Three to Tango (19 page)

She knew it was coming, but she didn’t back off. The circle of her lips tightened on him, her tongue flicking fast and hard on the ultrasensitive tip. The trick pulled a harsh cry from him. Her hand surrounded his up-drawn scrotum and contracted.

He let go, soundless now except for a gasp. The spunk fountained from him like he’d had it damned up for years. She took it until she couldn’t, her hand pumping him instead. His shooting seed slicked her palm like oil. This final increase in sensation was so strong, so unbelievably erotic, that the blaze blotted out his thoughts.

He was dizzy when it ended, half surprised to find himself on his feet. It took a few more seconds for his eyelids to lift.

He was looking straight at Liam, as he hadn’t had the nerve to before. Liam was staring slack-jawed at his relaxing cock. That was natural enough, Shay supposed. Chelsea’s mouth had just been there, and most guys would have been curious enough to watch a blow job that awesome. What startled Shay was that Liam was steel-hard again, all eight throbbing, bottle-thick inches, or whatever the hell he was. Even more worth noting, he was wanking his erection. It wasn’t a casual I’ll-just-keep-myself-warmed-up motion. His fist was exerting sufficient pressure to stretch the tendons around his base, suggesting the state of his hard-on was pretty bad.

Evidently, watching Shay get sucked had gotten him seriously horny.

Something Shay could only call euphoria possessed him. He reached out to Liam, to curl his hand under his. Liam’s gaze jerked to his as they touched.

“Shay,” he said in surprise.

And then his erection dropped.

Shay let go like he’d been burned, though the case was more the reverse. “I’m sorry, man. You didn’t want me to do that.” He spun away, searching the cluttered floor for his clothes. “Crap. Where are my trousers?”

He found them and yanked them on, nearly tripping in his eagerness to be dressed. The mortification that gripped him was as strong as the joy had been. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it over his head.

“Stop that,” Liam berated. “I was just … You took me by surprise is all.”

“I was stupid,” Shay said. “Beyond stupid. I was the dictionary definition of idiocy.”

He was saying too much. He was giving himself away even worse. He knew that the instant Liam caught his upper arm. Shay looked desperately at Chelsea, but she was blushing as bad as him. Shay dragged a hand through his hair.

“Just forget I did it,” he said. “I’ll get out of both your ways now.”

Liam’s fingers tightened to keep him there. When he spoke, it was as if Shay were still a child. “Shay, are you attracted to me?”

“No.” He tried and failed to laugh. “That’d be crazy.”

Liam’s green eyes were worried, not buying it. Seeing how concerned he was, how he’d care about his adopted brother no matter what, Shay had to face the truth. He loved Liam as much as he loved Chelsea, and in very much the same way. He was never going to be able to put his romantic feelings in neat boxes.

He put his hand over Liam’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze, just like he would have before this happened. Pretending nothing was different was the hardest thing he had ever done.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just chalk it up to the pot. Chelsea, if I don’t see you before you go, have a blast at Dartmouth.”

He pulled free of Liam successfully this time. Down the stairs he went, out of the garage. The sound of Chelsea and Liam calling after him barely slowed his steps. They’d be better off without him. They knew how to be normal. He reached the street and ran down it until the dark swallowed him. He only stopped when he lost his breath. He wasn’t crying, but he might as well have been. With all his heart, he wished he didn’t know what he did.

His life would never be as simple as it had been just an hour ago.

Chelsea:

P
laying it cool wasn’t Chelsea’s strong suit. Try though she might, she couldn’t stop staring at Liam as he drove them past the swanky brownstones of Brooklyn Heights. The day was gorgeous, with dappled sunshine gleaming off the hood of his black work truck. Chelsea had plenty to think of besides old flames: her upcoming project, the lunch she’d skipped because she was too nervous to eat it. As to that, her latest meeting with her accountant could have kept her thoughts occupied. And still her eyes kept drifting to Liam O’Brien.

He looked good. He’d always looked good, of course, even as the gawky thirteen-year-old she’d fallen in love with when she was ten. Then, he’d been all shoulders and legs and elbows, with a voice as likely to be tenor as baritone. Now, his thirtysomething face seemed mature, its greater decisiveness suiting him. His wavy brown hair was short, showing off how cleanly handsome his features were. His mouth was as sinfully sweet as ever, pure temptation to weak females. The hands that gripped the Silverado’s wheel displayed the battering she remembered from his days in construction work. By her surreptitious count, no less than three of his nails were black from various bashings.

