The Sex Solution (16 page)

He’d seen the signs, yet he’d been swayed by her looks and her words and constant insistence that she was nothing like the girl he’d once known. She was in denial, determined to keep running from her past, from her grief over Sharon.

From her fear that maybe, just maybe, that shy, young, innocent still lived and breathed deep inside her and the new life she’d built for herself away from Cadillac had just been a very vivid dream.

She was terrified of backsliding into her old insecurities and losing everything she’d worked so hard for—her job, her independence, her sense of self.

He knew what haunted her because it lived and breathed inside of him, as well.

The realization hit him as he stood there, staring at her as she smiled and peaked over the window ledge into the shop. It wasn’t so much the way she looked on the outside, but the way she
looked
—the light that danced in her eyes, the smile that curved her luscious lips, the blush that pinked her bare cheeks and made her look more vibrant and alive than any makeup. That vitality came from the inside and it drew him more fiercely than a hot body or a pretty face.

She drew him on a deeper level because she knew his fear. She faced it herself.

Just like her, he was afraid of who he’d been, fearful of breaking his promise and discovering that deep down he was no better than the poor, troublemaking kid who’d raced his secondhand bike through Miss Marshalyn’s prize-winning rosebushes. A kid who’d had no real home or values or even a conscience. Just a ready-made reputation and a pair of badass footsteps to follow in.

He hadn’t cared about anyone or anything because he’d never had anyone or anything until Miss Marshalyn Simmons had fed him a meal and shown him that he did have someone who cared about him.

Eventually he’d made a home for himself and found a purpose and embraced responsibility, and he liked all three. But falling for a woman like all the others in his past would have proved the sheriff right—that people like Austin couldn’t change. They were no-good troublemakers. It was in their blood, who they were, who they were meant to be.

Born trouble.

But he hadn’t been born any such thing. He’d turned to trouble because he’d had little else in his life. Then. But now everything had changed. He’d changed. Being a Jericho didn’t make him no good from the get-go. There was no predetermined destiny. There were choices. Chances. He’d taken his and made something of himself, and the fight was over. There was no reason to keep running, afraid to backslide, afraid to prove the sheriff and everybody else right.

He hadn’t been seduced by Madeline the good-time she-devil. He’d fallen for the Maddie buried deep inside. The woman standing right in front of him, so close all he had to do was take two steps and make the first move this time.

He grinned and stepped forward.

M
ADELINE PEERED
over the window ledge and watched Uncle Spur hand his peace muffins to Miss Marshalyn.

The older woman didn’t drop-kick the basket into the nearest trash can or stuff one of the megasize treats up Spur’s nose, or any other orifice.

Definitely a good sign.

Good, but not great. Marshalyn wasn’t smiling yet, despite the baked goodies and the fast movement of Uncle Spur’s mouth—
uh-oh.

Dread rushed through her as she watched the older woman’s eyes narrow, her lips purse. He wouldn’t…he couldn’t…

Madeline shoved at the window, desperate to hear, but it was locked. She pressed her ear against the pane, but she heard little more than a murmur, the voices muffled by the glass and the whir of a nearby air conditioner.

“Don’t say it,” she murmured as she watched the older couple. “Please, don’t say anything you’re going to regret.”

“Trust me, I’m not going to regret anything I’m about to say. Or do.” The deep, husky voice slid into her ears a moment before she felt the tall, muscular male body step up behind her.

“What are you—” she whirled around “—doing?” A surprised gasp punctuated the sentence as she found herself pinned against the wall, Austin’s arms braced on either side of her, his legs anchoring hers, his chest blocking out everything except the warm, enticing aroma of soap and wind and aroused male.

“What I should have done a long, long time ago.” He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he inhaled. “You smell good.” Another whiff and his chest expanded, brushing the tips of her nipples.

Desire knifed through her. Her breasts swelled, the peaks ripening, pushing out, desperate for another caress.

“I…it’s the lotion that you smell.” She’d spent the past three days evaluating the trial tests and putting together a final formula, which she’d promptly slathered on before she’d joined Uncle Spur in the kitchen to work on his apology to Marshalyn.

He inhaled again, his chest expanding, brushing her nipples in another agonizing caress, and her breath caught.

“Like warm sugar and blueberries,” he murmured.

Raspberry sorbet.
That’s the flavor she’d put on that morning. The fact registered along with an inkling that something wasn’t right. But then he moved his head and his tongue flicked out just to the right of her lips.

“You taste good, too,” he murmured.

“It’s the lotion. Raspberries flavored with vanilla.”

“Sugar and blueberries.” He reached up and rubbed his thumb over the spot he’d just licked and she all but melted into a puddle at his feet. “You feel good, too.”

“Lotion,” she blurted, her chest heaving as she tried for a deep, calming breath. Her heart was beating much too fast and her hands were trembling because, for the first time, Austin was actually taking the initiative with her.

