Body Heat Read online

  His gaze returned to her face, guessing from her coloring that she was Irish. Framed by pulled-back reddish-gold hair, her features were flawless. If she wore makeup, it was just a touch to darken brows, lashes, and lips. The flush on those ivory cheekbones was all her own, as much as the freckles that dusted them.

  Her eyes were incredible, somewhere between blue and green. He’d seen that color in Hawaii the time he went there on holiday.

  And then, saving the best for last, there was her mouth. Fuck, what a mouth. It was one of those wide, lush ones that got a man hard just thinking what she might do with it.

  She reminded him of someone, in a good way. Who was it? In the crowd he hung out with—mostly other construction workers and their girls—he didn’t see women like this. An actress maybe?

  Her brows arched and suddenly he knew who she looked like: a lingerie model he’d seen on the cover of one of his friend Consuela’s Victoria’s Secret catalogs. Oh, the clothing was way different—the model’s dynamite body was barely covered by sexy scraps of black silk and lace—but the women had the same vibe. Elegant, yet lush, and totally self-contained. Both had hair pulled back in a knot, calling attention to every perfect feature of a classic face. Gorgeous eyes, though the model wore glasses, thin-framed ones that magnified rather than disguised those stunning eyes. Somehow, all that prim-and-proper stuff that should’ve been a turn-off actually had the opposite effect. The advertising folks knew what they were doing.

  Thank Christ his new boss didn’t wear glasses. Already, Jesse’s temperature was climbing and his dick thickening as he tried to imagine what lay under all that buttoned-up clothing.

  Stick to your own kind, he reminded himself. The couple times he’d forgotten that rule, he’d ended up feeling like crap.

  Not only was Miss Priss his supervisor on this community-service gig, but he knew all about her type. She was way too good for him and she damned well knew it. Even if she was attracted to him—and lots of gals were—she’d consider it slumming. She’d view him as a charity case, try to make him over, the way Nancy, a nurse he’d once dated, had done. Or, worse, she’d act like that rich bitch Sybil: treat him as her dirty little secret, good enough to fuck in private but not to acknowledge in public.

  He wasn’t letting himself in for any more of that shit. Yeah, it’d be best for both of them if the ice queen stayed frozen. She was his boss. That’s all it would ever be.

  “Jesse? Jesse!” Barry Adamson’s sharp voice broke through his thoughts.

  Jesse focused on him and absorbed his lawyer’s narrow-eyed glare before Barry turned back to the woman. “Ms. Mahoney, this is Jesse Blue.”

  Mahoney? My honey? Now there was a wet-dream of a name. All soft and warm on the tongue. Although the lady looked straightlaced as they came, he’d bet there were parts of her that were plenty soft and warm to taste.

  Honey. Creamed honey, honey that melted and dissolved when it got warm. What did it take to make Ms. Mahoney turn to liquid honey? And what would she taste like when she did?

  He swallowed and his blood heated further.

  “Mr. Blue,” she said crisply.

  No honey was melting now. The lady with the warm name and pink cheeks had a voice that dripped icicles. She held a notebook in one hand and didn’t offer him the other. She’d have read his file; she knew what he’d done. Wasn’t going to sully her delicate flesh by touching him.

  He flexed his fists. The cuts and bruises had healed, but the memory’d barely faded. As a kid, he’d been a brawler, out of frustration and anger, but as an adult he’d learned better. All the same, it had felt good, smashing Pollan’s nose, crunching his cheekbones, breaking his ribs. With every blow, he’d imagined the way Pollan had beaten up on Consuela. Yeah, Jesse had gotten revenge for Con. More importantly, he’d done his best to make sure she and Juanito would be safe. If it took breaking bones to do it, then—

  “Mr. Blue?” she said again, warily this time, taking a step backward.

  What had shown on his face to make her react that way? Barry shot him another warning glare.

  Time to shape up. He had to get along with his new boss or he’d be spending time in a jail cell. “Good morning.” He gave the woman his best smile, the one that always made women smile back.

