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

With a knot of anxiety in her stomach, Gemma dressed in shorts and T-shirt and descended to the first level. Feeling like a naughty child put in her place, she cursed her carnal weakness and chastised herself for not exhibiting more self-control. And she conceded that while she had considered and dismissed the danger in what she was doing (the risk was part of the thrill, after all), she was even less prepared to deal with outright rejection on the heels of Jason’s departure.

Self-condemnation welled in her chest, choking her. God, she was lonely. She glanced at the basket holding Jason’s accumulating mail and before she could change her mind, picked up the phone and dialed his cell number. While his phone rang, she reminded herself she had legitimate business to discuss with him and inhaled to compose herself. Should she try to sound perky, or detached? Which, she wondered, would best convey the notion that she’d moved on and was merely tending to the pesky loose ends of her marriage?

Jason answered before she could decide. “Gemma? What’s up?” His voice was even and polite, as if he were talking to anyone … or no one.

A sharp pain struck behind her breastbone.

“Gemma? Are you okay?”

His thinly veiled irritation roused her from her wounded daze. “Sure,” she said, sounding amazingly normal. “Sorry, I didn’t expect you to answer. I was planning to leave you a voice message.” She impressed herself with her improvisation.

“What about?”

“Your mail, and some other things you left. What should I do with them?”

“Is it anything important?” He sounded as if he was walking somewhere, juggling the phone.

She hardened her jaw. “Not to me. Some magazines, golf stuff.”

“You can toss it as far as I’m concerned. I took everything that meant something to me.”

Right between the eyes. She blinked, then nodded. “Okay, then.”

“Did you tell your parents yet?” For the first time, she detected a note of sadness in his voice. It made her wonder if he’d prolonged the marriage for their sake.

“Mom called yesterday—she’d heard from another source. Did your office issue a statement?”

“No, we decided it was best just to ignore it and answer questions as they arise.”

Ignore it. “I …” She almost faltered. “I have phone messages from several nonprofits asking me to help with their upcoming fund-raisers, on your behalf, of course.”

“Divert them to my secretary. She’ll take care of it, make appropriate excuses.”

She wondered if kind old Margery knew that, after ten years, Jason still referred to her by her position instead of her name. Had he previously treated his wife with similar disrespect when talking to others?

“Is that all?” he asked, clearly already thinking about something else. “Do you need my help with something, Gemma?”

“No,” she murmured. “I’m fine.”

She hung up the phone quietly, in opposition to the fact that her heart was shattering all over again. She straightened her shoulders and exhaled. She wasn’t fine yet, but she was going to work harder at it. Somehow she was going to find herself again, the woman she’d been before meeting Jason.

While she ate a bowl of cereal, she thumbed through the yellow pages for the names of companies to service her air conditioner. The first two she called were three weeks out on appointments, the third could come within a week at a price that took her breath away. She hung up the phone and decided that the sultry indoor temperatures were tolerable after all, at least until she achieved full-time gainful employment.

She checked her watch—8:15 a.m. Jean at the employment agency had said she’d call by eight o’clock if the museum needed Gemma, so it looked as if she needed to make alternate plans for her day. Hopefully by tomorrow, word of mouth about The History of Sex exhibit would have spread and the three newly hired guides would be booked solid.

She sipped the last of her coffee while standing over the sink, sneaking glances next door to see if Chev’s truck had appeared. It hadn’t. She decided she’d take advantage of the lower morning temps and work in her neglected yard.

She went to the garage and plucked her wide-brimmed straw sun hat from a hook, retrieving the floral garden gloves that she stored inside the crown. She hesitated before putting on the protective gear. The last time she’d worked with her flowers and plants, her life had been bumping along fine … at least, as far as she’d known. Jason had arrived home late, as usual, and she was still thinning the daylilies, having lost track of time. He had been irritated with her, she recalled, because she hadn’t started dinner. And even after she’d reported spending most of the day volunteering at a local community center (representing his name and office), he had left her with the distinct feeling that she wasn’t living up to her end of the bargain as a political wife, not contributing enough to his happiness.

