“Froot Loop, didn’t anyone ever tell you to be careful what you wish for?” As he spoke, his voice drifted away from the window and in the direction of Cassandra. “My heart’s desire is to get you out of my hair, but I can’t ask you to wish yourself right out of Malibu.”
In what appeared to be their usual style, the two traded insults that Noah barely registered. His focus, his thoughts, were on Juliet, standing just a few inches of plaster and insulation and stucco away. He knew she was still there, he could still smell her perfume and still sense her confused emotions.
She needed, wanted, craved contact. Skin. Touch.
Was that true? In his pocket, his cell phone vibrated, and Noah absently pulled it free. Was Juliet really itching?
The truth is, Noah, what I felt when I kissed you was horny.
Well, if that was the case, then the platonic hired help from across the pool had just added a new task to his mission. Because for damn sure the one that was going to be doing the scratching would be nobody other than Noah.
Six
War is the only game in which it doesn’t pay to have the home-court advantage.
—DICK MOTTA
Marlys wound through the hills above Malibu. Her dog, Blackie, part black lab, part who-knew-what-else, had his head out the passenger window and was drinking in the morning air with a toothy grin on his face.
At least one of them was in a good mood.
In the trunk of her Miata was another package for Juliet with the publisher’s return address in the upper left. Marlys had already placed a call to the Big Apple that morning and had been polite but icy when informing them that her father’s wife had had a change of residence. Her tone had gotten her through to her father’s editor, who had blah-blah-blahed an apology followed by a promise to take permanent note of the information. So this should be the last occasion that Marlys was forced to play delivery chick.
And Marlys could hope that keeping clear of Juliet would mean she’d be freed from the acid bitterness that welled in her belly every time she came in contact with the other woman. The knowledge that marrying his second wife had dirtied the general’s reputation continued to fester inside the general’s daughter. However, if Juliet stayed in hiding here in the hills of Malibu, maybe Marlys could let go of her—yeah, she knew it—sometimes juvenile resentment.
Her foot tapped the brake as she caught sight of the house. The garage door was closed, but a mean-looking motorcycle was parked in the drive. Huh?
Instead of zipping in beside it, she made a more cautious and uncharacteristic choice. She parked the Miata against the curb across the street.
But Blackie, being Blackie, didn’t curb his reckless impulses. The minute she opened her door, he shouldered past her hip and dashed out and up the street at a four-legged lope.
“Damn.” She didn’t even try calling back the dog. From experience, she knew that would only spur him on. The animal was so focused on his own selfish concerns, he didn’t care a whit about pleasing the human who fed, watered, and walked him.
Knowing he’d eventually wander back, she popped the trunk and tucked the thick package under her arm. With a last curious once-over of the motorcycle, she headed along Juliet’s curved, lushly landscaped walkway.
Rounding a corner, she halted at the bottom of the graduated porch steps. On the white wooden bench near the front door, a man was sleeping. He wore battered blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and black motorcycle boots. His long legs were draped over the far arm of the bench and a leather jacket that looked like it had been run over a time or two was bunched under his head as a pillow. In contrast to the rest of his Hells Angel persona, his hair was cropped fairly close to his head and was matched in color by the black stubby lashes that rested against his high-cheekboned, very tanned face.
A burn started bubbling in her belly. Had Juliet gone from Marlys’s war hero father to men who looked like they sold drugs on East L.A. street corners?
Perhaps her outrage made a sound, because the stranger suddenly woke. His lashes lifted in a beat, their color a cold, alert silver that immediately focused on her face. She’d seen only one other man come awake with just that same instant awareness.
The comparison to her father pissed her off. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.
With a lazy movement belied by the sharpness of his gaze, he sat up. With his scarred boots planted firmly on the flagstone porch, he tilted his head and took his time taking her in. “What mushroom did you stroll out from under?”
Marlys narrowed her eyes. “I’m short, not some stupid troll.”
He shook his head. “It’s fairies, not trolls, who use mushrooms for umbrellas.” Lifting his face, he squinted up at the sky. “But I don’t see any clouds.”