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

“It wouldn’t help,” she said, sounding resigned to whatever demons were plaguing her.

He put his hand under her chin and forced her to look at him. “I want to get next to you, Gemma. Let me.”

Her sigh caught in the moist air between them. Raw longing emanated from her smoky green eyes. She was wavering. He lowered his mouth to hers and captured a moan.

A car horn blasted into the air, suspending the moment. A white Lexus sat in Gemma’s driveway. A person alighted, frowning in their direction.

“Oh, dear God,” Gemma murmured. “Mother.”

12

AT THE SIGHT of her mother standing in her driveway next door, Gemma’s knees turned to elastic. Her lips were still warm from Chev’s, his hand still on her waist. And even at this distance, she could feel her mother’s searing disapproval.

“I have to go,” she said, pulling away, fumbling with her belt.

“But—”

“I’ll talk to you later.”

Without looking back, Gemma walked stiffly toward her mother. Phyllipa Jacobs stood holding a casserole caddy and leaning against her car as if she might need it to support her weight. Gemma waved in an attempt to diffuse the openmouthed expression on her mother’s face.

“Mother … what a surprise.” She reached forward for an embrace, but her mother remained immobile.

“Gemma, who is that man? Were you … kissing him?”

Gemma caught her mother’s arm and guided her toward the front door. “His name is Chev, and he’s fixing up the house next door. I’m … helping him.”

Her mother allowed herself to be hauled up the stairs and onto the porch. “Helping him do what?”

“Choose architectural details for the renovation.”

“I came to visit because I’m worried about you, and I find you—” she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper “—in the arms of a strange man?”

“We were just talking, Mother.” Gemma worked the key in the lock furiously and pushed open the door.

“What on earth happened to your yard?”

“There’s a rogue peacock in the neighborhood.”

“A rogue … what? Gemma, have you been drinking?”

She sighed. “No, Mother.” But she sure could use a tall one right about now.

After they entered the house, Gemma flipped on lights strategically, once again wishing she’d taken the time to throw out all the items that Jason had said he didn’t want. Now they mocked her, proof of her reluctance to let him go long after he’d made it clear he wanted nothing from her.

“It’s awfully stuffy in here,” Phyllipa remarked.

“The air conditioner is on the blink.”

“You should call someone.”

Gemma tamped down the anger that flared in her chest at her mother’s patronizing tone. “I have. The parts haven’t arrived.” She inhaled for strength and gestured to the casserole. “What did you bring?”

“Lasagna.”

“Oh, nice. Can you stay and eat with me?”

Phyllipa nodded, then frowned at Gemma’s coat suspiciously. “It’s ninety degrees outside. Why on earth are you wearing a coat, dear?”

Gemma forced a shrug. “The weatherman predicted rain.”

Phyllipa squinted. “What kind of panty hose are you wearing?”

“Uh, they’re part of my work uniform.”

“Doing what?”

“I’ll explain over dinner,” Gemma said, turning toward the stairs. “Let me change first.” She bounded up the stairs as fast as the high heels would allow, then closed her bedroom door and exhaled. Her mother’s sense of timing hadn’t improved.

With her skin still tingling from being caught in a compromising position, she crossed to the picture window and glanced down. Chev was in the yard, hosing off the newly tiled walkway and watering large trees still in tubs, waiting to be planted. His work shirt gaped open and she shivered, remembering the smooth firmness of his skin as he pulled her body close to his. She reached out and touched her finger against the warm pane of glass, imagining the heat they could generate.

At that moment he glanced up and saw her. He wet his lips and stared blatantly, expectantly. The urge to expose herself to him seized her. Moving automatically, she untied her belt and allowed the thin coat to fall to the floor.

Chev’s hand slipped and water surged from the hose he held. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, the edge of the red corset biting into the tender flesh of her breasts. She slowly unlaced the front of the corset, then peeled it off, allowing her breasts to fall free. Chev turned to face her, legs spread wide, the water hose hanging loose at this side. His brown skin glistened in the waning daylight, his jeans riding low enough to reveal the white waistband of his briefs. Her gaze went to the bulge there, and intense feminine satisfaction welled within her. She reached up to cup her aching breasts, longing for release.

