Innuendo

Knowing she was right, Tam tugged nervously at her outfit. She’d chosen to wear a flowy black tunic with a raised collar. The sleeves were long, wide, dramatic in their flare, her pants tight and black and mostly covered by a large scarf tied at her hips and covering her rear. The boots were her favorite part, a stretch of leather that came to above her knees—artistic in a pirate kind of way. She wondered if Kyle would like her clothes, if they made a statement, announcing her creative side. If they would run the usual interference for her tonight; provide the usual distraction.

Or maybe he’d think they were dopey. Maybe her even being here was dopey. A mistake. Yup, she’d made a big mistake calling this guy, getting all dressed up and going out on the town. Sure, he’d been amused by the whole business-card-in-The-Boot story when she’d called him, and he’d been very charming on the phone, but…Tam’s nerves fluttered.

Okay, he’d been downright seductive, with his low, slightly lilting tone, his teasing banter. In Tam’s mind, she’d already built him up to be a sex god, a carefree soul who mirrored the person she imagined herself being. As they’d small-talked, her skin had warmed with anticipation.

Had she finally found a guy who’d be on her same wavelength, even if it was for just a lighthearted, confidence-inspiring fling?

An actual date, she kept thinking. I told him I was looking for a good time. That means I might actually get to feel a man’s hands on me again….

She blew out a breath.

“You just relax,” Danica said. “That’s exactly what I’m doing, waiting for my workaholic lawyer here at the bar in Rubicon. Spiffy, huh? He insisted on paying for dinner here. Got to be pretty well off—not that I’m shallow enough to have that be a prime requirement or anything. Still…bonus!”

Tam couldn’t help laughing at her friend’s bubbly nature. “I just hope we don’t end up on my couch at midnight, eating from a tub of Rocky Road and telling each other war stories.”

“Good times, that’s all that’s in store for you. Wait. This might be him. I think he sees the red rose I told him I’d have.”

At the mention of the “marker”—a symbol that would allow one blind date to recognize the other—Tam clutched hers, too. She’d told Kyle Sullivan that she’d be holding a black-and-silver Japanese fan. It complemented her outfit and gave her nervous hands something to do with themselves.

“Good luck,” Tam said.

“Good luck to you, too. Go get him!” And with that, Danica was gone.

Tam was left to sit alone at her high table near the wall, her eye on the door as she anxiously awaited her own date: the man with the gray-blue eyes and black hair The Boot had promised.

AS KYLE AND MURPHY ambled down the sidewalk toward the lounge, Kyle patted Murphy on the back.

“You should’ve heard her on the phone,” he said. “Sexy, sweet and just looking for trouble. Damn, I hope she’s as gorgeous as she sounds.”

The words were like white noise, simple to ignore. As usual, Kyle had been on Murphy all week, yapping and yapping about how Murphy needed to come out with him on their night off and meet some women.

And, since there was only so much temptation Murphy could take, he’d reached his limit a few hours ago, finally giving in. It’d been much too easy. His whole body was on complete overload, screaming to ease the physical ache that too much work and not enough play had inspired.

Yet…good Lord. Murphy knew how this adventure with Kyle would go. While his cousin romanced his blind date, Murphy might meet an interesting woman, talk to her, buy her a few drinks, but then the old conscience would kick in and he’d convince himself that he needed to get back to work.

He wouldn’t enjoy himself. He didn’t know how.

Just thinking about it made Murphy want to tear something apart. Why did he constantly hold himself on such a tight leash? With the encouragement of parents who’d had to scrape by all their lives, he’d always been too intent on making something of himself and fighting off the distractions that threatened to hold him back. Even his ex-girlfriends had complained about his reluctance to deviate from anything but work, work, work.

Despite his mental detour, Murphy could still hear Kyle talking, could still catch a whiff of his cousin’s aftershave. It hovered over the aroma of garlic that wafted out of a corner Italian trattoria.

“Tamara Clarkson made sure I knew she’s ready to roll,” Kyle continued. “Just my type. And we’ll find you a sure thing tonight, too, huh?”

“It’s not like my johnson needs a nanny,” Murphy said dryly. “I’ve got this under control.”

