduled sex.” And it was high time he dragged it back front and center where it belonged.

“You schedule sex?” she said in disbelief. “What, between filing reports and busting card counters? My God. You are one seriously screwed-up individual.”

He’d always considered himself a seriously organized individual. Still, looking at the mussed, sexy blonde he was voluntarily walking away from, he wondered if she wasn’t onto something.

But, no. He knew what he wanted out of life, and this wasn’t it. Well, it was, but it would be a mistake he’d regret the moment satisfaction faded. And he had no room in his agenda for mistakes.

So he managed a negligent shrug and slapped his best emotionless expression on his face. “You may be right,” he said coolly as he headed for the door. “But at least I’ve got a plan.”

As he stepped out into the hallway, he heard a sound like steam escaping an overheated teakettle.

“Yeah, well, plan this, you jerk!” Carly yelled.

Closing the door behind him, Wolf thought it was just as well he couldn’t see the precise gesture that undoubtedly accompanied her directive.

CHAPTER SEVEN

CARLY FELT AS IF she were two seconds away from exploding. She took a jerky step to the right, then one to the left. Thrusting her hand through her damp hair, she whirled and took yet another indecisive step in the direction of the breakfast bar.

“Damn.” Stopping dead, she stared out through the sliders. But the attractive landscaping of the courtyard below her small lanai barely registered. Nor did her pets make more than a fleeting impression as they slunk out of their hiding places to vie for her attention now that she was alone again and no longer making any sudden moves.

Her skin felt two sizes too small, her body throbbed with a tight, achy, unsatiated arousal, and humiliation rode her like a monkey on an addict’s back. She didn’t know what on earth to do with herself. She couldn’t even take her contradictory jumble of emotions to Treena to sort out as she normally would. This was simply too personal, too…raw.

And that only made her feel worse, because she had no safety valve for this god-awful head of steam that Wolf had stoked in her.

Stoked to the boiling point, damn him, before strolling away and leaving her with no means of blowing it off.

“You bastard,” she whispered. It had knocked her for a loop when she’d opened the door and seen him standing there, looking completely different from the usual spit-shined, buttoned-down, pain-in-the-ass automaton she was accustomed to seeing. Gone had been the uptight, poker-faced Surveillance honcho, and in his place had stood an angry man who’d looked sort of savage and wild.

Which, of course, had called to her. Maybe her mother was right, maybe she did need therapy.

She rejected the idea out of hand. Because, please. The guy she more or less knew for his quality clothing—the same man who always looked so pulled together, right down to his coordinating ties, who she imagined must prop himself upright in a closet to sleep so as not to wrinkle his fine threads—had pulled a vanishing act.

In his place had stood a man not only sans the tie he seemed to consider de rigueur, but in a shirt he hadn’t even bothered to fasten. And the glimpse of his smooth, hard chest and rigid stomach muscles through the narrow opening, the sight of those long, muscular thighs, hair-dusted calves and big, narrow, naked feet, had frozen her in place for several heart-stopping seconds.

Even then, she’d been cool. And she would have continued to be cool, too…if only she hadn’t tripped. If only he hadn’t kissed her.

Dammit, he should have kept his lips to himself. Or at least had the decency to be a lousy kisser.

But he had done neither of those things. Oh, he was still a jerk, still the worst kind of control freak. Who the hell schedules their sexual encounters, for heaven’s sake? But Wolfgang Jones could kiss like nobody’s business, and no longer did she have the comfort of assuring herself he was a clueless, cold and passionless Mr. Robotics kind of guy.

She truly wished she did, because right this minute she’d rather eat grubs than admit anything good about him. And yet…

While the man definitely had some strange hang-ups, a lack of passion wasn’t one of them. There had been nothing cold about his mouth on hers. Nothing remotely chilly about the body she’d been pressed against. Damn, he’d pumped out heat like a coal-burning furnace. And Lord have mercy, those hands!

His fingers had been long and firm and oh-so-hot on her butt, and they sure as hell hadn’t been the least bit hesitant about rocking her against his erection—which had been even longer, firmer…hotter. It had been so long since she’d experienced any of that sweet man-woman friction, and it had felt so good. Just a couple of lousy minutes longer and she’d have been ready to screw his brains out right there against the partition wall.

