Authors: Susan Fox
Body Heat (4 page)
Her excited expression crumpled. “Oh, man, sorry. I just meant—No, I mean, you’re right. Of course you’re right.”
Maura felt guilty for taking her annoyance out on the girl. She really was terrible with people, at least those under the age of fifty. It wasn’t that she didn’t like them; she just wasn’t as comfortable with them as with figures. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. But we do both need to focus on work. Can I get you to do something?”
“Sure.”
As well as handling the reception desk, Gracie often assisted Louise and had authorization to deal with confidential HR files. Maura handed her the key to Louise’s locked file cabinets. “You know the HR files better than I do. Would you hunt for the file on this . . . person. His name’s Jesse Blue, his lawyer is Barry Adamson, or it might be under something like ‘community service.’ ”
Gracie brightened. “I’ll look right now. What d’you figure he did? It’s gotta be something sexy, right? Like, oh, street racing or something.”
She really was irrepressible. An annoying quality. “Street racing endangers lives,” Maura said sharply. “Honestly, Gracie, I don’t think breaking the law—any kind of breaking the law—is sexy.”
Looking chastened again, the girl hurried away.
“I’m right,” Maura muttered to herself. “I know I’m right.” But maybe she shouldn’t have phrased it so abruptly. She slapped her glasses on and surveyed her desk. “What was I doing?” Oh, yes, she’d finished the tax filings.
That thrill of control and satisfaction was a thing of the past.
She pulled up the spreadsheet for the budget she’d been looking forward to working on, but found it difficult to concentrate. There was a disturbing stranger at Cherry Lane and she was responsible for him. She shot glances out her window, which faced the courtyard.
Good with his hands, yes. The speed of light, no. He didn’t seem to have it in him to rush. His movements were economical, she’d give him that, but he was as slow as—
Damn it, he was as slow as she was being with this budget.
She turned back to her computer with fierce determination. There was a Board meeting Friday afternoon and she wanted to present a perfect budget, with all the backup figures and analysis. The directors had advertised for the general manager position and résumés would be coming in. She was the only internal applicant. Louise had prioritized family over career advancement, and Neil, the resident services manager, loved his job and wanted to stay with it. Maura should have an edge over external applicants, and she had a master’s in Business Administration as well as her accounting diploma, but she had to make sure that every single thing she did was flawless.
Engrossed in work, it was a while before she looked out again. She must have really lost track of time because Jesse had moved the sprinkler and was halfway through digging one of the borders. A very meandering border, rather than the neat straight line she’d envisioned—and sure enough, he wasn’t using the cord and spikes he’d brought from the tool room. Honestly!
She tilted her head, caught up in the way he moved. It was hard work, she could see that. He stabbed the edger into the unyielding ground, stuck a foot on the top, and seemed to be throwing his whole body weight into levering the tip into the soil. He had his back to her and muscles bulged in his shoulders and upper arms, under his black T-shirt. He did have the most incredible build . . .
A fact that was completely irrelevant. What mattered was that he was a hard worker.
She glanced at the practical gold watch on her left wrist, then frowned out the window. His slow movements were deceptive; he’d accomplished far more than she would have thought possible.
As she watched, Fred Dykstra, one of the residents, strolled into the courtyard. His arthritis mustn’t be too bad today, because he barely used his cane. The elderly man watched Jesse for a few minutes, then said something. Jesse looked up, answered, then rested his hands on his edger and seemed to be settling in for a conversation.
He was supposed to be working, not chatting to residents. Ordinarily, it was good for the seniors to have social contact with people from outside Cherry Lane, but this wasn’t a high school volunteer or one of the university students from the animal-assisted therapy program. This was a petty criminal doing community service.
She groaned and headed out to intervene.
Chapter 3
A
s Maura approached the two men, she heard Mr. Dykstra saying, “Yessir, it was back in the late forties. She was an Indian, red and racy and—”
s Maura approached the two men, she heard Mr. Dykstra saying, “Yessir, it was back in the late forties. She was an Indian, red and racy and—”
“Fred?” she broke in. Good God, was he talking about some youthful sexual experiences? And in downright racist language, in front of Jesse Blue, who she guessed was at least partially Native American.
Fred Dykstra beamed at her. His faded blue eyes were full of life. “I was just telling young Jesse about my bike. His Harley’s a fine specimen, but I had this old Indian Chief.”
“An Indian is a motorcycle?”
She heard a snort of laughter and glanced at Jesse.
He straightened his face, but she saw the twinkle in his eyes. Obviously he’d realized where her thoughts had been going.
She glared at him. Glaring at Jesse could easily become a habit.
“One of the finest bikes ever made,” Fred said, “in my opinion.”
“Yeah,” Jesse said. “Rode one once, a classic from back before World War Two.”
“I used to take my young lady for rides in the country, and she thought I was pretty hot stuff.” Fred’s elderly face crinkled with smile lines. “Think she married me because of that bike.” He shot Jesse a pure “guy” look. “Bet the ladies still go for a man on a bike.”
Jesse returned the look. “Been known to happen.”
