Skintight (2 page)

Just then the object of his thoughts strolled through the dining room door, and he tossed the sweetener packet back into the little silver holder in the middle of the table and straightened. Draping his arm along the back of the leather upholstered banquette, he adopted a casual, friendly pose as he watched her speak to the hostess, then turn to follow the young woman as she wove through the dining room toward his booth.

She caught him watching her and flashed him that lopsided smile. Jax smiled back, aware of his heartbeat shifting into overdrive.

She was dressed in sleek, polished cotton beige pants and an olive-green top made of some slinky material that hung loosely, yet tantalizingly suggested the curves beneath.

So, okay then, most likely his attraction
was
about sex. And, hell, even if it wasn't, it really didn't matter. Treena McCall was a means to an end. She had something that belonged to him. Something he needed if he planned to stay alive.

Which he did.

So he'd do whatever it took to get it back.

T
REENA HAD COME
this close
to not showing up. She'd talked herself into keeping the breakfast date only by administering a few pithy lectures about the rudeness of standing up someone who'd been nothing but nice to her. Yet even as she followed the hostess into the heart of the restaurant, she was tempted to turn around and head back to the 'burbs. She really did need to run a few errands before her dance class at noon.

Then she looked up and saw Jax staring at her from the banquette, and all her reservations melted like so much sugar on the tongue.

Man, she didn't know what it was about this guy, but
something
sure grabbed her attention. She didn't think it was his looks, because he was hardly your standard babe material. The man was certainly no troll, but neither did he qualify as knock-your-socks-off gorgeous. His nose was a little too big, his jaw a little too long. All of his features taken individually, in fact, shouldn't have added up to much. But somehow, put together, they formed an appealing whole that worked. Plus, he was fit, which as an athlete she appreciated, and there was an intensity in his vibrant blue eyes that she could feel clear across the room.

He rose to his feet as she approached the table, and she found herself at an eye level with his collarbone. With a little start, she realized that he was so much taller and wider than she was that she felt almost petite. It was a rare sensation. Since most choruses in Las Vegas shows had height minimums of at least five feet nine inches, she'd never considered herself one of those pocket Venus types.

His height caught her by surprise only because she'd worn heels last night instead of the strappy little flats she'd shoved her feet into this morning. Giving him a discreet once-over, she judged him to be roughly six foot four or five, and close to two hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle.

Treena smiled as the hostess told them to enjoy their breakfast and headed back to her station. “Good morning,” she said and wondered what she should offer in the way of a physical greeting. After a hesitation, she thrust out her hand. They didn't know each other well enough to exchange a hug, much less a kiss. Clearing her throat as his warm fingers wrapped around hers, she was struck by how downright pathetic she'd become at this. She used to be pretty good at small talk, but it had been a long time since she'd had a date and she was clearly out of practice. Her hand tingling, she slipped her fingers free and murmured, “I hope I'm not late.”

“Not at all. You're right on time.” He ushered her into the banquette then slid in across from her. “I was early.”

Placing her small purse next to her hip she settled in, gazing at him across the narrow table. He either wore the same gorgeous jacket he'd had on last night or one just like it, paired this time with a gray silk T-shirt and
black jeans. He looked confident and at ease, and she wondered if he acquired breakfast companions as easily as he had her on a regular basis.

“You know,” she said impulsively, “I don't ordinarily accept dates from total strangers.” She made a face. “And, gee, you're real likely to believe
that,
considering what an easy pickup I turned out to be last night.”

“Oh, I believe it.” His dark eyebrows met over the thrust of his nose for a moment as if puzzled by the fact. But just as quickly they smoothed out, and he handed her a menu, giving her a sober look over it. “You don't have the moves of a natural flirt.”

Treena laughed out loud. “Thanks…I think.”

“Maybe I should have said of someone on the prowl for a man. For a one-night-stan—that is, a pickup.” He looked at her. “I'm making this worse, aren't I?”

She grinned. “Maybe we should move on to a new subject.”

“Good plan.”

“I'm guessing you're not from around here.” She cocked an inquiring eyebrow at him.

“Actually, I lived here as a teen, but I've been gone for a long time.”

