Real Men: Rugged Rebels: Watch and Learn / Under His Skin / Her Perfect Hero

Gemma’s face warmed. God help her, she had enjoyed it.

He walked closer, assaulting her senses. Her chest rose, pulling at the breast button of her starched white shirt. Her breath quickened and she couldn’t tear her gaze from his dark, probing eyes.

“Trouble?” he asked mildly. The tiny gold earring in his left lobe glinted against his bronze skin.

She gestured toward the bird, feeling foolish. “I opened the garage door and he—it—was there. I don’t suppose it’s yours?”

His smile revealed white teeth and pushed his cheek-bones higher. “No. It might have flown away from a zoo, but most peafowl are wild.” He looked up into the trees. “Normally they don’t travel alone. This fella must be lost from his bevy, or is looking for a new one.”

Gemma relaxed a millimeter. “You seem to know a lot about peacocks.”

He shrugged, displacing muscle under his T-shirt. “My grandparents used to have some on their property in Puerto Rico.”

The exotic lineage suited him. “Does that mean you know how to get them to move?”

He laughed, a pleasing rumble, then strode toward the bird, waving his long brown arms. The bird, apparently more intimidated by someone larger and moving faster, startled, then moved away with a ruffle of bright feathers and a protesting yelp.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Glad to help,” he said with a slow nod.

Was it her imagination, or did his gaze pass over her? Had he remembered her outfit from the previous night’s dress rehearsal? Her thighs tingled and she was glad to have the car between her and this enigmatic man who could set her skin on fire with his searing glance.

His mouth opened slightly and she sensed he wanted to say something, but his words fell silent on the heavy, humid air that hung between them. She knew how he felt—words would change everything. An apology would only multiply the awkwardness … a compliment could seem … unseemly.

“I’d better go,” she said. “I’m late for a job interview.”

His expression cleared and he stepped back with a little wave. “Good luck.”

She swung back into the car and eased out of the drive-way,glancing in the rearview mirror as she drove away. The man was striding back to his property, head up. Gemma shivered in the heat and exhaled a pent-up breath, trying to steer her mind away from her sexy—and temporary—neighbor and back to the task at hand: getting a job.

FROM THE OUTSIDE, the employment agency looked less than promising, wedged into a storefront in a shabby strip mall between a sandwich shop and a check-cashing joint. She hesitated before pushing open the door but forced herself to keep moving. The middle-aged woman behind the piled-high desk was on the phone, but waved for Gemma to come in. Her sharp, appraising glance left Gemma feeling as if she’d missed the mark with her prim outfit.

“You scare off everyone I send over there,” the woman barked into the mouthpiece. “Up the hourly rate and I’ll see what I can do.” She banged down the phone, then turned toward Gemma. “What can I do for you?”

Gemma considered saying she was at the wrong address, but the image of the bills accumulating on her kitchen table was a stark reminder that she’d already put off this day for too long. “I’m Gemma Wh—er, Jacobs. I have an appointment.”

The woman jammed on reading glasses and consulted a large wall calendar. “Yeah, there you are.” She gave Gemma a flat smile. “I’m Jean Pruett. Have a seat, honey.”

Gemma glanced at the mismatched chair opposite the desk that was filled with stacks of papers.

“Just set those on the floor.”

She did, then lowered herself onto the edge of the chair.

“So, what kind of work are you looking for?” Jean asked without preamble.

“Preferably something in the art field. My degree is in art history.”

Jean winced. “What’s your work experience?”

Gemma shifted in the stiff chair. “In college I was in work-study programs with local museums—cataloguing and preservation.”

“I meant lately.”

“Oh. Lately I’ve been involved in charity work mostly, fund-raising, that sort of thing.”

“I see. Do you have computer skills?”

Gemma brightened. “I have a computer at home.” A castoff from Jason, which she’d never turned on.

“Do you know how to work with spreadsheets, databases or Web design programs?”

“Er … no.”

“Do you have a teaching certificate?”

“No.”

“Speak a second language?”