A knock at the bedroom door sounded, crashing into her trancelike state. She gasped, crossed her arms over her breasts, and turned away from the window. “Yes?”

“Gemma,” her mother said through the door, “how about a nice salad?”

“Sounds good, Mom. Thanks. I’ll be right down.”

She pushed her hands into her hair and let out a sigh. What had she been thinking? Was she so out of control that she couldn’t even restrain herself when her own mother was in the house?

She practiced deep breathing, counting to ten. Then, somewhat calmer, she dressed in jeans and T-shirt, ignoring the pings of the sensitive areas of her body. The window was like a magnetic field, pulling at her. She avoided it and went downstairs to face her mother, a stone of dread in her stomach.

Phyllipa had donned an apron and was rinsing romaine lettuce at the sink while the microwave hummed away, warming the lasagna. Gemma stopped at the doorway of the kitchen and pursed her mouth, because her mother’s attention wasn’t on the salad. Instead, she was craning to look out the window, presumably for a glimpse of the “strange man” that Gemma had been adhered to.

“Dad didn’t want to come?” Gemma asked, snagging a tomato slice from a plate.

Her mother turned and wiped her hands on the apron. “He had something he needed to do.”

A big, fat lie. “The lasagna smells great.”

Her mother crossed her arms and assumed her parental stance. “So … are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

Gemma felt herself being pulled along on the force of her mother’s not-so-subtle guilt trip. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Jason is barely out of the house and you’ve already taken up with someone else? Or maybe that was the reason he left in the first place?”

“No, that’s not the reason,” Gemma said through gritted teeth. “And I’m not going to explain my personal life to you, Mother.”

Her mother screwed up her mouth, which was too bad, because otherwise Phyllipa was a very attractive woman. But Gemma had a hard time imagining her cold, uptight mother being warm and intimate. No wonder her parents seemed so distant from each other.

“Have you talked to Jason lately?”

“As a matter of fact, I called to ask him what to do with the things he left behind, and he didn’t even have time to talk to me.”

“He’s a very busy man.”

“I know, Mother. I lived with him for ten years.”

Her mother began ripping the lettuce into chunks. “A marriage requires sacrifice, Gemma, especially when your husband has a demanding job.” Phyllipa nodded to the stack of rolled-up newspapers by the door. “Since you haven’t been keeping up with the news, you should know that Jason is in the middle of a very important drug case right now. I’m sure his stress level is through the roof. He needs all the support he can get.”

A lump of emotion lodged in Gemma’s throat. “Why are you making this out to be my fault? Whose side are you on?”

Phyllipa turned a compassionate eye on Gemma. “I’m on your side, dear. I want to see you safe and secure. Do you realize that Jason might be the next governor?”

Gemma bit down on the inside of her cheek. “This isn’t what I’d planned either, Mom, but Jason has made it clear that he doesn’t want to be married to me.”

“Do you still love him?”

She hugged herself. “I … guess so. I miss him. I was blindsided, so I’m still getting used to the idea of not being married to him.”

Her mother came over and ran her hands up and down Gemma’s arms. “If you love him, you have to fight for him, dear. He’s probably going through a little midlife crisis. He’ll be back when he realizes that he can’t live without you.”

Phyllipa smiled, her eyes bright with concern and sincerity, and Gemma felt her mother’s love wash over her. She made the scenario that Gemma had initially fantasized about—of Jason coming back—seem possible. And preferable. But so much water had passed under the bridge … she was growing stronger and more independent every day, looking forward to finding her own way. “Mom, I’m not sure that I would welcome Jason back.”

“That’s your anger talking,” her mother said quietly, squeezing Gemma’s shoulders. “And you’re entitled to it. But don’t let it harden you to the possibility of patching things up with Jason. The best thing you can do right now is to let him cool his heels. He’ll come to his senses.”

Her mother had a way of making things sound so simple. If only. Gemma decided not to respond, to merely let her mother think what she wanted. In time Phyllipa would have to accept reality.

