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

Still, it was worth a phone call. She dialed the number listed and after a series of automated selections was finally connected to a live person in human resources who informed Gemma that the job had been filled through an employment agency the same day it had been listed.

After browsing the ads of other, less appealing jobs available in the “arts” field and realizing that she was woefully underqualified for all of them, Gemma pushed to her feet. Crossing the kitchen, she fought a panicky feeling that was becoming all too familiar lately—the feeling that the exit she’d chosen in life had no reentry back onto the freeway.

In a word, she felt … stupid. And angry with herself. Thirty-two years old and she was suddenly ill equipped to live her own life.

Hoping that a pot of java would improve her outlook, she filled the coffeemaker and listened to it gurgle as she stared out the window at the house next door. With its shutters, doors and windows thrown open, the house looked vulnerable. Indeed, it seemed to be sagging in self-consciousness, as if the old girl were resigned to the idea that before she could be restored, she first had to be stripped of her pride.

And from the dust clouds buffeting out of the second-story windows, Chev Martinez appeared to be the man for the job. She craned for a glimpse of him, but the rude beep of the coffeemaker interrupted her idle musings.

Which was just as well.

CHEV MARTINEZ PAUSED and leaned on a push broom to allow the dust in the room—and in his head—to settle. He’d been anticipating this day for months, since he’d first spotted the Spanish-style house sitting abandoned, a fading exotic bloom in an otherwise bland but upscale neighborhood. Since that time, he’d driven by countless times, just to reassure himself that the place was still standing, still waiting for him.

And he’d become accustomed to seeing the fresh-faced blonde next door tending to her flower beds. He’d seen the husband’s name on the mailbox, knew the man’s title and position, and had tried to put her out of his mind. But there was something about the woman that spoke to him—the grace of her lithe body, the big hats and colorful gloves she wore gardening, the fact that she always looked as if she were humming.

She was … happy. Chev had envied the man who came home to her sunny smile every day, had imagined that she possessed a wicked sense of humor and was a great lover. The kind of woman who presented a proper appearance for the political scene and her suburban neighbors, but came undone in the privacy of her own bedroom.

When he’d pulled up today, he’d known something had changed. Her yard was untended and newspapers were piled on the porch. Her house was dark and quiet. His first thought was that she and her husband had taken an extended vacation, but then he’d seen a light go on in an upstairs room, had seen her solitary figure moving around. Knowing she was there had left him feeling antsy all morning. Finding the stray letter in his yard had given him a legitimate reason to knock on her door, but he’d paced around like a kid before working up his nerve.

With good reason.

Seeing her up close had sent his vital signs galloping. Her red-rimmed eyes and damp cheeks had confirmed his suspicion that something was wrong, and the tan line on her ring finger had given him a clue as to what. Her response that she lived alone cinched his suspicion that the woman’s happiness had been brought to a halt by a sudden end to her marriage.

The knowledge both saddened and unnerved him. He’d met plenty of women for whom he’d felt a physical attraction, but there was something so … appealing about this woman that it disarmed him. He could see in her eyes how broken, how vulnerable she was, and while his first instinct was to get close to her, he didn’t want to get involved with a woman who lived only a few steps away from his work site … and who was still holding a torch for her ex. Besides, he was only responding to the wild fantasies he’d spun about the woman. She was probably nothing like he’d imagined.

Gemma.

Of course her name would be unique, special. Of course she would recognize the neglected charm of this house. Of course her legs would be long and her breasts full. Of course she would have a brown beauty mark next to her shapely mouth that completely stole his concentration.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at the sweaty grit on his neck. He had to get his libido under control and his mind back on the job. It wasn’t as if Gemma Jacobs was looking to start up something with him. Her husband’s policies hadn’t been particularly friendly to Americans of Puerto Rican descent—for all he knew, she might share her ex’s views. It was, he acknowledged, a flimsy attempt to distance himself from the woman in his mind, but he had a full plate at the moment and he couldn’t afford the distraction.