“I took a Spanish class … in high school.” Which only made her think of Chev Martinez. Por dios, the man had a body. But for the life of her, she couldn’t recall any other words in Spanish.

Jean sighed. “I’m sorry, Miss Jacobs, but unless you can give me something more concrete, I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you.”

Gemma felt the flutter of panic in her stomach. She didn’t want to rely on Sue or Jason’s contacts to find employment. “Surely there must be something.”

“Most of the jobs I fill are temporary, either short-term or a few days here and there. They require either specific qualifications, or no qualifications at all, meaning the jobs aren’t very desirable. And I can see from your appearance—”

“Try me,” Gemma said.

Jean looked dubious, but turned to her computer and clicked on the keyboard for several long minutes. “Something in the art field, you say?”

“Do you have an opening?”

Jean named the art museum that Gemma had called the previous day about the executive assistant position. “They’re looking for tour guides—”

“I’ll take it.”

Jean pursed her mouth. “It does pay pretty well for a part-time position. And it says chances are good it will become full-time. Can you start today?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Um, there’s only one catch….”

7

“A SEX EXHIBIT?” Sue asked with a laugh.

“The History of Sex,” Gemma corrected into her cell phone. She checked her side mirrors, feeling self-conscious, as if someone might have witnessed her debut tour and be following her home. Thank goodness the employment agency had promised that her personal information would remain confidential, and she didn’t have to wear a name tag.

“Do I even want to know what’s on display?” Sue asked.

“Let’s just say that no one under the age of twenty-one is admitted. And the tours are by reservation only.”

“Ooh, sounds intriguing. Do you get to play show-and-tell?”

“Uh … that’s one way to put it, I suppose.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Gemma sighed. “There are … costumes.”

“Costumes? You mean uniforms, like flight attendants?”

“Only if the flight attendants work for Incognito Playboy Airlines.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

Gemma squirmed. “The guides have to wear sexy costumes.”

Silence. Then, “Well, you certainly have the figure for it.”

“And Lone Ranger masks.”

Silence again, followed by, “But that could be a good thing, yes?”

“Considering that I’d rather not be recognized as the ex-wife of the state attorney general, yeah. Jason would be mortified if this got out. The press would crucify him.”

“I don’t plan to tell anyone,” Sue said. “Do you?”

“No.” Gemma worked to keep her voice casual. “Have you talked to him?”

“As a matter of fact, I ran into him today in the lobby of the capitol building.”

Gemma closed her eyes, hating herself for caring but unable to resist asking, “How is he?”

“Fine. He’s fine, Gemma.”

In the awkward pause that followed, Gemma sensed that Sue wasn’t being honest with her. Had Jason met someone else? Or had there been someone else all along?

“Have you seen your new neighbor lately?” Sue asked in a blatant attempt to change the subject.

Gemma’s thighs warmed as the image of Chev slid into her mind. She spoke carefully. “I saw him this morning as I was leaving. He chased away a peacock that was blocking my driveway.”

“A peacock? Where on earth did that come from?”

“I have no idea. Chev says they’re wild.”

“Chev?”

“Er, that’s his name. Chev Martinez.”

“Sounds exotic. Is he Mexican?”

“Puerto Rican, I believe he said.”

“I had a Latin lover once,” Sue said with a sigh. “He was heavenly in bed.”

Gemma squirmed. “That’s nice. And completely irrelevant to this conversation.”

“I’m just saying.”

“I’m not ready to move on,” Gemma said. “You know that Jason is the only man I’ve ever been with.”

“All the more reason to have a fling,” Sue insisted. “Gemma, you and Jason are divorced. You don’t owe him any loyalty.”

“I know. I just don’t remember how to be single.”

“Be indulgent. Try on new things … new men.”

Just the thought of “trying on” a new man made Gemma panic. She was better at performing at a distance than performing face-to-face.

Why else would her husband have left her?

“Right now I’m more worried about trying to pay the bills,” Gemma said, derailing the conversation.

“I can still make those phone calls on your behalf.”

“I’m hoping this tour guide gig will lead to a full-time job in the museum with a little more … coverage. If it doesn’t, I’ll take you up on your offer.”