  This one didn’t. Her eyes widened, then she glanced away, addressing a spot over his shoulder. “I’m the accountant and acting human resources manager at Cherry Lane. I’ll be supervising your community service.” Her tone said she resented every moment of this.

  Her and him both.

  Barry said, “I’ll leave you to work out the details with Jesse, Ms. Mahoney. You’ve got all the information you need, in Louise’s file?”

  Her jaw tightened and Jesse guessed she was envisioning his less than stellar file. “I’ll call you if I need anything, Mr. Adamson.”

  “Barry, remember?” He flashed that boyish grin of his. It seemed Jesse’s lawyer found his new boss plenty attractive, too. Barry fished his wallet out of a pants pocket and pulled out a card, which Ms. Mahoney took carefully, her fingers not touching the lawyer’s.

  Jesse gave an amused snort. Looked like even the hotshot kid lawyer wasn’t good enough for her.

  Barry shot him another glare. “There’s a lot invested in making this work out.”

  Jesse’d already learned that the lawyer wasn’t much for subtlety, which was part of why the two of them got along. Jesse straightened up and stuck out his hand. Barry’d gotten him a better deal than he’d any right to hope for, and he’d better knuckle down and get serious. “Thanks. It’ll work.”

  His lawyer pumped his hand, beaming. “Sure it will. You and Ms. Mahoney are going to get along just great.”

  Jesse barely managed to suppress another snort.

  Chapter 2

  Maura studied Jesse Blue as he watched his lawyer walk away. Brown, his eyes were brown. Hazel, really. Tawny. A lion’s eyes.

  Then he turned to her. “What’s the plan?”

  Plan. As if she had a plan. As if she’d known about him coming, read his file, and prepared a plan. The surest path to success is a thoroughly thought-out plan, her parents had emphasized. Maura lived her life by that sensible rule, and it always worked for her.

  In retrospect, it had been foolish to bluff with Barry Adamson. She should simply have asked for a copy of the file, but she hated looking anything other than perfectly in control.

  The file must be in Louise’s office. Until she found it, she had to come up with something to keep the biker gypsy occupied. She reminded herself that she was the boss. All she needed was a plan.

  Maura glanced at him dubiously. Normally, she hated being so tall, but now she hated being shorter and having to look up to him. She hated how big and muscular he was, and she was troubled by that scary expression she’d seen on his face, almost like he was contemplating doing violence to someone. Not that she had any experience with violence. The very idea nauseated her.

  But of course this man couldn’t be violent, or Louise would never have agreed to take him on. And thinking of Louise, that reminded her that the HR manager often had students at Cherry Lane doing volunteer work. Maura snapped her fingers. “You can read to our residents. Some of them are blind or have failing vision and—”

  “No.” He didn’t say it aggressively; it was just one flat word.

  It stopped her cold and she didn’t have a clue how to respond. She should exert her authority. But now she realized that of course she didn’t want this insolent James Dean punk mingling with the residents. Even if he wasn’t actually dangerous, he’d been in trouble with the law.

  While she was trying to think of some other chore he could do in isolation—her own version of solitary confinement—he said, in that same level tone, “I’m good with my hands.”

  Her gaze flew to those hands. Large, brown, strong-looking. There were a few scrapes but his hands were nicely shaped, with long fingers. Very masculine hands, the kind she’d rarely if ev
er seen. Oh, yes, she could just imagine what those hands might be good for. Long fingers stroking, caressing; the gentle abrasion of calluses against tender flesh—

  No! Good God, what was she thinking? “You mean, things like carpentry?” she asked quickly.

  Humor glinted in his eyes. Oh, no. Had he guessed what she was thinking? Probably. Most women likely had the same reaction.

  She glared at him, annoyed he would assume she was a typical female. Annoyed at herself for responding like one.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Things like that. My day job’s construction, and I’m good at fixing stuff. Carpentry, plumbing, wiring.” His voice was deep, with a touch of gravel that matched up perfectly with his craggy features and sensual mouth.

  She forced herself to focus on what he’d said. There were lots of things that needed fixing: the cracked tile in Mrs. Jenssen’s bathroom, Ms. Montoya’s perennially dripping tap, and half a dozen more repairs that their lazy maintenance man hadn’t gotten around to. But she didn’t trust this man in the residents’ apartments.