Maura was sure of it. Particularly when the man on the bike was as “hot stuff” as Jesse Blue.
She had come out here to break this up. She still had a lot of concerns about Jesse mixing with the residents, yet she hadn’t seen Fred Dykstra so animated in months. She didn’t have the heart to drag him inside.
Jesse glanced at her. “You want something, or just visiting?”
“I . . . I’m not visiting, I’m supervising. Didn’t you say you were going to use straight lines for the borders? You seem to have wandered off track. Do you need more cord?” Or, she let her tone say, need to remember to use the cord you already have?
Humor lit his eyes again. “Rethought the straight lines. Figure curves are more appealing.” He shot a wink in Fred Dykstra’s direction.
The old man chuckled and replied promptly, “Some things never change.”
Was Jesse joking about her own beanpole figure? She knew the older man wouldn’t do that, but she wouldn’t put it past Jesse.
“Want the garden to be relaxing, not all disciplined,” Jesse said.
Implying that there was such a thing as too much discipline, and that she was an example of that? She was about to snap back about lack of discipline, then thought of the amount of work he’d accomplished. He might not seem like the most disciplined man in the world, but he was a hard worker.
“Jesse’s been out here all morning,” Fred said. “I bet he could use a cold drink.”
And now she felt negligent for not having thought of that herself. Working with people was so not her forté. How did people learn these skills when they didn’t come naturally?
“Been drinking out of the tap,” Jesse said, “but a cold soda sure would go down fine.”
Into her mind flashed a classic commercial she’d seen in a business school class on marketing. It had been for Diet Coke. Women working in an office dashed to the window to watch a hunky construction worker pour a cold drink down his throat. She closed her eyes briefly, the picture clear in her mind . . .
The women in the window, looking out . . .
The man, dark-haired, brown-skinned . . .
Jesse Blue. It was Jesse they were watching.
Jesse she was watching, his bronzed skin sweaty from hard work, his black T-shirt glued to his sculpted shoulders and chest. He lifted the can, muscles flexing. He tilted his head back, that gold earring glinted in the sunshine. When he gulped soda, his throat rippled as he swallowed, then he—
Said “Yo? You okay?”
Her eyes flew open and she saw two concerned male faces. “I’m fine. I just . . . got dizzy for a moment. It’s hot out here.”
It was warm, not hot, and Jesse’s brows lifted skeptically.
Fred said, “You’re sure you’re all right? You’re flushed and starting to sweat.”
Hurriedly, she dabbed her brow. Darn it, he was right, and it wasn’t from the weak spring sun. “Honestly, I’m fine.” To Jesse, she said, “What kind of soda?”
“Whatever you got. Just so long as it’s cold and wet.”
She stalked away. How could he make simple words like “cold” and “wet” sound sexy? And why couldn’t she control her blushing around him?
In the kitchen, she studied the assortment of cold drinks. Why hadn’t Jesse named a brand and made this easy for her? She wasn’t a soda pop drinker, so she didn’t know what these drinks tasted like. Only club soda, which she loved, especially when served with a slice of lime or a splash of cranberry juice. Somehow she didn’t think Jesse Blue was a club soda guy.
She could give him a Diet Coke like in the commercial, but that struck her as silly.
Silliness is for little children,
as she’d learned at the age of six.
Silliness is for little children,
as she’d learned at the age of six.
At random, she pulled a can from the fridge, remembering the discussion in business school. Most of the female students had argued that the commercial wasn’t effective marketing because no woman was looking at the drink can, just at the man. She had to agree. She’d never have remembered the product but for the analysis in class.
The beverage she now poured into a tall glass was clear, fizzy, and smelled citrusy. It should be refreshing.
Cold and wet.
She stuck the glass under the ice machine and topped it up. Should she pour another for Fred? No, she didn’t want to encourage him to linger.
The glass was so cold she had to switch hands as she walked back to the courtyard. When she handed it to Jesse, being careful not to touch his filthy hand, the glass was sweating. A drop trickled down the outside, wending a slow, curvy path.
Her palm was wet. She didn’t want to brush it on her pants and leave a damp patch, so she rubbed it against her other hand.
Jesse lifted the glass, threw back his head, and made the commercial come true. She watched mesmerized as he drank deeply, then drank again. In his neck, muscles moved, his Adam’s apple shifted.
Adam’s apple. Why had she never wondered about that term? Adam and the apple, the Garden of Eden. Temptation.
A bead of sweat ran down his throat, just as the drop of condensation had trickled down the glass. It moved with painstaking slowness and she held her breath until it touched the neckband of his T-shirt and disappeared.
The Sprite hit the spot, Jesse thought, though a beer would’ve been better. He finished the drink in a few long swallows, then held the cold glass against one cheek. Ms. Mahoney had gone into another of her trances. The tip of her tongue peeked out between her lips. It ran slowly across her top lip, then the bottom one, almost like she’d been the one to take a drink and now she was catching every last drop.
This gal in her prim-and-proper clothes was one bundle of sexy moves. He was pretty sure they weren’t intentional—or at least, she didn’t intend to aim them in his direction. If she knew how much she turned him on, would she be shocked? Horrified?