“Okay. Gotta run. Talk to you soon.”

Gemma disconnected the call and shifted in her seat, staring at the long line of cars in front of her in the falling dusk. She tapped her finger on the steering wheel to the beat of the tune on the radio, frowning slightly when she realized she was listening to a Latino pop music station. She told herself it had nothing to do with the ethnicity of her next-door neighbor and the attraction simmering between them.

It was the job, that was all. The suggestive outfit that she’d worn all day had her on a slow burn and sensitive to the throb of the exotic music. Her dirty little secret was that deep down, she’d experienced a thrill when she’d learned that flirty costumes were part of her new employment. She could feign consternation with Sue, but the only shameful part of being a tour guide for a naughty exhibit was how much she enjoyed it.

She had reveled in watching the eyes of men—and more than one woman—rove over her breasts and legs as she lectured from index cards about the history of erotica and pinups. Just talking about the taboo of nude photography over history had made her breasts heavy and sent moisture to the juncture of her thighs as she explained the lengths that the photographers and models had gone to—including breaking the law—in order to fulfill their own fantasies and the fantasies of people who would secretly view the shocking, illegal photos. The provocative nature of the exhibit hadn’t been lost on the patrons. She had noticed couples touching more as the tour progressed and trading knowing looks as they left.

Gemma tugged at the short skirt that had crept up her thighs. The other tour guides had changed out of their costumes before leaving the museum, but she’d wanted to view herself in the getup at home, and at her leisure. She didn’t plan to stop anywhere—she’d drive directly into the garage. No one would see her dressed in early fifties’ “pinup girl” black miniskirt, fitted pink blouse, fishnet stockings, and peep-toe black high-heeled shoes. In her lap, she toyed with the crisp lace that added a feminine touch to the provocative black mask. The sensation sent erotic vibrations traveling up her arm.

When she drove by the Spanish-style home, she didn’t turn her head, but in her peripheral vision she saw that the silver pickup was there. Willing herself not to react to the fact that Chev Martinez was nearby, she wheeled into her driveway.

But blocking her way was the pesky peacock.

He sat in the center of her driveway, head bobbing and tail sweeping the ground behind him.

“Not you again,” she said with a groan. Then she rolled down the window and leaned out. “Shoo! Go away!”

When the bird didn’t move, she set her jaw. She’d pull forward slowly. As soon as the bird sensed the heat from her car, surely it would move, simply out of self-preservation. She inched the car forward, wincing when the bird seemed determined to stand its ground. The bird disappeared from her sight beneath the front of her car, then appeared suddenly in front of her windshield in a flurry of flapping wings and honking noises, landing on the hood. Gemma cried out and accidentally sounded the horn, sending the bird into another round of hysterics, its claws gouging long marks into the paint of the blue Volvo.

“You’re ruining my car,” she screeched out the window. The agitated bird screeched back, then unleashed its tail fan on her, as if to scare her off with its dazzling plumage. Among the tail feathers were multicolored eye-shaped designs, a natural defense against predators, meant to confuse. Gemma’s irritation gave way to wonderment—the creature truly was extraordinary.

“Quite a hood ornament you got there.”

Gemma closed her eyes briefly in half-dread before turning her head to see Chev standing there, his dark head covered in a red bandanna, his skin and clothing coated with dust, his shirt sweat-stained and clinging to his broad shoulders. His dark eyes sparkled with suppressed laughter.

“Hello,” she murmured, for lack of anything else to say.

“I think he likes you,” he said with a grin. “Although I can’t say that I blame him.”

Her cheeks warmed as he walked up to the car. She cursed her decision to wear her costume home. What if she’d been in an accident? Or what if her sexy next-door neighbor happened to see her?

She shifted forward in her seat to hide the fact that she was scantily clad, hoping he couldn’t see her in the waning light. “I hate to bother you again, but would you mind chasing him off my car?”

Chev waved his arms, grazing the big bird’s feather enough to give it a start. It clambered off the car hood and strutted away, crossing her lawn. Her neighbor leaned over to inspect the scratches in the paint. “I think these can be buffed out.”