Her mother pulled her into a rocking hug, then withdrew and angled her head. “In the meantime, don’t do something that might make it even harder for the two of you to reconcile.”

The reference to Chev was unmistakable. Warmth flooded her face, but Gemma was saved from responding when the microwave chimed, effectively distracting her mother. She made it through the meal with small talk about the weather and asking about her mother’s book club. When the subject of her job came up, she said she was working for a local museum.

“From the looks of the panty hose you were wearing, they must have a strange dress code,” Phyllipa observed.

Gemma simply nodded and complimented the food. Fortunately, her mother didn’t like driving in the dark, so she left soon after they were finished eating. Gemma stood on the porch and waved as her mother pulled away. When the car was gone, she stole a glance next door and saw that a few lights were on. Chev was still working, probably on the yards of wood molding that still needed to be repaired. The man obviously enjoyed working with his hands, but he was intelligent, too. And oh, so sexy in an earthy way that appealed to her baser instincts.

In fact, she wondered if her exhibitionism would have been so quickly revived if he hadn’t been such a willing participant, located so conveniently next door, with a bird’s-eye view into her bedroom. Probably not, she decided with a little bubble of resentment that she allowed to grow. He was, at least partially, responsible for her wicked behavior.

Feeling marginally absolved, Gemma turned and walked back inside, scooping up the unread newspapers. Her mother’s comments about Jason had piqued her interest. She had to admit that she missed being in the middle of state politics.

Poring over the pages of the papers, her heart caught at the pictures of Jason at a press conference, or striding into the capitol building, looking as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. A gag order had been issued regarding the drug case.

No matter what had happened between them, she still respected him for rising to such an impressive office. He was, as her mother had indicated, probably headed for the governor’s mansion. To think that she might have been the first lady of the state…

The phone rang, piercing into her thoughts, jangling her nerves. She glanced at the caller ID and noted it was coming from a private source. Afraid it was that pesky reporter Wilcox again, she almost didn’t answer. After the fourth ring, however, she changed her mind.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Gemma.”

Her pulse spiked. “Jason … hi.”

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Gemma glanced around at the dark emptiness of the house and almost laughed. “No.”

“I just called to see how you were doing.”

She frowned at the slight slur in his voice. “Have you been drinking?”

“A little. It’s been a rough week.” His voice sounded raspy and unexpectedly sexy. She pictured him still at his desk, pulling at his tie, loosening the precise knot. His light brown hair would be ruffled from running his fingers through it. He would be drinking scotch, neat.

“I know. I was just reading in the paper about the drug ring you’re prosecuting. You look tired in the pictures.”

“I am tired,” he conceded. “I’m sorry if I was short with you the other day when you called. It was nice of you to offer to send the things I left. Actually, I did remember a favorite golf towel that I misplaced.”

“The black one? I found it in the garage.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s the one.” He gave a little laugh. “It’s my lucky towel. Did you throw it out yet?”

She leaned over and fished it from a cardboard box near her feet. “I suppose I could dig it out of the garbage.”

“I would appreciate it.” He exhaled heavily. “I’m so sorry, Gemma.”

His admission took her by surprise, and she wondered with a pang of anguish if he was on the verge of confessing adultery. “Sorry for what?”

“I’m sorry for everything. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Her eyes grew moist as a host of emotions galloped through her chest—love, hate, regret, remorse, frustration. “Okay,” she said finally, surprised at how steady her voice sounded.

“I could drive down in a few days to pick up that golf towel.”

Her heart lifted unexpectedly. It was a flimsy excuse to come to see her. She fought to maintain a certain nonchalance. “That would be fine. I’ll hang on to it for you.”

“Great,” he said, his voice warm and melancholy. “I’ll come down as soon as I get a break from this case. Take care.”

She hung up the phone slowly, not sure what to make of Jason’s phone call. It seemed as if he was offering some kind of olive branch. Or was he reconsidering the abrupt end to their marriage? Maybe her mother had been right—that he’d gone through a bit of a midlife crisis, had wanted his freedom only to learn that it wasn’t what he’d expected. Maybe he was starting to realize that she had been more than just a political prop, and that success is empty without someone to share it with.