This would be the third house he’d flipped in the past year. For someone who didn’t own a house of his own—and didn’t plan to ever settle down—he seemed to have a knack for knowing what home buyers looked for. He had one month to finish this renovation before he had to be in Miami for a lucrative commercial job. His goal was to put the For Sale sign back in the yard within that time frame and have a fat check in his hand before he left town. The auction was already scheduled. If he missed the deadline, he was screwed. Which meant there was no time to waste on a flirtation, no matter how tempting.

No. Matter. How. Tempting.

Forcing aside the thought of his neighbor’s lush body, Chev walked to the window and ran a hand over the carved woodwork of the frame, some of it flaking paint, some of it rotted. This one repair alone would take hours, but in the end, it would be worth the hard work. People buying in this neighborhood would expect attention to detail. The place reminded him of pictures of his grandparents’ colorful home in Puerto Rico. He took in the wide plank floors of the large room, the cracked plaster walls and ceiling, the tall rounded door openings, all of the finishes compromised from neglect and exposure to extreme temperatures. But the house would be grand once she was restored to her former self.

He stared across at the picture window where he’d seen his new neighbor this morning. Considering she’d been scantily clad and her hair tousled, it seemed likely that it was her bedroom window. A filmy white curtain moved with a light breeze, as if in confirmation.

Her window was larger and slightly lower than the one where he stood. At the thought of having a clear view of her bedroom, his sex hardened and pushed against his fly. Did she have flowery sheets? Did she like to sleep late? Did she ever sleep in the nude?

Chev turned away and shook his head to dislodge the image from his mind. He went back to sweeping, putting more muscle in it than necessary. He was losing his mind, playing with fire by indulging these dangerous fantasies. He made his living on the road, moving wherever the best jobs took him, satisfying his sexual urges with the occasional pretty barfly or waitress, partners who were as transient as he was. Not suburban divorcées who tended flower beds.

Besides, if Gemma Jacobs knew what he was thinking, she’d probably have him arrested.

3

AFTER POURING HERSELF a tall mug of coffee and adding milk, Gemma returned to the Help Wanted ads armed with a red pen. Several frustrating phone calls later, she had learned two things: jobs in the immediate Tampa area generally didn’t remain open for more than forty-eight hours, and the majority of positions were filled through employment agencies. So when she spotted an ad for one such agency, she made another phone call.

A chipper sounding woman answered the phone and invited Gemma to come in the next morning for an “assessment of her skill set.” Gemma made an appointment and hung up slowly, feeling as if she were back at the placement office on campus looking for work-study programs that would mete out enough to pay for toaster-oven meals and discount dresses.

When angry tears threatened to undo the progress she’d made, she turned her attention to the cleaning she’d told Sue she’d get to today. The house was musty and dusty and the laundry could no longer be ignored. Gathering cleaning supplies, she threw herself into the task, only to be derailed every time her feather duster encountered a photo of her and Jason, or when the vacuum cleaner unearthed relics of their relationship—a valentine that had fallen behind a table, a cuff link. The yawning emptiness of the house made it feel like someone had died. She considered making paper carnations out of the crumpled tissues littering the floor, but she had to admit, it felt good stuffing the tear-stained clumps into a trash bag.

The stack of things that Jason had inadvertently left behind continued to grow—a pair of golf shoes here, a wife there. Gemma made slow but steady progress, although she was hanging on to her emotions by a thread when the phone rang late in the afternoon. Seeing her mother’s number on the caller ID screen did nothing to improve the day’s direction.

But considering that her final divorce papers were on the table next to her Real Simple magazine, it seemed the moment to come clean with Phyllipa Jacobs was at hand.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Gemma,” came the wounded reply. “Is there something you want to tell me and your father?”

Gemma bit down on the inside of her cheek. “I guess you heard.”

“You mean about my own daughter’s divorce? A complete stranger at the local paper called to get my comment. I’ve never been so mortified in my entire life.”