“Thanks for your help,” she said, then pressed the button on the garage door remote.

“Don’t mention it.”

Gemma pulled into the garage, thinking she’d dodged an embarrassing bullet, then realized that Chev was still standing next to her driveway, as if he wanted to talk to her. Lowering the garage door would be inexcusably rude, especially considering that he’d helped her not once, but twice today. So, swallowing her pride, Gemma opened her car door and stepped out. The black mask tumbled to the garage floor. She crouched to scoop it up. Although she was sure he’d seen it, she held it behind her back like a naughty child.

His gaze scraped her from head to toe, his eyes climbing in unasked questions. She had, after all, been wearing a rather prim outfit when she’d left the house this morning.

“Um, I can explain why I’m dressed like this,” she said as mortification bled through her. To her dismay, her nipples tightened in response to his appraising glance.

“It’s really none of my business.” He raised his hands, taking a step backward.

“It’s for a job,” she blurted, then realized that her explanation only made things worse. She smoothed a hand over her short skirt but, too late, realized it was with the hand holding the mask. “I’m a museum guide.”

One side of his mouth climbed. “I don’t remember seeing any guides dressed like that when I was dragged to museums as a kid.”

“It’s a, um, special exhibit,” she said, crossing her arms across her chest in the glare of the overhead light that came on automatically. Admittedly the gesture seemed rather ridiculous considering how much of her he’d already seen. But being this close to him set her senses on tilt, left her feeling vulnerable as raw desire drummed through her limbs. “Thanks again for helping with the peacock,” she said, nodding in the direction the bird had wandered.

“You’re welcome. He shouldn’t stay for long. He’s looking for a mate, so once he realizes there isn’t one here, he’ll move on until he finds a bevy.”

“That’s comforting,” she said, running her hands up and down her arms.

Silence followed, but electricity pulsed in the air between them.

Finally he broke the quiet with an awkward shift of his feet. “I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be finishing some things in the house for a couple more hours.”

“Okay.”

“On the top floor.”

She swallowed. “Okay.”

“The electric in the house is spotty, so just because you don’t see lights on doesn’t mean I’m not there.”

She realized what he was telling her—that at any time he might inadvertently see something through her bedroom window that she might not mean him to see. “O … kay.” It was a gentlemanly way of letting her know that he’d seen her the night before.

“Not that everything I’ve seen in your direction isn’t spectacular,” he said in a low voice, wetting his lips.

Desire stabbed her low and hard. She didn’t know how to respond, so she remained silent as heat rolled through her midsection, touching off little firestorms all over her body.

As if afraid he had crossed a line, he started backing away. “By the way, a tile crew is coming tomorrow, so there will be a wet saw operating outside. It might be, um, loud.”

“I appreciate you letting me know.”

“Hopefully the worst of the noise will be over by the time you come home from, um, work.”

She felt humiliated all over again. “It’s a temp job. I might get called in, I might not.” Depending on how many reservations the museum received for the new, untried exhibit.

He nodded to cover what he must be thinking—how sad it was that the job she took not only required her to dress like a prostitute, but that she was basically on call … like a prostitute.

The automatic overhead garage light began to dim. “I should go in,” she said.

“Of course. Good night.”

“Good night.” She waited until he was out of sight before lowering the garage door. She entered the house moving slowly, her underwear displaced and rubbing her in delicate places already tender with engorgement. An unattained orgasm sang low in her belly and she suddenly anticipated a self-stimulated release.

But where, she wondered, glancing around, her excitement mounting. The kitchen table? The shower? The bed? The blast of warm, stale air was a reminder that the air conditioner was still on the blink. She trudged up the stairs, flipping on lights as she went, her stomach growling from hunger. But a deeper hunger stirred in her pelvis.

She walked into her bedroom and turned on the light, then automatically went to open the window to welcome any breeze that might be stirring. As she slid aside the glass panel, her gaze went to the window across from hers. The room behind it was dark. Was he there?

Just because you don’t see lights on doesn’t mean I’m not there.