An unamused laugh escaped her. Who was she kidding? She’d been so past primed. That was one of the reasons the manner in which he’d pulled the plug on her, the callous way he’d left her twitching with frustration, rankled so much.

Her first impression was obviously correct. Anyone who’d work a woman into a frenzy, then leave her flat because it wasn’t in his frigging schedule, was cold—his hot hands and hotter kisses be damned.

Catching herself standing with gritted teeth and clenched fists in the middle of the floor, Carly sucked in a deep breath and blew it out. Great. She was furious all over again.

Screw it, she had things to do today. Maybe nothing earth-shattering, but a hell of a lot more important than moaning over not satisfying her treacherous libido’s needs. She really did need to get her mind away from Jones’s infuriating callousness and onto something else. The question was: what? Looking around, she saw a piece of paper lying on the floor next to the chintz ottoman, and she walked over and snatched it up, grateful for the distraction.

When she realized it was the incident report Wolfgang had wanted her to sign last night, however, her blood pressure skyrocketed all over again. Crumpling it up, she tossed it back on the floor and ground it beneath her bare heel. That wasn’t nearly destructive enough to satisfy her urge to annihilate, so she snatched it up again and smoothed it out. Then she proceeded to rip it into the tiniest shreds she could manage. Clutching the handful of confetti in one fist, she rummaged through her little secretaire with the other until she found an envelope. She poured her opinion of Wolfgang’s report into it and sealed it up.

Tripod stropped himself against her ankles, and she bent down to pick him up, cuddling the gray-and-white cat against her breasts. He purred and butted his head against her chin.

“You’re right,” she said decisively, scratching the feline between his ears. “Standing around steaming is counterproductive. If I let this turn me inside out, Jones wins—and that is not going to happen.” She gently set Tripod down upon the hassock. “So, let’s go to the hospital and brighten someone’s day. I’ll change into something a little more conservative, do something with my hair, and then we’ll all take off. Well, except for you, Dogface.” She paused on her way to the bedroom to rub Rufus’s head. “You’re doing worlds better, but I’m afraid you’re still not quite there yet. Soon, though, little buddy.

“Soon.”

SHE FELT MUCH BETTER by the time she let herself back into the apartment a couple of hours later. She unhooked Buster’s leash and opened the door on the travel container so Tripod and Rags, who always needed a little time to decompress after one of their trips, could let themselves out when they were ready. Rufus was sulking over by the sliding doors and wouldn’t look at her, but she consoled herself with the fact that at least he hadn’t torn the place apart.

Viewing that as definite progress, she refused to let his displeasure make her feel guilty. She’d been taking her babies to local hospitals as part of the pet-therapy volunteer program for a little over four years now, and Rufus wasn’t ready to be turned loose upon an unsuspecting hospital. The idea wasn’t to have animals running wild, but rather to utilize pets as a means to cheer up patients awaiting surgery or—the ones she had a special affinity for—long-term care patients like the kids on the oncology ward. So until she could be certain Rufus would behave himself on a consistent basis, he’d just have to stay home.

But she was accustomed to having him think she was the greatest thing since the rawhide chew bone, and getting the continued cold shoulder from him was starting to punch little holes in her resolve. In order to keep herself from rewarding his bad attitude, which would no doubt set his burgeoning training back several giant steps, she strode into her bedroom and changed into her electric-blue bikini. She was a responsible pet owner no matter what He Who Would Not Be Named liked to say. So Rufus could just sulk.

But there was no reason she had to stick around to be tortured by it. She’d go take a swim.

A teenager she’d never seen before was rocketing from one end of the pool to the other when she let herself in through the gate several moments later. His form left a lot to be desired, and he was churning up a considerable amount of water, so she decided to give him time to wear himself out before sharing the pool with him. As she snapped her towel over a chaise lounge beneath the shade of the palm trees and made herself comfortable on the cheery blue-and-white delft-patterned terry cloth, she observed his dogged laps. It wasn’t difficult to tell that something was definitely driving him. And she had to admit that all that anger or determination or whatever it was that propelled him was pretty darn compelling. Wryly deciding it almost made up for his lack of style, she applied sunblock while she watched him hack and kick his way through lap after laborious lap.