“Is that what brings you here? Moving back to town?”

“No.”

“Then you must be here on business. Or am I jumping to conclusions again? Are you on vacation?”

“A little of both. First I'm reacquainting myself with one of my hometowns. Then business.”

“What is it that you do?” She waved a hand before he had a chance to respond. “No, wait, let me guess.” She studied him. “Your jacket is exquisite. Armani?”

“Hugo Boss.”

“Okay, expensive, fairly conservative, and you've got that great dressy-casual thing going by pairing it with those silk T-shirts. But the combination with jeans and—” she leaned sideways to peer under the table “—Nikes tells me you're probably not a CEO, am I right?”

“Definitely.”

“Yet you strike me as being both brainy and perhaps a little…wild.” She gazed at his sun-streaked brown hair, which, while far from long, was a little longer and perhaps just the tiniest bit shaggier than the average businessman would wear. “So, something in the arts, maybe? Are you a graphic artist?”

He shook his head.

“A painter or a photographer?”

He gave her a crooked smile. “The results of my forays into those fields were less than spectacular.”

His smile did funny things to her libido, and she quickly racked her brain for more professions to divert her attention. “Are you a dot-commer?”

“Nope. Although I do have an affinity for computers.”

“College professor?”

He laughed.

“I'm taking that as a no. The jacket would probably be tweedier anyway. So, let's see.” She studied him. “You're tan. Of course, most people in this town are. Still, please tell me you're not a surfer boy.” She smacked herself in the forehead. “Duh—not a lot of surf to be found in Las Vegas. Plus I haven't once heard you say ‘dude'—so that's probably not the world's greatest guess. You don't
design
surfboards by any chance, do
you?” Hadn't she heard somewhere that there was a convention of those guys in town?

Or maybe that had been snowboard designers.

Either way, he flashed her another white-toothed smile and said, “'Fraid not.”

“Okay, I give. What brings you to Vegas?”

“Poker.”

Her mouth dropped open. Snapping it shut, she reached over and smacked him lightly on the arm. “You cheat! You said you were here on business!”

“That is my business.”

She stared at him, startled. “You're a professional gambler?” He raised an eyebrow at her, and she said slowly, “Okay. That's about the last thing I would have guessed.” And the knowledge unsettled her a little, although she didn't know why. It wasn't as if she planned to marry the guy, so surely it was no skin off her nose how he made his living. He likely wouldn't even be in town long enough for them to
have
a relationship.

It shocked her to realize how curiously deflating that was.

Jax watched her withdraw slightly and wondered, what he was doing. Honesty was
not
the best policy, and he'd determined he wouldn't go down that road after he had tried to accomplish his goal the honorable way and got shot down for his efforts. So fine. He wanted her to believe he was a high roller with money to burn, and unfortunately most people's conception of a professional gambler was something a little sleazier even though he'd been doing very, very well for himself on the pro circuit.

Until he'd fucked up in Monaco. But he only had himself to blame for that fiasco and this resulting predicament.

So he wasn't here to have a good time with the woman—yet that was precisely what he was doing. Seducing Treena McCall was the only way he thought he would get an invitation into her home and then be left alone there long enough to get his hands on the item that would get his pecker out of the wringer.

He didn't foresee his mission taking long. She was a showgirl, after all, and God knew his father had already proven she could be bought. But looking at her across the table, at that mass of curls and that mouth, he warned himself not to get cocky. Ego was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. He had to be careful because, after watching her these past couple of nights and spending a little time with her this morning, his body was already starting to get ahead of itself, and he couldn't afford to let his dick rule his movements. Even if she wasn't at all what he'd expected.

He'd figured she would be dumb and greedy, not humorous and down-to-earth. Why the hell else would a woman like her marry a man ancient enough to be her father? He remembered life with his old man. His father hadn't exactly been Mr. Easygoing. But he was definitely rich.

“So are you in Las Vegas a lot, then?”

Treena's voice interrupted his musings, and he shoved them away to mull over later as he refocused his full attention on her. “No, this is my first time back in years. Since I left to attend college, in fact. I spend most of my time in Europe these days. Most recently Monte Carlo.”