She had been stunned and hurt, but had attributed it to postelection stress. In hindsight, it had been a warning of what was to come only a few days later.

She donned the hat and gloves, then pulled the lawn mower from the corner and gathered her bucket of gardening tools. A narrow door in the rear led to the backyard and patio. The wrought-iron table and chairs, with floral pillows and matching umbrella had been left by the previous owners and Gemma imagined a happy couple sitting there having an evening cocktail and winding down from the day. On occasion, she had brought reading materials out here to enjoy under the shade of the umbrella, but she couldn’t recall Jason ever joining her.

As she picked up the festive pillows to rid them of leaves and debris, she wondered if Jason had decided to leave even before they’d bought this house … and then realized with jarring clarity that he probably had. He’d seemed detached throughout the buying and moving process, and other than setting up his office and staking claim to half the closet space and enough room in the garage for his golf equipment, he’d shown very little interest in either the house or the neighborhood. Because he’d known his days there were numbered?

From the patio she could see the back of the Spanish-mission-styled house next door. The tile walkways were broken and, in some places, missing altogether, and the yard and landscaping were overgrown. But other than a cracked and peeling oval-shaped pool, long since drained, the house itself looked to be in better shape from this side. She idly wondered what color Chev planned to paint the house and if he planned to restore architectural details. Probably not, since he’d made it clear he was flipping the house when it was finished.

The man would be gone within a month, and forgotten.

With a mental shake, she reminded herself that she had too much to do around her own house to be thinking about the goings-on of the man next door. Especially since he had likely dismissed her from his mind.

The grass was deep from neglect, necessitating two passes with the mower, one on a high setting, and one lower to the ground. But the physical exertion felt good, and the aroma of fresh-cut grass never failed to lift her mood. Before long, the tiny back and side yards were neatly shorn, and she had worked up both a sweat and a powerful thirst.

Retreating to the relatively cooler temperatures of the kitchen, she wet a paper towel and dabbed at her forehead and neck. From the refrigerator she retrieved a bottle of tea. Hearing a vehicle arriving next door, she glanced out the window over the sink to see a large flatbed truck back onto her neighbor’s property. Its cargo appeared to be columns—many of them, in different shapes and sizes. The driver sounded his horn, then jumped down from the cab. When Chev Martinez didn’t appear, the driver gamboled to the door but still received no answer. He returned to the truck and appeared to check a clipboard against information stamped on the bottom of the columns. After much head-scratching, he looked utterly confused.

Finally, he set aside the clipboard and unloaded a column that caused Gemma to frown—it was clearly Corinthian, probably not the style that Chev had ordered to replace the ones that had once supported the arched entry porch. After a few seconds’ hesitation, she went outside and walked next door, signaling the driver.

“Maybe I can help?”

“Are you the owner?”

“Uh, no. But I know something about the house, so if you’re confused about which columns to leave, I might be able to offer some guidance.”

He looked relieved. “That’d be great. If I leave the wrong ones, I can’t come back until next week. The numbers are smudged, so it could be any of three different kinds I got here.”

Gemma looked over the wood columns stacked on the flatbed like thick slabs of lumber and pointed out the pair that Chev had likely ordered. “The twisted ones.”

The man unloaded the columns in a cleared spot alongside the driveway, then came back to where she stood and extended his clipboard. “Will you sign for these, lady?”

She hesitated, suddenly nervous at having made a decision about something that was none of her business. She was saved from responding by the arrival of a silver pickup truck. “Here’s the owner now.”

Chev pulled up next to the bigger vehicle and swung down from the driver’s seat. His gaze swept over Gemma and she was suddenly conscious of her sweat-soaked,stained work clothes. Remembering the shuttered window, her heart thudded in her chest.

“Is there a problem?” Chev asked.

The man pointed to the column he’d first taken off the truck. “Your neighbor here saw me unloading this column.” Then he gestured to the pair he’d unloaded. “She said those were probably the ones you ordered instead.”

Chev’s gaze flitted back to her, molten in his appraisal. “She’s right.”

“Sign here,” the guy said.