But was he the kind of man who would say that, then go upstairs to see what she would do? He’d made it clear that he hadn’t looked away when he’d seen her undressing in the window, that he had enjoyed being the unintentional voyeur.

Her heartbeat increased to double time as blood rushed to her breasts and thighs.

Now that they both knew that he’d seen everything, would he scrupulously avoid the window? Or was he standing there, even now, waiting to see what would happen?

CHEV HELD HIS BREATH, hating himself for going straight to the window, but he’d been thinking of little else but Gemma all day, and his desire for her lay smoldering just under the surface. That provocative outfit of hers had been like a match thrown on the carefully banked coals, igniting an instant blaze in his belly.

She stood at the window, her face cast in shadow, her body outlined by the backlighting in her room. Her head was turned in his direction, although he felt certain he was hidden in the inky darkness. She stepped back from the window and he exhaled. She had understood his warning and would take steps to make sure it didn’t happen again.

But instead of pulling the sheer curtain across the window, she simply started unbuttoning her blouse.

He stood riveted, because he knew this show was for him, purposely.

Facing him, she unbuttoned the low-cut pink blouse slowly, then shrugged out of it to reveal a black lacy bra that barely restrained her full breasts.

Chev sucked in a sharp breath as his cock hardened behind his zipper. He reached down to massage the length of his erection for some measure of relief. Where was this going, and how far would she take it?

Before the idea had slid out of his mind, he watched incredulously as she pulled the short skirt up around her waist, revealing the fishnet stockings—thigh-highs, Lord have mercy—and minuscule black panties. She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed.

Every muscle in his body tensed. Was she …? She wouldn’t, he decided.

But she did.

She slipped her hand inside the black panties and as her fingers found their target, her head lolled backward, her mouth slightly open.

“Jesus,” he muttered, dragging his hand across the back of his neck where perspiration had gathered. He knew he should leave for his own good, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. He told himself he would simply watch and not participate, refusing to relieve himself like a horny teenager. So he looked on, dry mouthed and overheated as Gemma’s hand moved in a circular motion. He wondered idly how long it had been since she’d had a good orgasm, but he had his answer when, after only a few seconds, her body tensed, then spasmed with her release. His cock jumped in response and he thought he heard the sounds of her cries even through his closed window.

His breathing rasped higher in frustration as he was struck with the urge to ring her doorbell and give the woman a second orgasm the old-fashioned way. She withdrew her hand and leaned back on the bed for a moment, then pushed to her feet slowly and moved to the window. His cock throbbed for release, and he had the crazy thought that she would gesture for him to come over.

She lifted her hand.

And closed the sheer curtain.

8

GEMMA LOVED to make love in the morning … when the young sun suffused the bed with just enough light to see the expression on her lover’s face as his body sank into hers. She slid her hand across the bed toward the man from her dreams, then blinked awake when her reach came up empty.

The erotic details of the dreams dissipated like fog, but she was left with the distinct impression of a dark-skinned man and a tiny gold earring. Her back was moist with perspiration, her body still vibrating from the intensity of the fantasies, no longer sated from her self-gratification episode of the night before.

A wicked thrill passed through her at the memory of her wanton behavior, and she wondered if and how her performance had been received. Had he turned away out of dismay, or had he, perhaps, exhausted himself along with her?

The idea of the big man watching her to achieve his own orgasm sent a shudder through her body. Then she bit into her lip—what if he was disgusted instead? What if he had reported her to the police or the neighborhood association as an exhibitionist? Last night when they were talking, she thought she’d sensed his arousal … but what if she’d misjudged mere politeness?

She went to the window and moved the curtain a millimeter.All was quiet next door, with no sign of the silver pickup truck. Perhaps he’d gone to eat, or to pick up supplies.

And then she noticed that the window across from hers was shuttered—the only one as far as she could tell.

Gemma swallowed hard. Was he sending her a message? It would seem so. A hot flush of humiliation scorched her skin as she turned away from the curtains. She’d pushed things too far, had exceeded the boundaries of good taste, or perhaps had trespassed on his obligation to another woman. Regardless, it appeared that he was putting an end to her watch-me games.