Or, maybe, aroused?
He shifted the glass to his other cheek, then handed it to her. “Thanks. That went down fine.” The melting ice cubes clinked together as she took the glass. Her hand was shaking. Because she hated being around him, or was she fighting attraction?
Attraction was a weird thing. Like with his friend Consuela, always being attracted to the wrong kind of guy. Jesse had no business being attracted to Ms. Mahoney, but he was. Okay, that was a fact of life, and he’d deal with it. He might not be much sharper than the pathetic edger and mattock, but at least he knew to keep that crazy attraction under control.
As for his boss, maybe she felt a physical pull, but she’d never give into it. Not with how she looked down her aristocratic nose at him.
“What year’s your Harley?” the old guy asked. “She’s got a classic look.”
Jesse turned to him gratefully. “Nineteen ninety-seven. Called a Heritage Softail Classic.” Soft tail. Oh, Lord.
Fortunately, Ms. Mahoney took her own sexy tail back inside.
Jesse hefted the mattock, using it to pry up strips of turf as he listened to Mr. Dykstra talk about his bike and his adventures. From time to time Jesse contributed a word or two, or answered a question about his Harley. After a while, the man—he said to call him Fred—went in.
A nice old guy. It’d been good listening to his memories and seeing how he enjoyed revisiting them.
This community service thing wasn’t turning out to be half as fucked-up as he’d feared. At least if his boss stayed out of the way. She was too distracting, in too many ways.
Jesse finished digging the border and stretched the aches out of his back. He sloshed cold water on his face, took a nice long drink out of the hose. Was there a john somewhere around this joint? He’d take a piss under a cherry tree, but he figured Ms. Mahoney would frown on that.
He rinsed his hands under the tap, then went inside.
A tiny, white-haired woman pushing a walker at a snail’s pace stopped and turned a sharp-eyed gaze on him. “You’re the boy who’s been working in the garden.”
Boy? It was a long time since he’d felt like a boy. “Yes, ma’am. Jesse Blue.”
“I’m Virginia Canfield. I saw you out my window.” She offered him a trembling, blue-veined hand.
How about that? Ms. Mahoney might not be willing to touch him, but this old lady had no qualms and it made him feel good. Still, he held up his own hand and warned, “I’m kinda dirty.”
“Garden dirt never hurt anyone.” She gestured with her hand.
Liking her already, he put his hand in hers as gently as he could, knowing his normal handshake would crush her. “Wonder if you could help me out, Ms. Canfield. Looking for the men’s room.”
“Down the hall to your left.” She pointed.
He nodded his thanks. When he returned she was still there, propped up on her walker.
“It’s Mrs. Canfield. I’m old-fashioned. I was married to Elmer for fifty-two years and I was Mrs. Canfield all that time.”
“Okay, Mrs. Canfield.”
“But please call me Virginia.”
“Thanks.”
“Will you show me what you’re planning for the garden?”
“Sure.” He doubted this was part of the job description, but he wasn’t going to blow off a white-haired lady who was nice to him. He held the door for her and walked beside her, keeping an eye out as she shuffled the walker across the uneven turf to the bed he’d been digging.
Turned out she’d done a lot of gardening, and she gave him a couple of good ideas.
“I wish I could get down and grub around in the soil with you,” she said. “There’s nothing so healing as planting things and watching them grow.”
“This landscape gardener I knew once, he said it was Zen.”
“That’s it, exactly.” She beamed at him.
At that point, Ms. Mahoney showed up again. Either she didn’t trust him with the seniors, or she didn’t want him goofing off to chat. Or, probably, both.
“Oh, Maura dear,” Virginia Canfield said, “Jesse and I have been having the most interesting discussion. You’ve certainly hired us a knowledgeable young man.”
Hired. His gaze met Ms. Mahoney’s. He shrugged. Her call whether to tell Virginia about his community service. While she decided, he’d think about the name he’d just learned. Maura. For some reason, his mind conjured an image of the ocean. Cool Maura, ocean-eyed Maura. Maura with the soft, warm-honey last name.
“Actually, it was Louise’s decision,” Maura Mahoney muttered. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing. Now, don’t you think we should let him get on with his work?”
“I suppose so. Besides, my legs are getting tired.” The elderly face, which had been all perky when they were talking about the garden, drooped. Then she brightened again. “Maura, I was going to bring you this.” She reached into the basket on her walker and pulled out a huge hardcover book, struggling with its weight.
The younger woman reached out to take it. “Have you finished? Did you enjoy it?”
“Very much. Thank you so much for loaning it to me. Perhaps we might discuss it one day?”
Maura Mahoney smiled gently, her face soft and caring.
Oh, man, and he’d thought she was gorgeous before.
“Perhaps over tea tomorrow afternoon?” Her voice, too, for the first time, softened around the edges.
If she gave that look, that voice, to a guy . . . Jesse sucked in a breath, battling arousal.
“My dear,” the old lady was saying, “that would be delightful. And now I must head in and put my feet up.” She held out her hand again, to him. “Such a pleasure meeting you, Jesse.”
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