Good, Bad...Better

“Then come with me.” She headed toward the door.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going shopping. We’re going to discover if there really is a wild woman hiding inside that mild-mannered disguise of yours.”

ZACH WAS TICKED OFF WHEN Theresa left the shop almost as soon as she was back from lunch, dragging Jen with her. “Since when did shopping constitute an emergency?” he asked Scott.

“That’s just chicks for you.” Having sent the coed on her way, he was kicked back in the tattoo chair with a magazine.

This wasn’t just any chick they were talking about. This was his sister, who was referred to in certain circles as the Black Widow because of her take-no-prisoners approach to relationships. How was it that she was suddenly best buddies with a woman who had probably been her high school’s homecoming queen?

Not that he cared who Theresa had as a friend, but the thought of seeing Jen Truitt around here on a regular basis didn’t sit well. Not only did she play hell with his concentration, but wherever she went, her überconservative father couldn’t be far behind.

So, yeah, he’d been annoyed. But now, four hours later, he was inching toward furious. The shop had been busy all afternoon, and after Scott had left for his second job as a bartender, Zach had had to handle the crush by himself, while Theresa and Jen were out doing who knows what.

No way would two men spend four hours—or even four minutes—shopping. Drinking beer, playing pool, watching the game—those were all possibilities. But only a woman would think cruising the mall was fun.

The bell over the door sounded and he looked up, about to tell the newcomer he was closed, but he clamped his mouth shut when he saw Theresa and Jen, their arms laden with boxes and shopping bags. “Wait until you see what we got,” Theresa said, dropping her pile of purchases on the counter in front of him.

That was another thing—why did women always want to show you what they’d bought? As if he was interested in seeing five pairs of shoes and a “darling” skirt.

“I don’t want to see what you bought. Where have you been? The shop has been swamped all afternoon.”

“So if you and Scott couldn’t handle it, you should have told people to come back tomorrow.”

That was Theresa. Her motto was No Apologies. She added Jen’s bags to the pile on the counter. “Ignore my grumpy brother,” she told the blonde. “Or, better yet, you talk to him while I run to the back for a minute.”

When they were alone, Jen said nothing at first, just looked at him with those luminous gray eyes. He glared back at her, but she didn’t even flinch. In fact, she smiled, a look as warm and sweet as hot fudge. Who stood a chance against a smile like that?

“The tat you drew for me is so gorgeous I wanted to get some new clothes to show it off,” she said. She reached into one of the bags on the counter and pulled out a froth of red satin and lace. She held the impossibly tiny top up in front of her. “What do you think?”

He stared at the swath of red draped across her breasts and thought he was in serious danger of melt-down. “Is that supposed to be a top or underwear?”

“It’s a top. But I have underwear, too.” Before he could stop her, she reached into another bag and pulled out a pair of white satin bikinis. Very tiny bikinis with bows at the sides. He had a sudden vision of his hand sliding up her thigh to take these same panties off.

He made a fist. He was going to have to do something about this overactive imagination of his. “What makes you think I’m interested in seeing your underwear?” he growled.

She flushed. “I never said you were.” She peered at him through slightly lowered lashes. “Are you?” Her words were innocent, yet the look in her eyes was anything but. She met his gaze full-on, and let him know she was on to him. The heat that passed between them was enough to scorch paper, and only his own well developed sense of self-preservation kept him from leaning across the counter and crushing her to him.

“What kind of a game are you playing?” he demanded.

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I didn’t even know you yesterday and now you’re showing me your underwear.” He crumpled up the pair of panties, intending to throw them back at her. The silk slid through his fingers, cool and sensuous. It felt like the skin of her breast, where he’d touched her yesterday.

“I just wanted to get your attention,” she said.

“Why?” Why would a woman like her look twice at a man like him? Why wasn’t she chasing after some all-American banker from the right side of town? Someone who fit into her bland, middle-class world better?

