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

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?