Staying at Joe's. Kathy Altman
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he laughed softly. “Follow me.”
He paused beside her, and ran his fingers down her arm to her wrist, the heat of his touch suggesting an erotic promise she almost wished he could keep. He tugged lightly. She let him lead her out of the kitchen and down the hallway, past a tiny bathroom to the seating area she’d caught a glimpse of before. He let go of her wrist and pressed a palm to her back, encouraging her to cross the threshold.
A rickety-looking card table sat in front of a pair of windows overlooking the field behind the motel. On top of the table sat a bronzed, bottom-heavy lamp, which shed its light on a thick book of crosswords, a mason jar full of pencils, a clear glass tumbler and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. A cold, crawling bleakness filled her belly. She wandered into the center of the room then slowly turned. He watched her, his mouth forming an arrogant slant, his navy eyes glazed with a falseness she’d learned to despise a year ago.
“You’ve been drinking.” Inwardly she winced at the accusation in her voice. None of your business. Not anymore. Still, she couldn’t help mourning the day-old hope that just that moment unwound itself from around her heart and slunk away. She took a breath and added quietly, “I thought you’d given it up.”
“I gave up getting drunk. Drinking? Not so much.”
She jerked her chin at the bottle of Glenlivet. “This is what you meant when you said you weren’t alone.”
He shrugged. “I’m guessing I don’t need to hunt up a second glass.”
A mewling sound. They both looked down in time to see the kitten launch herself at Joe’s leg. He bent and plucked her free of his sweatpants, cradled her in his arms and scratched her belly. A soft, satisfied rumbling filled the room.
Allison swallowed, but the ache in her throat refused to recede. An overwhelming sadness crowded her chest, pressing painfully against her heart, and she shook her head.
“I can’t do this again. I won’t do this again.”
“If you’re talking about renovating it’s obvious you’ve never done it before.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” She strode back to the doorway but Joe stayed put. Why hadn’t she realized the moment he’d opened the door? The moment he’d spoken? She could have left then, instead of finding herself in the position of having to bluff her way past him.
“Excuse me,” she said briskly. “I have to pack.”
“You leave, I stay.”
Damn him. “You gave your word.”
“So did you.”
“When I thought you were sober.”
“Does it matter? We made no stipulations.”
“We did, actually. Something about keeping your hands to yourself?”
He took his time looking her over, from her flip-flops to her brand-new jeans to the baby doll pajama top she hadn’t bothered exchanging for a shirt. His gaze seemed to settle on her shoulders, and she found herself wishing stupidly that she’d taken the time to brush her hair. She was worse than pathetic.
“Just so we’re clear,” he drawled, “the same doesn’t apply to you.”
Despite herself, despite...everything...a heated thrill of remembered pleasure zinged straight from her heart to her belly. Stop that. She struggled to focus on all the long-ago nights she’d been desperate to touch him, to lose herself in his caresses, but instead had lain frozen and aching on her side of the bed. Why? Because he’d been too drunk to realize she was there, let alone to make love to her.
Did he really think it would be that easy? Did he think it was even an option?
You’ve thought about it, too. She had. Of course she had. At one time they’d been good together. Very good. And as different as he’d seemed to be...
Now she knew that only his appearance had changed. And that he’d found a new hobby. Everything else that counted had stayed the same.
“Is this part of the plan? Seduce the woman who plotted against you? Make her fall for you all over again so she’ll beg you to let her stay? Then of course you’ll respond with, ‘Sorry, my sweet. Offer expired. Let me get the door.’” She tipped her head. “I can see the poetic justice.”
“Nice touch, that thing with the door.” He leaned over and released the cat onto the sofa. When he straightened, brushing the orange hairs from his T-shirt, his expression had loosened. “No plan. Just fond memories. I miss the look of stunned bliss on your face when you come.”
She sucked in a breath. “Damn you and damn that bottle, Joe Gallahan. What you miss is your old life. You’re just too proud to admit it.”
“I am not drunk. I’ve been drinking, yeah, but it takes more than a few swallows of hooch to knock me on my ass. And you’re wrong, slick. I sure as hell don’t miss my old life. Right now? I’m missing my beauty sleep. So unless you want to join me...”
“Haven’t we punished each other enough?”
“Hardly.” He yawned, then scrubbed a hand over his hair and headed toward his bedroom. “Lock the door behind you. Don’t forget we start at seven tomorrow.”
“This is ridiculous,” she said to his back. “There’s no reasoning with you.”
“Yet you persist.”
Because that’s what idiots do. She sighed. “Why is it so important for me to stay?”
At the door to his bedroom he turned. “Because I can make you. I may not wear a suit anymore, but I still like to call the shots.” He bared his teeth. “Almost as much as I like to drink ’em.”
* * *
JOE LAY ON his back, one hand cupped around the kitten sprawled on his chest, the other pressed to his head. The cat was snoring, every fur-coated rumble like a buzz saw ripping through Joe’s brain. How the hell could something so small create such a massive sound? And why hadn’t that handful of pills kicked in yet?
Gingerly he raised his head high enough to aim a one-eyed squint at the clock. Almost time to roll. Yeehaw. He lowered his head again, and groaned when it connected with his hard-ass pillow. If he weren’t expecting Allison he’d stay in bed, at least until he could blink without sending pain shooting through his skull.
Then again, if he weren’t expecting Allison he wouldn’t have polished off that bottle of whiskey last night.
Two weeks. Damn. He’d better stock up.
He closed his eyes, pictured her in her borrowed getup and shifted on the bed. Who knew a determined woman sweating through an oversize pair of coveralls could be such a turn-on? Too bad she’d never let him anywhere near that zipper. He let loose an aching moan.
And then, of course, there was the outfit she’d showed up in last night. Tight jeans and some silky, floaty, barely there top with short sleeves. Pale pink, like the polish on her naked toes. When they’d stood in the cool darkness of the kitchen, where he could hear the excited hitch in her breathing, and smell the familiar spicy peach scent she’d stroked across her skin, all he’d wanted to do was strip her, push her against the wall and lick every inch.
But he hadn’t wanted her to smell the booze on him. Because he’d known she’d react...well, exactly how she had reacted. Which was why he’d led her to the living room after all. Where she could see for herself what he’d been up to.
As often as he’d fantasized about taking a horizontal trip or two down memory lane the last couple of days, he knew it would never happen. Allison Kincaid had never been the type for casual encounters. And shame on him, anyway, for lusting after a woman he didn’t trust any more than he trusted Vince Tackett.
What he should have done was get up early this morning and hit the treadmill. An hour-long run