The thought of getting back together with Jason made her mind spin in confusion. In the first few days after he’d left, she had fantasized that he would come back on his knees. But in the weeks that followed, her hurt had turned into anger. And when she’d received the final papers, she realized now that the anger had turned into resolve. Her thoughts were no longer dominated by Jason, her actions no longer dependent on him. Getting back together now seemed … retroactive. Things would have to be different, at least as far as she was concerned.

Then she chided herself for worrying about it. Jason might have been simply feeling guilty about the way he’d ended things, wanting to ensure she wouldn’t have something bad to say about him in a subsequent election.

Still, she had to admit that knowing he might be having second thoughts was salve to her wounded pride. And the knowledge that she wasn’t holding her breath after one tentative call from him buoyed her spirits. She felt better than she’d felt in weeks.

Maybe in years.

She was humming as she climbed to the second floor. She opened windows and turned on fans to alleviate the stuffiness. When she got to her bedroom window, the sight of the open round one across from hers warmed her midsection. And yet …

The talk with her mother and the subsequent conversation with Jason made her pause. Not because she was afraid she would sabotage a chance at getting back together with Jason, but because, she suddenly realized, she liked the feeling of being unattached.

She touched her mouth, remembering Chev’s kiss. It would be easy to become attached to him, and she couldn’t afford to do that now when she was just starting to get her legs underneath her again.

Gemma caught sight of the folded sheets of her fantasy letter lying on her nightstand and was struck with the urge to keep reading. It was, after all, a harmless way to relive her fantasies. She moistened her lips and acknowledged a stirring deep in her sex at the mere prospect. Then she slid a glance toward the window and changed her mind. Reading more of the letter would likely only increase her eagerness to put on a show for Chev, and he’d already made it clear he wanted more than a performance … more than she was willing to give.

She glanced around the room, looking for a distraction. At the sight of her sketchbook, she brightened. She’d promised Chev she’d have the mural finished before his little family gathering. It was the perfect diversion from all the jumbled thoughts in her head.

From a hallway closet she retrieved a folded easel, a dusty tube that held a roll of primed canvas, and a suitcase containing her stash of paints, linseed oil, turpentine and assorted brushes and palette knives. When she lifted the lid, a wave of nostalgia flooded her senses. The smell of the pungent linseed oil, the sight of curled tubes of paint, the comforting feel of a round wooden brush in her hand. She carried everything to Jason’s office and set up an impromptu studio, her excitement growing as the room took shape.

Gemma used a utility knife to cut the canvas to the size she’d jotted down in her notebook, then used thumbtacks and clips to fasten it to the easel. There was something so optimistic about a piece of clean white canvas—she could make it anything she wanted. She took a few moments to picture in her mind a replica of the simple gestural landscape that had once adorned the kitchen wall of the Spanish house. With a vine of charcoal, she sketched the picture onto the canvas. When she was satisfied that it was a close rendering of the sketch she’d shown Chev, she wiped her stained fingers on a towel and stood back with a smile.

She missed the therapeutic power of creating art. Creating something where once there had been nothing, something that had never before existed, could be a magical, insular experience. It had a way of crowding out everything else.

Then the screech of the peacock cut into the night air.

Gemma grimaced. Well, almost everything.

As the bird continued its grating call, she remembered what Chev had said about the creature, that biology would drive it to leave if it didn’t find what it was looking for—a hen with which to mate. And she got the feeling that Chev was hinting that he, too, couldn’t wait forever for what he wanted—her.

The difference, she reminded herself, was that unlike the peacock, Chev Martinez would be leaving no matter what. No-strings sex would be the perfect solution, but she knew she couldn’t sleep with her seductive neighbor and not feel something … and she didn’t want to go there. From now on, she would be on her best behavior, which meant staying away from her window, no matter how desperate she was.

Gemma swallowed hard.

And no matter how tempting he was.

13

“SO HOW’S THE HUNKY NEIGHBOR?” Sue Asked.