“As in the Riviera?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, my God.” She sighed and planted her chin in the palm of her hand as she gazed at him with admiring wistfulness. “I can't even imagine. Except for a week Carly and I spent in Cancun three—no, God, it's been four years ago now—I've never even been out of the States.”

“You're kidding me.” He wasn't faking his amazement. He imagined she would have had the old man trotting her here, there and everywhere. In first class, wasting away the family fortune to such an extent that she'd had no choice but to return to dancing in a chorus line.

“I wish I were. Unfortunately, it's the God's honest truth. Pretty sad, huh?”

“You mean to tell me a nice Irish girl like you has never even made it back to the Motherland?”

She gave him one of those one-sided I've-seen-it-all smiles. “You think I'm Irish?”

“Aren't you? With that red hair and a name like McCall, I figured you had to be either Irish or Scottish.”

She laughed and he watched a couple of businessmen at a nearby table turn to give her appreciative looks.

“By way of Warsaw, maybe,” she said. “I grew up in a little Pennsylvania steel town I'm sure you've never heard of. And until about a year and a half ago, I was Treena Sarkilahti.”

“So McCall is your stage name?”

“No, it's my married name. Was my married name. I'm a widow.”

“Oh, man.” He sat back, and to his surprise discovered chagrin was yet another thing he didn't have to feign—at least not a hundred percent. He'd honestly ex
pected her to snap up the stage name excuse he'd offered and found it slightly shocking to hear the word
widow.
It conjured all sorts of sympathetic images he had no desire to feel. “I'm sorry.”

“Me, too. He was a great guy.”

If you have really low standards, he thought. But he stowed the bitterness that belonged to another time. It sure as hell wouldn't advance his agenda to dwell on it at this late date.

But even as he opened his mouth to literally charm the pants off her, she said, “You know, in a strange kind of way you remind me of him a little.”

He stared at her in horror.

She laughed. “I know. Nothing like hearing a woman compare you to her dead husband, huh? Jim was a self-made man without a lot of education and you're smoother than he was. But all the same, you're…kind…like he was. And big like him. He was a real man's man.”

Now he
knew
she was a liar. Kindness was not a word he'd use to describe his father. It sure as hell wasn't part of his own makeup, either.

Not anymore.

But a man's man—oh, yeah, Dad had been that all right. He'd lived to fish and hunt and play or watch every sport known to man.

He'd cared more about other men's opinions—even those of complete strangers—than about his own kid's state of mind. How many times had the old man towered over him, trying to get him to behave in a way that would garner the approval of his peers? A ghost of his father's voice whispered in disgust from a dark corner of Jax's mind.

“Choke up on the bat, Jackson, and keep your eye on the ball. Christ Almighty, boy, you swing like a girl!”

Treena touched the back of his hand. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I shouldn't have brought him up.”

Blinking the old memories away, he focused on his agenda. The old man had been right about one thing. He needed to keep his eye on the goddamn ball. Looking at the sexy redhead across from him, he silently cursed for allowing that little crease of worry to develop between her eyebrows. “How long has your husband been gone?”

“A little over four months.”

“That's no time at all. Of course he's going to be in your thoughts.” Leaning forward, he smoothed his fingers over the tips of hers. “Am I your first date since he died?”

“Yes. And I can honestly say I don't know what came over me.”

That elicited a genuine smile. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yes.” Color rose in her cheeks.

“Then I take back that ‘not having the moves of a natural flirt' remark. If making a man feel like a million bucks is any criteria, you're a lot better at it than I thought.”

She blinked at him. “Why you silver-tongued devil,” she deadpaned. “Please. All this flattery is turning my head.”

“Hey, pretend all you want,” he said with a grin. “But I'm wise to you now. Letting a guy know you accepted his invitation against your better judgment—that's flirting, honey. That's effective flirting.” Seeing her flustered gaze made him change the subject. “So,” he said, “you have any kiddies at home?”

“No. We weren't even married an entire year. Big
Jim had a grown son who was some kind of child prodigy math genius, but I've never met him.”

“Why not?” He sat back, the better to absorb her explanation. This oughtta be good, he thought.