If the newspaper in the tiny town of Peterman had heard about the state attorney general’s divorce, then it had to be on the wire services. Had Jason’s office released a statement? “I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m sorry you found out from someone else.”

“Then it’s true?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this. What happened?”

Gemma dropped into a chair and gave a choked little laugh. “I really don’t know.”

“You’re laughing?”

She closed her eyes. “No, I’m not laughing, Mother. I’m telling the truth. It was Jason’s … idea. He wanted the divorce.”

“Jason wanted the divorce? What did you do?”

Gemma flinched. “Why would you think I did something?”

“Because Jason loved you. He gave you a wonderful life.”

“Mom, I—”

“Did you even try to work things out?”

The unexpected attack took her breath away. “Mom, Jason didn’t want to work things out.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Jason I know.”

Meaning Gemma didn’t know her own husband—a direct hit. And true. He had fooled them all. Jason’s parents were deceased, and her parents had welcomed him into the family like the son they never had. They had been delighted and proud that their daughter was married to such a powerful man.

“I know that you and Dad are disappointed, and I’m sorry.”

“But what are you going to do, Gemma? How will you make it?”

She blinked at the utter certainty in her mother’s voice that she couldn’t survive on her own. “I’m going to get a job.”

“Doing what?”

“I do have a college degree.”

“That you’ve never used.”

Gemma put her hand to her temple. “I’m sure I’ll find something.”

A baritone voice sounded in the background, then her mother said, “Your father wants to know if you need money.”

“Tell him no, but thanks.”

“Gemma,” her mother said, lowering her voice, “if things were unsatisfactory in the bedroom between you and Jason—”

“Mom, don’t—”

“I’m just saying that if he looked elsewhere for companionship, it doesn’t necessarily mean that things are over.”

“What’s over is this conversation, Mother. I have to go. I’ll call you soon.”

She disconnected the call and dropped the handset as if it were on fire, still trying to process the surreal conversation. Her mother—the woman who had draped a kitchen tea towel over Gemma’s face while she explained the birds and bees so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact—was giving her advice on how to deal with a sexually unfulfilled husband?

Would everyone automatically assume that she was lousy in bed?

Probably, since she had jumped to the same conclusion herself.

Even in the beginning she and Jason had never lit up the sheets, but their lackluster sex life hadn’t been an issue between them because they were compatible in so many other ways. They made time for each other … usually. His schedule had grown more demanding as the election had drawn near. But he’d sworn to her that no one else was involved in their breakup, and she wanted to believe him.

Two frantic days of tearing apart his desk, closet and credit card statements hadn’t yielded any suspicious purchases or activities. After which she’d lain awake agonizing over what was worse—being dumped for another woman, or being dumped for no discernible reason.

A low buzzing noise sounded from next door. She stood and glanced out the kitchen window to see Chev Martinez wielding the pressure washer on the stucco exterior of the house. He had removed his shirt in deference to the late afternoon heat, providing a heart-stuttering view of his powerful chest, glistening from sweat and mist. A red bandanna covered his head, giving him a roguish appearance. His jeans were soaked up to his knees, and water dripped from his elbow as he moved the wand, removing years of grime from the house one swath at a time. The dark outline of the tattoo encompassed the muscle of his thick upper arm.

Gemma’s body warmed in forgotten areas. The man was exotic and out of place in this sleepy neighborhood, like an animal who had wandered in from the wilds. The tip of her tongue emerged and whisked away the sheen of perspiration on the rim of her lip. But when he turned his head in her direction, she shrank back from the window, feeling foolish, like a sex-starved housewife ogling the pool boy.

She gave herself a mental shake—this wasn’t like her. She wasn’t the woman at the cocktail party glancing across the room to catch the eye of a handsome man, the kind of woman who flirted with waiters and shoe salesmen. She had been physically committed to her husband, had closed her mind to the idea of touching another man, or having another man touch her.

She didn’t know how to behave like a single woman, couldn’t remember the vocabulary, the body language.