She leaned across the counter, toward him, her eyes still locked to his. But now there was a softness in her expression he hadn’t seen before. “Because I like you, Zach. I want to get to know you better.”

He wanted to get to know her better, too. A lot better. But only in a physical sense. He wasn’t about to let this woman mess with his head.

“Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to play with fire?” he asked.

“They did.” Her voice was soft, seductive. “But then, I’ve decided to stop listening.”

“You’d better listen now.” The words came out as a growl. “Go back and play in your nice, safe neighborhood before you end up in big trouble.”

She gathered up her purchases and smiled at him. “I don’t know, Zach. You might be the one in trouble. When I really want something, I don’t let anything stop me.”

She turned and walked out of the shop, her hips swaying, her laughter drifting after her and settling over his senses like a caress. He clamped his mouth shut to keep from calling after her. Jen Truitt was danger with a capital D. Not because of her dad. Not because she was such a seeming innocent. No, the reason Jen Truitt made his stomach knot and his palms sweat was because whenever those eyes of hers looked at him, he had a feeling she was seeing things he didn’t want people to see—the stuff inside him he kept to himself. If people didn’t know the real you, then they couldn’t hurt you, could they?

But Jen—Jen might be one who could hurt him. Down deep, where it counts.

TELLING THERESA IT WAS payback time, Zach took off work early and headed to his favorite brewpub for dinner. A different kind of hunger nagged at him—one that wouldn’t be satisfied with a burger and brew. The feel of Jen’s silk underwear sliding through his fingers still haunted him, conjuring up erotic images of the two of them naked.

Why her? He liked women who were more unconventional. Women who didn’t care for others’ opinions any more than he did. Women who didn’t demand too much of a man.

But Jen Truitt would demand a lot, he was sure of it. Women like her—upper-crust, pampered, who had had life handed to them on a plate—expected a man to come running whenever they crooked a finger.

He definitely wasn’t that kind of man.

The waitress, Candy, came to take his order. She put one hand on his shoulder and leaned toward him, giving him the full effect of her tight, low-cut T-shirt. “How’s my favorite tattoo artist?” she asked, flashing a hundred-watt smile.

“Better now that you’re here.” He looked her up and down. Candy was more his type. You didn’t have to worry about complications with a woman like her. She took what she wanted and trusted you to do the same, with no keeping score or expecting anything permanent.

“I get off in a couple hours.” She trailed her fingers along the back of his neck. “Want to give me a ride home?”

He tried the idea out in his head. Candy would provide a welcome distraction from his current worries, not to mention relief from the hard-on he’d been walking around with for two days. But the prospect didn’t do anything for him. “Thanks, sugar, but I think I’ll have to pass.” He handed her the menu. “Just bring me a guacamole burger and fries.”

She straightened, disappointment clear on her face. “You want a beer with that?”

“Just a Coke. I’ll probably help Theresa close up tonight.” Not that one beer would affect him much, but the last thing you needed when faced with an intricate tat was any kind of buzz.

One burger and half a dozen suggestive hints from Candy later, he left a fat tip and walked back out to his bike. Maybe he’d take a ride around the lake to clear his head before he went back to the shop. It would serve Theresa right to have to handle things by herself a while longer. But as he was reaching for his helmet, a voice behind him said, “Jacobs, I want to talk to you.”

His already bad mood got darker when he turned and saw Police Chief Grant Truitt. A big man with an even bigger opinion of himself, Truitt stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his thick, gray brows drawn together in a scowl.

“If I’d known you were waiting, I’d have ordered dessert,” Zach said.

Truitt moved to stand beside him. “Have you been drinking?”

“No.” He managed to sound unconcerned, though inside he seethed. He shoved the helmet onto his head.

Truitt’s scowl deepened. “Care to take a Breathalyzer test?”

“Why waste the taxpayers’ money? Ask my waitress if you don’t believe me.” He swung his leg over the bike and settled onto the seat.