“Control?” Kyle gave Murphy a slight, taunting push. “The point is to lose control, Mr. Button-Down.”

Right, Murphy thought. Kyle was right.

They were approaching the door, into which a cluster of young tourists, probably from nearby Fisherman’s Wharf, disappeared.

“Here goes,” Kyle said. He smoothed down his hair, which had a tendency to go untamed if he didn’t watch it. “Now turn on the charm, Murph. I know you’re that strong and silent type, but sometimes girls like to be acknowledged with actual conversation.”

“Just get in there, Lothario.”

“I’ll do my best not to break any hearts—” Murphy’s cousin paused at the threshold, where hard music spilled into the twilight “—unless I have to.”

Kyle flashed Murphy a smile and stepped inside, immediately glancing around the room and becoming a part of the crowd.

A master of the game, Murphy thought, keeping Kyle within his line of sight as he sauntered into the thick of the mob, too. Just look at him, an expert on the prowl. He knew how to make women happy, even if he wasn’t very good at letting them down easy after the fun was done.

Kyle’s other weak point was his pickiness. He was a dog when it came to wanting only the gorgeous and lean sorority thoroughbreds who were ready to roll. And if they didn’t strike him as attractive right away, he tended to lose interest and move on to the next conquest. At the moment Kyle was sticking to the shadows of the room, searching for his date, wanting to check her out before committing.

That was his modus operandi, Murphy thought. Just a big enthusiastic kid who hadn’t grown up to appreciate more than a pretty face.

He shook his head and glanced away. If he had his younger cousin’s lust for life, he would use it wisely. But that was the whole point—Kyle wasn’t wise. He lived in the moment, out from under the weight of responsibility.

So, deep down, why did Murphy yearn to be that way, too?

Strains of a Chinese rock ballad tore through the room, ripping into Murphy and exacerbating his physical need with every vibration. Scenes from a Jet Li movie flashed over the TV screens hovering in the corners, the images stylized with vengeance and blood.

Murphy’s pulse pushed through him, awakening him. He missed being with people. Missed the friction of nearby bodies, the murmur of voices, the scent of a woman’s shampoo as she brushed by him.

He headed for the bar, the crowd around it as thick as collected moss, their bodies emanating heat. Impatient for a drink, Murphy looked around, deciding to get his social poison from a waitress instead.

And that’s when he saw her.

At a distant table, a woman waited, clutching a fan in one fist. The first personal feature Murphy noticed was her hair—a wild Bohemian bunch of light-brown curls that spilled down to her shoulders. Her fan, her hair, even the way she leaned on the table with her chin in her palm while playing with a corkscrewed strand, added up to a certain dramatic quirkiness.

Just as he was about to admit that she wasn’t anywhere near his type—a female who carried ambition in the disciplined cut of her hair and the steel of her posture suited him much better—he noticed this woman’s eyes. They were a startling blue, widened with such emotion—anxiety?—that he couldn’t look away. Eyes flashing with intelligent awareness, drawing Murphy in.

It was only when she blinked, then glanced at the door, that he noticed the off-kilter black clothing, the long boots hugging her legs, which were crossed, one ankle bobbing in time to the slow, revving guitar licks of the stereo.

Lust blindsided him, twisting in his belly, heating downward until his gut tightened.

Those boots. In spite of everything else about her, they made her into one of those bad girls Kyle had been tempting him with, a woman who’d do anything—with her mouth, with her hands and with her body.

Murphy craved a woman with such boots.

For a long second he allowed himself to wallow in the thought of her, to bathe himself in the mist of wicked longing.

He imagined slipping those boots off her legs or…damn, even keeping them on as he ran his thumbs over the inside of her thighs…. Somehow, with the deftness only a fantasy would allow, he could keep those boots on while working off her pants and underwear—which would be black lace, of course—and then parting those legs so he could see all of her.

She’d give him a naughty smile, her mouth lush with that shiny pink gloss she was wearing, then crook her finger at him.

Come on. What’re you waiting for?

He’d go to her, using his fingers to spread her apart. Her sex would be a deep pink, swollen, already wet. When he tasted her, she’d be warm, his tongue playing around the hood of her clit, teasing it, dipping inside her, kissing her until she moved against his mouth, asking for more, needing it, wanting it…