“Fine,” Gemma answered cautiously into her cell phone. Over the past couple of days she and Chev had fallen into the role of … cheerful neighbors. He helped to chase the bothersome peacock from her yard, she answered any questions he had about the house and worked on the mural in her free time.

And she scrupulously avoided her bedroom window.

Meanwhile, he had respected the distance she’d put between them since her mother’s visit, with no questions. Although when they’d discussed the mosaic for the pool renovation last evening, she had felt his hungry gaze on her.

And she’d reveled in it.

“I think you should go for it,” Sue said, as if she could read her mind. “He sounds like the perfect prospect for a rebound affair. I say the sooner, the better.”

Gemma stretched forward to glance at the steel-gray clouds hanging low that did not bode well for a quick commute to the museum. “What, is there a clock ticking on my sexuality?”

“You said he’s not going to be around for long.”

“And?”

“And Dr. Alexander would tell you to follow your instincts.”

“Dr. Alexander isn’t around,” Gemma said. If she were, Gemma would be tempted to tell her that the little experiment in class ten years ago had nearly been her undoing—then and now.

“Are those letters of yours giving you any ideas?” Sue asked in a suggestive voice.

“They’re the words of a naive schoolgirl,” Gemma said, as if she were trying to convince herself. “Let’s just say they have no basis in reality.”

Sue laughed. “But then reality can be such a drag.”

“Have you talked to Jason?” Gemma asked to change the thorny subject.

“Not for a while,” Sue said, her voice cagey. “Has he called again?”

“No.”

“Good. I hope he doesn’t.”

“Sue, for heaven’s sake, don’t you think that Jason and I should at least be friends?”

“I just don’t want you to fall under his spell again.”

Gemma laughed. “You make it sound like I have no power to resist him.”

“Jason makes his living persuading people, Gemma. And he’s the only man you’ve ever slept with—that’s powerful stuff.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions. Jason didn’t say anything about wanting to get back together. And I didn’t say anything about wanting him to.”

“But you do.”

Gemma sighed. “Okay, maybe a tiny part of me would like the satisfaction of hearing him say he made a mistake. Is that so wrong?”

“No,” Sue admitted. “I just think you’re on the verge of having your own life, and I don’t want to see you get folded back into Jason’s.”

Gemma didn’t respond, fighting unexpected pangs of doubt. Having her own life was being dressed like a call girl, on her way to a job that would mortify her parents—and Jason. And looking forward to it, God help her. Especially since she hadn’t been getting her fix at home, exhibiting for Chev.

Rain splattered on the windshield. “It’s starting to rain, so I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Okay, bye.”

Gemma hung up just as the gray sky unleashed on the city. She flipped on her headlights and wipers and slowed to accommodate the low visibility. She wondered how the weather would affect attendance today at the museum.

She parked in the museum employee lot, then ran through the rain that was now coming down in sheets. Poor Chev—the pool excavation would be stalled in this soup.

In the lobby, she shook her umbrella and smiled at Lillian, who had also just arrived.

“Join me for a cup of coffee?” Lillian asked.

Gemma nodded, shivering. By mutual agreement, they kept their coats on to cover their risqué outfits when they went into the break room and poured steaming cups of coffee. Gemma added creamer to hers, Lillian took hers black. They sat at a table in the corner.

“Nasty day,” Lillian offered.

Gemma nodded and sipped the scalding coffee.

“You look a little down,” the woman offered. The pink streak in her hair matched her youthful attitude. “Want to talk about it?”

Gemma shrugged. “It’s nothing specific. Did you ever feel as if your life hadn’t turned out the way it was supposed to?”

Lillian’s extraordinary violet-colored eyes danced with good cheer. “I guess I didn’t plan that far ahead. I tend to take happiness as it comes, and other than my brokerage account for retirement, I try not to outthink tomorrow.” She smiled into her coffee, then took a generous sip.

“Easier said than done,” Gemma said wistfully.

“Not really. I’m a tad older than you, so maybe that gives me more perspective. But the only times in my life I’ve ever been unhappy were the times I was living to make someone else happy—my parents, a boyfriend, my husband.”