  “Gardening,” he said grimly, and again she got the uncomfortable feeling he’d read her mind.

  “Gardening . . .” The courtyard was a disaster. There’d been discussions—some daydreaming about a pool and fountain—but that was way beyond their current budget. Cherry Lane wasn’t a luxury facility, which was one of the things she loved about it. They kept their rates affordable for most seniors, so had to pinch pennies. Maybe Jesse Blue could plant some flowers to brighten the place up. That shouldn’t cost too much, and the residents would enjoy the improved view.

  Tawny eyes studied her. She felt too exposed and reached into her pocket for the glasses she used for reading and computer work. When they were perched on her nose she felt more confident, even though they did interfere with her distance vision.

  The motorcycle man looked startled. Did she look that dreadful in her glasses? She reached up to whip them off, then gave a little growl. Why should she care how she looked to Jesse Blue? She wasn’t his kind of woman. Never would be and certainly didn’t want to be. Besides, as her adoptive mother Agnes had taught her: Vanity is frivolous and egotistical.

  He peeled off his leather jacket and cleared his throat. “Warm out here.”

  Rather than gape at the muscles stretching his black T-shirt, she wrote his name in her notebook, then Courtyard garden. “Come with me,” she ordered.

  He slung the jacket over his shoulder, hooked on one finger. Was he trying to look cool or did it just come naturally? His T-shirt wasn’t new, but it was clean and respectable. If you could count anything as respectable when it revealed broad shoulders, a solidly muscled chest and slim waist, and well-shaped dark arms covered in a skim of black hair.

  Okay, so maybe she’d gaped a little—enough to memorize an image—before she’d focused on her notebook. The man looked downright rugged. It wasn’t a look she was used to, or comfortable with. Not in real life. The fact that she found it attractive made her even less comfortable.

  How perverse that, when she dated men who were perfect for her, she was far less attracted than she was to this stranger who was pretty much her worst nightmare. Her hormones were definitely out of kilter.

  She led Jesse through the lobby, ignoring Gracie and a couple of the older women who were sitting on a couch. The truth was, she couldn’t make out anyone’s features anyhow, what with the distortion caused by her stupid reading glasses.

  She opened the courtyard door and walked out, forgetting there was a step. She lurched and would have fallen, but a strong hand caught her under the elbow, steadying her. That firm grip shocked her, making her skin sizzle under the silk of her blouse. She yanked away with a muttered, “Thanks.”

  Okay, she was a klutz, but the damned glasses made it worse. She pulled them off and stabbed them back in her pocket. She gestured around her. “The city takes care of the boulevard out front, but the courtyard needs work.” It was an understatement, she realized now. Her office had a courtyard window, but when was the last time she’d taken a good look out here? The ground was covered with scrubby grass which no one had watered yet this spring. There were a couple of lovely cherry trees in full bloom, but the half dozen other shrubs were in sorry shape.

  “Uh-huh,” he said.

  A man of few words. Not her favorite kind. She liked the intellectual type, articulate men who spoke in full sentences. Of course some of those sentences were the length of entire paragraphs, and she found herself drifting off in the middle—

  “Nice trees.” His voice broke into her thoughts. “But the rest is bad. Gloomy view for the old folks.”

  She raised her brows, surprised he’d spoken again, even more surprised he would think about the effect on the residents. “Yes, it is. We’ve discussed improving it, even talked about a pool and a miniature waterfall, but unfortunately we don’t have the funds.”

  “I can do that.”

  “You can do what?”

  “That. Pool, waterfall. Flowers, shrubs. Little Japanese maple over the pool.”

  He gazed up at the sky, then down again, and gestured to a corner. “Morning sun falls there. Put in a sitting area with a few chairs, couple of little tables for coffee. That cherry tree’ll break the sun.” He waved to the opposite corner. “Same kind of thing there, for the afternoon. They like to sit outside, right?”

  The sudden spate of loquaciousness left her gaping. “I . . . I guess so.” When the weather was nice, residents often perched on the wooden benches by the front door.