“Soft and sticky,” he went on. He pulled back to gaze into her eyes. “And you look good. Your cheeks are flushed.”

“It’s part of the visual enhancement. The lotion gives me a rosy hue. We didn’t test for that. It’s a given.”

“You look hot,” he told her. “Aroused. Are you?”

Yes!

The response screamed in her head as she stared into his eyes and saw the dark heat that simmered just below the surface. A look she instantly recognized from the nights he’d been at the house with her. From all those years ago when she’d faced him that night at the football game.

He wanted her.

Not that the fact was late-breaking news. He’d wanted her then. And he’d wanted her since she’d rolled back into town and into his arms at Cherry Blossom Junction.

But he’d held back and she’d had to take the initiative.

Not this time.

It was as if something had changed between them. As if the tide had shifted in her favor. As if Austin Jericho had surrendered to his lust and accepted it.

Right.

While she might have changed enough to seduce him into the sack at least once, she wasn’t hot enough to keep him there. That fact had sunk in three nights ago as she’d watched his headlights disappear down the street, and then she’d done what any woman who’d just been rejected would do—she’d eaten an entire bag of Oreos.

Only this time it hadn’t made her feel better. Instead, she’d felt sick and defeated, and all because of one pigheaded, aggravating, frustrating, sexy-as-sin man.

While she’d changed, she hadn’t changed nearly enough. Not enough to drive him over the edge and get him to make the first move. She’d faced that fact on Tuesday night and to entertain anything different now would only lead to more heartache.

Not that her heart was involved, mind you. It was her pride. Her self-esteem. Her ego.

He’d shattered all three with his reluctance and she wasn’t about to get her hopes up only to let him do it to her all over again.

He wasn’t coming on to her and making the first move.

He was coming on to her and making the first move.

His lips played over hers, his tongue licking, teasing, begging her to open her mouth and she did. He plunged inside, his tongue stroking the length of hers, sucking, deepening the contact until she moved with him, breathed with him.

He tasted even better than she’d anticipated. Hotter. Sweeter. More intoxicating.

He leaned into her, his chest barely grazing her breasts. But he didn’t touch her with his hands, and she didn’t touch him. She couldn’t. She was paralyzed, lost in a kiss that was more potent than any she’d ever experienced before.

“Hell’s bells. I swear I’m stuck smack-dab in the middle of the
Twilight Zone,
’cause things keep getting stranger by the minute.”

Uncle Spur’s voice pushed past the loud thud of her heart. She started to pull away, but Austin had heard, as well. He tore his mouth from hers and dragged in a deep breath of air as his gaze swiveled to the old man standing at the corner of the building.

“You’ve got rotten timing, old man.”

“Look at the pot calling the kettle pitch-black. Why, you’re the one who keeps running me over with all that rushing here and there, and right when I’m nursing a delicate constitution, and now a sore toe.” He limped forward a few steps.

“What happened?”

“This is all your fault. Muffins. I should have known ain’t no muffin in the world going to soften up a prickly old pear like Marshalyn.”

“She didn’t like the muffins?”

“She liked ’em just fine, or so she said, and then I said she could eat to her heart’s content and not have to worry about me putting anything funny in them, on account of I can see just fine.”

“You didn’t.”

“Didn’t what? I just wanted her to know the muffins weren’t sabotaged or anything on account of the miserable night that I had. I was sincere.”

“Where is she?”

“Probably down at the corner by now. She was huffing and puffing and walking awful fast when she busted out of the beauty salon after stepping on my toe.”

“Christ, I’ve got to go after her before she tries to cross the street,” Austin told Madeline. His gaze collided with hers and he planted another deep, plundering kiss before pulling away. “We’ll finish this later tonight. I’ll see you at seven.”

His last words barely registered because the quick assault of his mouth sucked the air from her lungs and scattered all rational thought. She leaned back against the building and tried to catch her breath.

“This is all your fault,” Spur told her as he limped closer.

“How’s that?” She forced a deep breath and tried to calm her still-pounding heart.

He’d taken the initiative. He’d really and truly
finally
taken the initiative and put the moves on her
first.

“You made me go in there like some dadburned fool.”

“You were a sweet old man when you went in there. You didn’t turn into a dadburned fool until you opened your mouth.”

“You don’t have to look so happy about it.”

“I’m not. It’s terrible. Tragic. A waste of good muffins.”

Her happiness came from an entirely different source. She’d done it. She’d pushed Austin to the limit with her newly formulated, hundred-dollar-a-tube, surefire formula guaranteed to drive the nearest man to his breaking point.

Her smile faded.

While she’d anticipated just such a reaction—she’d been counting on it—the reality of it was far less gratifying than the concept.

Because she realized his sudden offensive had nothing to do with her charm or her sex appeal or
her.