Gemma stood there until the driver pulled away, feeling awkward, her vital signs heightened. “I didn’t mean to be nosy,” she said in a rush. “But the driver looked confused and I was relatively sure you weren’t going to install a pair of Corinthian columns on the front of a Mission-style house.”

His slow grin melted her apprehension. “You’re right. I owe you. That one mistake could’ve set back the entire project.”

She shrugged, ridiculously pleased. “It was nothing. Besides, you’ve come to my rescue more than once the past couple of days.”

He glanced around. “Any sign of our resident peacock?”

“Not today.”

“Maybe he’s moved on.”

She nodded. “Well, I should be getting back to my yard work.”

He nodded, but his gaze darkened and his lips parted, as if he wanted to say something … about last night? The tension in the air vibrated between them like a taut wire, but Gemma couldn’t bring herself to look away.

“How about taking that tour we talked about?” he asked, nodding towards his place. “Actually, I could use your advice on a couple of other things inside the house since you know about the architecture.”

“I’m no expert,” she protested, shaking her head.

“Still,” he said, coaxing her with a smile.

Between that smile and her burning curiosity to see the inside of the building, Gemma relented. “I’d like that.”

He led the way, and she fell into step next to him, a tingle of anticipation in her stomach both at the prospect of seeing the interior of the house and at spending time with the vibrant, exotic man. He was dressed in work clothes that were, at this time of the day, relatively clean. She touched her hair self-consciously. “I must look a fright.”

His sexy smile enveloped her in its radiating warmth. “You look great to me.”

She blushed and chided herself for sounding coy when last night she’d climaxed in front of him, not caring—hoping, even—that he’d been watching.

He seemed to drag his gaze away from her. “The columns are meant for here, of course,” he said, sweeping his arm toward the covered porch, whose roof was being held in place with several planks of wood that had been nailed together as a makeshift support system.

“They’ll be perfect,” she murmured.

He stopped at the front door. “I should’ve asked—have you ever been inside?”

“No. But I’ve peeked through the windows a few times.” Then she blanched. Peeking through windows was becoming a theme where the two of them were concerned.

From the way he looked at her, she knew that he’d noticed her gaffe. Heat suffused her face, but his brown eyes glinted with the light of a banked fire. “It’s even better when you can see things up close.”

She swallowed hard, unable to maintain eye contact. He opened the door and motioned for her to precede him. When she brushed by him, a jolt of electricity shot up her arm where warm pink skin met warm brown skin. Warning bells sounded in her head. If the man could ignite her essence with an accidental touch, what kind of sensual assault could he perpetrate on her with full body-on-body contact?

Dismissing the thought with a mental shake, she walked into a once-grand foyer that even in its state of decay, served up a soaring welcome, from the wrought-iron chandelier to the curved staircase that led to the second floor. Terra-cotta tile at their feet, much of it now cracked and dull from dirt and age, stretched in both directions.

“Wonderful,” she breathed.

“I’m going to have to replace most of the tile inside and out,” he said ruefully, then led her to the left into a long kitchen/keeping room.

“It’s huge,” she observed. And it wasn’t hard to imagine a family gathered here, laughing and passing heaping platters of food. Regret pinged through her chest. The holidays this year would be an awkward, lonely affair with only her and her frosty parents.

“I’d like to put in oversize appliances,” he said. “What do you think?”

Gemma’s eyebrows climbed. “About appliances?”

He shifted from foot to foot. “From a woman’s point of view. It’s been my experience that the kitchen usually makes or breaks the sale.”

She hesitated. “Well, I’m not much of a cook … lately. But I’d say anyone who recognizes what a great kitchen this is will want appliances to measure up. Personally, I’d love a firebrick oven.” She turned her head and smiled at the colorful picture that, with an inset wood frame, appeared to be built into the wall. “A mural, how lovely.”

He made a mournful noise as he fingered the worn, moldy piece of canvas. “Unfortunately, it’s so deteriorated I’m going to have to tear it out and fill in this area of the wall.”