It became almost hypnotic after a while and she found herself yawning. Another lap and her eyes drifted closed.

The next thing she knew there was a shadow blocking the dappled rays that filtered through the palms. Shading her eyes, she peered up at a tall sun-limned, featureless phantom standing at the end of her lounge chair.

“Hey,” said a young male voice that sounded as if it were consciously striving to be cool. The phantom moved, dropping down onto the chaise next to her, where he turned into a long, lanky teen with slicked-back dark hair and pretty hazel-green eyes. He swiped his forearm over his dripping forehead as his gaze skittered from her breasts to her bare stomach to her legs and back up to her face.

“Hey, yourself,” she said, and cast an inward sigh, waiting for the tired pickup line that was sure to come.

“Where are your dogs?” he asked, glancing around as if expecting them to pop out of the neatly maintained grounds surrounding the pool enclosure. “You shoulda brought ’em down with you.”

It was the last thing she’d expected, and she flashed him a grin that was purely spontaneous. All right, a fellow dog lover—not an adolescent jerk, at all. You gotta love a male with the good taste to be a cut above the average Joe. “No pets allowed at the pool, I’m afraid,” she said, and gave the teenager a discreet once-over.

He was going to be a big man someday, but he hadn’t yet bulked up beneath his lightly tanned skin. He still had that slightly undernourished, awkward look some still-growing adolescents got. She’d bet the bank, though, that one day he’d fill out to be an all-around hunk. And given those poet’s eyes, she imagined that even now he drove the little girls wild.

She stuck out her hand. “I’m Carly, by the way.”

He got tangled up in the towel he’d wrapped around himself as he leaned forward to thrust out his own hand. Dull color promptly stained his cheeks, but he extricated himself with a minimum of fuss and shook her hand firmly. “Niklaus.”

“Nice to meet you, Niklaus. How do you know about my dogs?”

“I saw you with them on your balcony last night.”

At midnight? “From where, toots? The courtyard?”

“Nah.” He jerked his chin in the general direction of her building. “I’m your new neighbor.”

“No kidding?” She regarded him with interest. “I didn’t realize any of the units were even on the market.”

“They probably aren’t. I just moved in next door with my uncle. You might know him.” His voice changed, taking on a slightly resentful tone. “Wolfgang Jones.”

“That’s your uncle?” The Iceberg had a family? That was so…human. And here she’d thought he’d sprung fully grown from the loins of Medusa.

Niklaus nodded and Carly said, “When did that happen?”

“My grandma brought me to Vegas earlier this week, but we stayed at Circus Circus so I didn’t move in until last night.”

And Wolfgang had had the balls to accuse her of being irresponsible? She would never leave a kid all by himself in a strange apartment on his first night in residence. She had half a mind to hunt him down and tell him so, too.

Fortunately she still had a few working brain cells in the remaining half. But she couldn’t prevent herself from asking, “Where’s your uncle now?”

“Dr. Gloom?” Niklaus shrugged. “Upstairs, I guess. Probably starching his shorts.”

She grinned. Oh God, she and this kid were going to get along so fine. It was almost too bad that he wasn’t twenty years older—or that she wasn’t into cradle robbing. Otherwise she might have found her soul mate.

Still, she supposed it wasn’t copacetic to foment rebellion between relatives, so she reeled in her goofy grin and slapped her best I-gotta-be-the-adult-here expression in its place. “Now, now, I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice person,” she said, and even managed to sound as if she meant it. If you like the I’ve-got-a-plan-for-everything—right-down-to-my-own-orgasm—type.

The latter thought kicked the slats out from under her amusement, since it brought with it a much too vivid recollection of the morning’s events. That was a memory she had no desire to revisit.

It also had nothing to do with Niklaus, who was looking at her with the sort of hesitant longing she usually associated with her rescued pets.

There was just no way she could turn her back on that. She’d never been able to with the furry contingent, and she didn’t have the heart to ignore the teen’s obvious need for a friend, either. The poor kid was a stranger in Las Vegas, and within the next couple of days would probably have to contend with being the new kid on the block at a new school, as well. And as if that weren’t dreary enough, he was saddled with the most humorless male in the known universe as his guardian. Who on earth had thought that was a good idea?