Suddenly she felt tired, her lazy muscles taxed from cleaning. She needed to take a shower and start thinking about tomorrow’s appointment at the employment office. She pitched the old newspapers and sorted the rest of the mail, tossing Jason’s magazines and catalogs into a basket, her fingers hesitating over the divorce decree.

Where did one keep their divorce papers? In a box with their defunct wedding photos and marriage license? In a file with other routine documents like tax forms and canceled checks? In a frame, mounted on the wall?

She sighed, postponing yet another decision. When her hand touched the white envelope—presumably from Covington Women’s College—that Chev Martinez had delivered, a nostalgic pang struck her. She had savored her time at the school, had been ecstatic to escape the suffocation of her parents’ close supervision. The young women she’d met there had seemed so much more worldly and more mature than she’d been. Gemma had been content to hover on the periphery of their candid opinions and heated debates about the human condition, trying to soak up their moxie.

She tore open the flap with her thumb and removed the contents, another envelope tucked inside a cover letter. The yellow flowered envelope plucked at a memory chord. On it was written a series of numbers and letters that made up a code of sorts—she frowned—in her own handwriting?

Unfolding the crisp cover letter, she scanned the letterhead. Dr. Michelle Alexander elicited another tug on her memory, compelling her to read on to determine why.

Dear Ms. Jacobs,

You were a student in my senior-level class titled Sexual Psyche at Covington Women’s College. You may or may not recall that one of the optional assignments in the class was for each student to record her sexual fantasies and seal them in an envelope, to be mailed to the student in ten years’time. Enclosed you will find the envelope you submitted, which was carefully catalogued by a numbered code for the sake of anonymity and has remained sealed. It is my hope that the contents will prove to be emotionally constructive in whatever place and situation you find yourself ten years later. If you have any questions, concerns or feedback, do not hesitate to contact me. With warm regards, Dr. Michelle Alexander

Wonder flowered in Gemma’s chest as memories came rushing back in a torrent of disjointed images. The Sexual Psyche class had been legendary at Covington. Jokingly dubbed “Sex for Beginners” by the female students, Gemma had felt naughty simply signing up for it. She recalled how nervous and self-conscious she’d been the first time she’d slid into a seat in the rear of the class, eyes lowered.

Dr. Michelle Alexander had been a lush-hipped woman with long, dark wavy hair and a wide, warm smile. She had made sex seem like a glorious gift rather than the obligation that Gemma’s mother had conveyed. Gemma had been mesmerized, wondering as the woman lectured on the virtues of self-gratification and multiple orgasms, how many lovers she had at her beck and call. The class had been an awakening for Gemma, an outlet for all the pent-up questions she had about a topic that had long mystified her.

She fingered the flowered envelope, oddly embarrassed at the prospect of reading things she’d written as a virgin, before she’d even met Jason, now that she thought about the timing.

Gemma bit into her lip. Why was the prospect of having insight into the woman she’d been before Jason so unsettling? After all, she had come full circle.

4

GEMMA CARRIED the envelope upstairs along with a half bottle of wine, deciding to take a shower and relax before delving into the past. The air on the second floor was warm and moist. She glanced at the clock and groaned—she’d forgotten to call a service company to come fix the air conditioner. Tonight was going to be a hot one.

But the water in the shower was cool. She slipped beneath the stream and leaned her head back, capturing a mouthful of water, then expelling it straight up. She smiled, realizing she hadn’t done that in a while. It was such a silly thing to encourage her, but it did. A unwitting moment of pleasure, a few seconds of forgetfulness.

Then she spotted one of Jason’s razors in the shower caddy, and the awful feeling, which she imagined as similar to being in a car accident, returned. No warning, no control and no mercy. And the numbness afterward, the deep denial that something that happened countless times a day to other people could happen to her. She and Jason—they had been special … different … happy.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

She soaped and rinsed her skin hurriedly, suddenly eager to get out of the shower, to stop her mind from wandering to unhealthy places. When she turned off the water,she picked up Jason’s razor and tossed it in the garbage can. Then she pulled a towel from the rack to blot her hair and pat her skin dry. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and stopped for a candid appraisal.