“That’s too bad,” she murmured, then turned to the end of the room. “Look at the fantastic natural light.” She walked to the windows that faced out onto the dry, cracked pool in the backyard. “Are you going to restore the pool?”

He nodded. “I’m going to have it retiled.”

He showed her two rooms that could be bedrooms, one of which he’d turned into a makeshift office with a card table and a folding chair. A box of files and a legal pad of paper sat on the table, with stacks of product brochures scattered all over. She noted the stark contrast of this man’s workspace compared to Jason’s home office, which had to be furnished with the best of everything before he could even inhabit the space.

“Do you have another home nearby?” she asked.

“Another home?”

“Do you … live in Tampa?”

“Oh. No. I move around a lot for commercial carpentry jobs. The reason I have so little time to flip this house is because I have a job lined up in Miami in a few weeks.”

Why did the thought of him leaving plant a seed of worry in her stomach? She studied Chev’s unyielding profile as he led her up the circular staircase. His strong nose, his high cheekbones, his chisled jaw. He exuded power … and sex appeal.

“Some of the woodwork is in bad shape,” he said, shaking the wooden banister and watching splintered chunks fall to the floor below.

“Plaster ceilings,” she exclaimed, glancing up at the fissures around the iron light fixture.

“Expensive to repair, but worth it, I think.”

“Do you already have interested buyers?”

“An auction date is set, and several agents have said they’ll have clients here. Assuming I can do justice to the original architecture, of course. She was a beauty.”

Gemma murmured her agreement, especially when the second story opened into a master suite and bath that even in its state of disrepair, took her breath away. The wood moldings alone were a masterpiece. Her focus went to the cot set up in the corner of the room, then to the shuttered round window that was opposite her bedroom window.

“This is where I sleep,” he said unnecessarily. “The bathroom up here is the only one working at the moment.”

She nodded, hugging herself against the awkwardness that seemed to swamp the stuffy room. Wondering what was going through his head, she decided, was worse than knowing. “Awfully warm up here to have the window closed, don’t you think?”

“I was just trying to give you some privacy,” he said mildly. “This window looks into one of your upstairs rooms.”

“My bedroom,” she confirmed.

He nodded. “I, um, gathered that.”

Feeling bold, she asked, “You don’t like what you’ve seen?”

His mouth opened slightly, then his eyes turned smoky and he stepped in front of her. “On the contrary.”

He was standing so close, they might as well have been touching. His full, sensuous mouth was almost familiar to her. She could see the stubble of a patch of whiskers that he’d missed that morning shaving, could smell the lingering scent of his minty shaving cream. His powerful chest rose and fell quickly, his breathing as rapid as hers. He lowered his head and claimed her mouth in a motion so natural she didn’t realize it was happening until she felt the shock of his warm tongue thrusting into her mouth.

Gemma moaned and opened her mouth to accommodate him. Her arms slid around his waist as if she were comfortable kissing a virtual stranger. The kiss went from hot to scorching as he pulled her roughly against him, his hands skimming up and down her back. Gemma gave up the kiss to let her head loll back in pure pleasure as his hands explored her body. He groaned in her ear as his erection pressed into her stomach, and he jammed his hand into the warm juncture of her thighs. She squeezed her legs against his fingers, her knees weakening as desire swelled in her midsection.

His hands felt so good on her body … too good—

Her eyes flew open as the reality of where they were headed crashed down around her. This was where touching led … to a dangerous, vulnerable place … much safer to watch, and to be watched.

She stiffened and withdrew from his embrace. “I … can’t.”

Chev’s breath rasped out as he visibly tried to rein in his libido. “I guess I misunderstood.”

Gemma started backing away, stumbled, and caught herself before he could get to her. “No, you didn’t. But I need to keep things … at a distance.”

Before the expression on his face could turn from puzzled to something worse, Gemma turned and fled.

9

CHEV PAUSED in the sweltering midday sun to shout instructions to one of the many tile workers who was replacing the hundreds of broken squares in the driveway. He pulled a bandanna from his back pocket and wiped his brow before tying it around his head. For the hundredth time that day, he glanced toward Gemma’s house, wondering if he’d scared her off completely with his advances two days ago. He half hoped he had.