  He pointed toward the units that surrounded the courtyard. “No balconies. Lots of open windows. They like fresh air.”

  She squinted at him. He was observant and almost . . . considerate.

  Or maybe he was a thief and he was casing the joint, planning to steal precious treasures from people in the last years of their lives. “Yes, well,” she said, “that’s all very ambitious.” He clearly hadn’t paid attention to what she’d said about lack of funding. “Can you think on a smaller scale?”

  He grinned. It was so quick she almost missed it, but that sudden flash of white teeth in his dark face made her heart stutter.

  “Fix up the lawn and shrubs,” he said. “Flower borders around the edge.”

  “What would be involved?” She tried to ignore her racing pulse and sound businesslike.

  He cocked a skeptical eyebrow, but in truth she wasn’t having him on, or testing him. She’d grown up in Agnes and Timothy’s roomy condominium, now lived in her own small one, and hadn’t done an hour of gardening in her life. She was an indoors person. She gave him her best steely-eyed glare, and his eyebrow went down.

  “A few tools,” he said. “I gotta dig through this grass for the borders, turn over the soil. Fertilizer, maybe some peat. Depends how bad the soil is. Buy some flowers and plant them. Grass seed and fertilizer for the lawn.”

  “Lawn.” She frowned at the scruffy grass.

  “It can be saved. Gotta buy a sprinkler.”

  “We have one.” She was sure she’d seen one last summer, out in this courtyard. Gracie might know where it was.

  “Yeah?” He glanced pointedly at the dismal grass.

  She hated feeling defensive. She wasn’t in charge of the stupid garden. The old general manager really hadn’t been very efficient. Hmm. If she was responsible for getting the courtyard in better shape, it would win her brownie points with the Board when it came to winning the promotion. She waved a hand toward the scrubby bushes. “What about those? Can they be saved, too?”

  “Sure. Pruning, fertilizer.” He glanced at her. “Water.”

  She ground her teeth.

  He went on. “You got a couple of nice rhodos, lilac, japonica.”

  Lilac was a name she recognized, and she guessed rhodos were rhododendron. As for japonica, she didn’t have a clue. Maybe she should be taking notes. She put on her glasses, clicked her pen, and wrote the first two names, then paused. “How do you spell japonica?”

>   When he didn’t answer, she glanced up.

  He was frowning at her.

  She glared back. So she didn’t know how to spell the name of some exotic plant. It didn’t mean she was stupid.

  “The way it sounds,” he said.

  “Oh. And the flowering trees are cherry, right?”

  “Yup.”

  She wrote it down. He might be too darned sexy for her peace of mind and purely frustrating to communicate with, but maybe they’d get a nice garden out of this arrangement. “You know a fair bit about this.”

  He shrugged. “I work construction. See a lot of gardens go in. I’ve helped out on some jobs.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Dunno.”

  Annoyed, she clicked the top on her pen. “Can you give me an estimate?”

  “Dunno until I start. See what the soil’s like. Guess my estimate would be two, three days.”

  “That’s all? And you’re here today, then . . .” How many days of community service was he required to put in? She longed for Louise’s file.

  “Yeah, tomorrow, too. Weekends, and some weekday evenings. But not Mondays or Fridays.”

  She noted that down. What did he do on Monday and Friday nights? A standing date with a special girlfriend? No, this man wasn’t likely to have just one name in his little black book or little black BlackBerry, or wherever else he kept such information. He had a definite “play the field” look, and she was darned sure he had no trouble finding women. Women who lacked refinement and taste, of course. Women who just wanted a gorgeous male animal to get naked with and—

  “You got a problem with that?” he asked.

  Aagh again! Where were these ridiculous thoughts coming from? Turning thirty must have had a bizarre effect on her hormones. She clicked her pen again. “No, those times will be fine. Start on the garden this weekend, and if it takes longer than that, you can finish during the evenings next week.” By then she’d have read his file, know how long he’d be working at Cherry Lane, and have figured out what other tasks were safe to assign him. She’d have a plan. Maura peeled off her glasses.