Out of neglect, her hair was a little longer than she normally kept it, but it made her look younger, softer. She had always taken care of her body through Pilates and regular outdoor activity, and although she might have lost some definition over the past few weeks of apathy, she still looked as good naked as she ever had.

She ran her hands over her breasts and down her flat stomach.

Had Jason simply grown bored with her? She turned to look at her behind, wryly checking for an expiration date she might have missed. She was no longer a coed, but she refused to believe she was past her prime.

Gemma wrapped a towel around her and tucked the ends between her breasts, then padded to the bedroom. After splashing a hefty portion of red zinfandel into a glass, she settled into an oversize chair and picked up the yellow flowered envelope. She held it for a moment, trying to remember the contents. She closed her eyes and visualized the dorm room she had shared with Sue and two other girls her senior year. She’d kept her stationery in a box under her bed. A memory flickered and she recalled that she’d sat up with a flashlight to work on the assignment—the act of writing down her sexual fantasies in the daylight had seemed unthinkable.

Two mouthfuls of the wine made a mellow path down her throat. She carefully worked loose the old, dry adhesive on the envelope, her heart quickening behind her breastbone. Removing several neatly folded stationery sheets,she recognized her girlish handwriting—more timid back then, tighter, smaller.

The subject matter probably had something to do with that, she conceded.

The date was January, the last semester of her senior year.

I don’t know how to start this letter, really. The instructor of our Sex for Beginners class says we’re supposed to write down our sexual fantasies. Dr. Alexander says that we’ll learn a lot about ourselves by understanding our deepest desires. In ten years, she’s supposed to find us and send us our letters. In ten years I’ll be thirty-two and it seems so far away I can’t imagine what I’ll be like then.

Gemma released a dry laugh. Ten years had evaporated, and she still didn’t have a clue as to who she was.

And as far as the sexual fantasies go, I’m not sure I know enough about sex to know what excites me. You see, I’m a virgin, so I don’t know what it feels like to make love. I’ve never even seen a naked man, except for pictures. And I watched a couple of X-rated videos with Sue that she got from some guy. Sue says that sex is more fun for the man than the woman and that doesn’t seem fair. The women on the porn video seemed to be having fun, though.

I touched a penis once, at a party. The guy was kissing me and shoved my hand down his pants. It was softer than I thought it would be, and hairy. Then he came in my hand and I had to go to the bathroom to wash it off. It smelled strange and not at all like I thought it would. When I came out of the bathroom, the guy acted like he didn’t know me.

Gemma grimaced. She didn’t remember the guy, but she remembered the incident. How naive she’d been.

I didn’t really care because I didn’t like the guy. But there was another time, another party, another guy. He just looked at me from across the room. We never talked and he didn’t touch me, but there was something about the way he watched me that made me tingle all over. It made me wish I was wearing something sexy. It made me want to touch myself in front of him. It made me feel like I was someone else.

So I decided to become someone else.

Gemma stood abruptly, taking a deep drink from her glass, unwilling to read further—at least for now. Her sex vibrated on a low hum, her pulse hammered. Blocked memories came flying back…

Dr. Alexander had not only encouraged her students to write down their fantasies, but to act them out in a safe way. The idea had captivated Gemma, who had always kept her emotions bottled, ignoring an itch she couldn’t identify. The assignment was a permission slip to misbehave. For a week she had played the role of an exhibitionist, donning disguises and leaving campus to act out her fantasies.

The things she’d done made her face burn even now. And she’d come very close to getting into serious trouble. The experience had scared her straight, so to speak. And a few weeks later, she’d met Jason, and her life had fallen into place. She’d been so grateful to have escaped that little detour unscathed. No wonder she hadn’t been able to recall what she’d written—because it was better left unremembered.