It was simply the lotion.

“I don’t think I feel so good,” Spur grumbled.

“You and me both.”

“W
E’VE GOT A HIT
,” Madeline told Duane later that afternoon as she stood in her kitchen, the phone to her ear. “I tried the prototype today and it worked.”

“How many times?”

“Once.”

“Only one test subject? How can you be so sure of the lotion’s effectiveness? It could be a fluke. An accident. An—”

“My test subject kissed me. A stubborn, indifferent, determined subject who’s obviously completely unattracted to me. Until today.”

“Bull’s-eye,” Duane said, followed by a low whistle. “And you’re convinced it was the lotion?”

Her mind flashed back to the previous night and the determination in his eyes.

He’d been so intent on resisting her.

But today…with the final formula, he’d suddenly made the move first.

It
had
to be the lotion.

“I’m dead certain. I’m sending you what I mixed up this morning and you can distribute it to the trial-and-error team. I’m also e-mailing the formulas for the five various flavors. Hand them over to the rest of the team and let’s get some solid data together for next week’s presentation.”

“I’ll get on it first thing Monday morning.” The sound of a cork popping echoed over the phone line. “Tonight, it’s time to celebrate.”

“You’re not near a live burner, are you? Alcohol is flammable and—”

“I’m at least three feet away.”

“Duane.”

“Two and a half at the very least. Look, you need to chill out and relax. Enjoy. We did it! You’re going all the way to head of research and development and I’ll be right beside you. Your trusted sidekick. The Silver to your Lone Ranger. The Robin to your Batman.” A crinkling sounded in the background, followed by a few quick crunches, “The Cheetah to your Tarzan—”

“Are you eating, too?”

“Who?” A gulp punctuated the question. “Of course not.”

“Put up the peanuts.”

“Peanuts don’t go with champagne. They’re corn chips.”

“I’m not hearing this.”

“You know, instead of angsting over my diet, you should go out and find your own bottle of champagne, your own corn chips and a really hot man and do a little celebrating of your own.”

If only.

But the last thing she felt like doing was celebrating. Besides the only
really
hot man within a five-mile radius wasn’t really hot. Not for her, that is. He just thought he was, courtesy of her new product, which she’d dubbed
The Sex Solution.

She barely ignored the urge to toss the remaining lotion into a nearby trashcan. Instead she squirted a little into her hands and closed her eyes. The lotion tingled, warming as she rubbed it into her skin, the scent filling her nostrils, and a gasp escaped her lips…

Ugh. She opened her eyes to the empty kitchen. Life truly did suck. She’d come so far since leaving Cadillac in the first place, yet here she was back home again, alone on a Friday night with nothing but a refrigerator to satisfy her cravings.

An
empty
refrigerator, except for the various ingredients for her lotion. She stared at a dish of pumpkin-flavored gel and thought of Uncle Spur. Nah. She wasn’t that desperate. Yet.

Fifteen minutes later, she pulled a batch of instant biscuits out of the oven, grabbed a bottle of honey and headed for the sofa. It wasn’t an Oreo, but beggars couldn’t be choosers and the Piggly Wiggly closed its doors at six o’clock.

Her gaze shifted to the clock that read a half hour until seven.
We’ll finish this later tonight.
I’ll see you at seven. A thrill of anticipation rippled through her and she had the sudden urge to rush upstairs and wiggle into her man-killer dress.

“You’re hopeless,” she told herself. “He’s not coming.”

Once out of range of Madeline and her lotion, his senses had undoubtedly calmed. He’d probably spent the afternoon wondering what had come over him and vowing never, ever to let it happen again.

She grabbed the bottle of honey and squirted a dollop of golden liquid on top of one warm biscuit. Austin Jericho was
not
going to come begging for another kiss, or anything more.

Twinkles, on the other hand, was a different story altogether. The dog sat next to her, a hopeful look on his face. She pinched off a piece and tossed it to him. He caught it, swallowing in one gulp before licking his chops. He eased closer, nuzzling her as he whined, but she shook her head.

“Sorry, boy. I need this a lot more than you do.” She popped a bite into her mouth, the honey oozing over her fingers. Sliding a fingertip into her mouth, she licked the honey and went for another bite. Twinkles kept whining and she ended up sharing her biscuit with him. He was a pain, but she had a soft spot for him.

She’d tossed him the very last piece and had just gotten up to go and fetch another when she heard the screen door squeak. She waited for Uncle Spur to push the door open, but instead the doorbell sounded. She opened the door to find Austin Jericho standing on her doorstep a full fifteen minutes before seven.

She could tell that he’d just showered. He wore a white T-shirt that outlined his broad chest and clung to his muscular biceps. Faded jeans cupped his crotch and molded to his thighs. His dark hair was damp, curling around his neck. His five-o’clock shadow was gone, his jaw fresh and clean shaven.