Then he lifted his gaze to his bedroom window that he’d unshuttered to let her know that he was interested in seeing her, even if it was only, as she’d put it, “at a distance.” He scoffed at his hypocrisy—he missed seeing her to the point of distraction. Yet he didn’t have time for a fling, and she didn’t seem to have the heart for it.

Obviously she was still hung up on her ex-husband.

He grimaced, realizing he’d worked up yet another erection that would go wasted unless he went back to the bar tonight and looked for the conjoined brunettes. Gemma Jacobs had made it clear that she had no intention of getting involved with him … so why couldn’t he get her and her performances off his mind?

“Chev!”

He turned his head to see a frustrated foreman trying to get his attention. Back to work.

Whatever Gemma was doing, he decided, she certainly wasn’t thinking about him.

“ONE OF THE FIRST historically documented instances of a dildo,” Gemma told her rapt audience, “is in Ancient Greece. The earliest dildos were made out of natural materials, such as wood or stone, and sold in public marketplaces. This particular example,” she said, pointing to a crude yellowed phallus mounted on a pedestal under glass, “is made from human bone.”

“Guess that’s where the term ‘boner’ came from,” a guy in the back cracked, eliciting laughs from the large group.

Gemma smiled obligingly and moved on to the next item on the tour. The museum’s concerns about how the X-rated exhibit would be received had been laid to rest. Jean from the employment agency had informed her that the adult-only tours were booked solid for the next month.

Gemma had worked eight hours for the past two days and had the blisters on her feet to prove it. But she’d been glad for the work that pushed her body to exhaustion and her mind to distraction. It kept her from dwelling on the fact that Chev’s bedroom window had been unshuttered since their encounter … an obvious invitation to resume her watch-me games.

She inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly to calm her racing pulse. It was the charged air in the museum, she told herself, that had her thinking of Chev and his big, strong hand jammed between her thighs. Behind the mask that shielded her identity from the tour group, perspiration moistened her hairline. Today’s crowd was more bawdy than most, tossing around jokes and innuendos that fueled the atmosphere to an almost palpable level. She’d lost a few couples already, slinking away to alcoves in the museum, she supposed, to indulge in a quickie before rejoining the tour.

Gemma used her tongue to whisk away a sheen of perspiration on her upper lip. She was beginning to feel like a fluffer on the set of a porn movie—the person who keeps everyone aroused between takes, but who never gets in on the action. The black corset she wore under a cropped jacket was chafing her nipples, and she ached to free them. But the costume of short shorts and jacket with stilettos was one of the most popular with the attendees—men and women alike were devouring her. Her sex and her breasts were heavy with awareness.

“This apparatus,” she said, pointing to a metal device that resembled a bulky thong on a nude female mannequin, “is a chastity belt, which was padlocked to prevent access for sexual intercourse. They were common in the Middle Ages when crusading and wars were widespread. Some women wore them voluntarily to ward off rape, and some wore them to pledge fidelity to their husbands who might be away at war for years at a time. And some were installed by jealous husbands who wanted to ensure their wives would remain faithful during their long absences.”

“Looks painful,” a woman remarked.

“Which can be its own turn-on,” another woman offered slyly.

A chorus of concurring murmurs met uncomfortable laughter as members of the crowd reacted. Gemma waited until the din had died before moving on to the room that housed furniture manufactured for the purpose of aiding sex—swings, contoured chairs, adjustable beds and benches.Everywhere she looked, she saw Chev, making good use of the devices, his long, brown body poised for a session of Tantric sex. Although she had the feeling that a man like Chev didn’t need props to shake a woman to her core. The sheer intensity of his kiss still plucked at her nerve endings.

She moved through the rest of the tour with the scent of his skin in her nostrils, the pressure of his mouth on her lips. By the time she bade the group farewell, she was ready to combust. She slipped into the employee ladies’room, lifted the mask to her forehead, and wet a paper towel to hold against her warm neck. The mirror reflected flushed cheeks, dilated eyes and swollen lips. Gemma felt ripe and moist.