Liam had never gotten in the habit of sitting on a job’s sidelines, though he was a highly respected restoration contractor now. O’Brien, McMead and Purefoy was
the
firm to hire for anyone who bought an old house around the city. They were her first choice, certainly, which almost explained why she was next to him in this truck, struggling not to squirm like a schoolgirl on the nice leather.

That got harder when a red light pointed out the awkwardness between them.

Liam cleared his throat like he also might be uncomfortable and slid a quick glance at her. The bright May day turned his eyes spring green.

“You look good, Chel. You did something to your hair.”

She touched its now smooth ripples self-consciously. “That’s the magic of modern styling products. Looking like a crazy Muppet wasn’t impressing loan officers.”

“Well, it’s good.” He cleared his throat again, his knuckles whitening beneath their scars. “All of you looks good.”

The driver of the Audi behind them leaned on his horn.

“Light,” she said, noticing only then that it had turned green.

“Right,” he said, and pulled through the intersection with his cheeks gone a shade pinker. “How long has it been anyway?”

Chelsea was grateful for the chance to let her own flush ebb. “Since we saw each other? Seven years, I think. Not since Gran’s funeral.”

Liam’s hand came over to rub her arm. “I was really sorry about that, Chel.”

“I know you were.” His kind green gaze brought the aching feelings of friendship back, but she didn’t look away. “I really appreciated seeing you at the service. And after, too.”

He nodded, his attention taken up by maneuvering through the flow of traffic. His hands spun the wheel so smoothly she felt herself grow wet. “I wish—”

He cut himself off, and she wondered what he’d been going to say. They’d dated, or tried to, twice after crossing paths at the funeral. To say that hadn’t gone well was an understatement. Her head had been too wrecked over losing Gran, her sole caretaker after her parents died. She hadn’t been able to let herself connect to anyone back then. Later, when she’d decided to stay in Brooklyn rather than return to New Hampshire, she’d have been happy to hear from him. Unfortunately, he’d been living in Manhattan, and she hadn’t quite brought herself to pick up the phone and call him.

There’d been too much baggage to get over, too much heartbreak to risk by starting up again. Shay had seemed the smart one. If you had to let go, better to let go clean.

Liam had been following his own thoughts while she was quiet. “Your gran’s house was your first flip, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” She smiled at the memory. She’d been a trader at a financial firm, hating every minute she spent at work. Desperate to quit, desperate not to
think
, the exhausting, frustrating, exhilarating work of fixing up that old house for resale had saved her sanity. She’d realized what money meant when her own bottom line was at stake. She’d learned how to hire a crew, how to goose them to do their best, how to work beside them without driving them crazy. A few of those early crew guys were still with her. Her pride in that made her sit straighter and shoot a grin at Liam.

“I sold Gran’s place a week after listing it. And made enough profit to fund my next project. I remember thinking Gran was looking out for me from beyond.”

“And now you’re the big boss lady.”

“Just like you’re the big boss man.”

He laughed at her banter, the tension she hadn’t realized was in his shoulders easing as he rolled them against the seat. “I’m glad you came to me for this.”

She was glad, too. She’d been nervous before she called him. After seven years without speaking, and fourteen since they’d been close, thinking he’d even remember her had seemed silly. He had, though, greeting her in his office with a warmth that was obvious. He’d been curious, and wary, and finally interested as she explained what she had in mind. What he hadn’t been was standoffish.

It had seemed a miracle at the time.

“I’m glad, too,” she said, the admission a trifle husky as it came out.

Since he was turning onto Peach Place, she hoped he wouldn’t notice.

“It’s the second house on the right,” she said. “With the crabapple tree in front.”

Liam grunted, squeezing the pickup into the first space he found. Peach Place was a narrow lane connecting Montague and Remsen. Like many of the streets in the area, a stretch of lovely s brownstones lined it on either side. The block was New York history in a bubble, the shining towers across the river in Manhattan all that anchored it in their time. Most of the Italianate row houses were rehabbed already, the one she’d bought being the exception, though it looked nice enough from the outside.

She swiped damp palms down her jeans as she stepped out of the truck and onto the sidewalk. If Liam turned out to hate her baby, he was going to break her heart. Her accountant’s, too, probably.

His expression didn’t give anything away. Professional now, he planted himself at the foot of the entry steps to give the narrow five-story structure a once-over.

“Brownstone’s good,” he said at last. “Whoever quarried and installed it did a good job. There’s no spalling that I can see. Windows are original. Not the glass, though.”

The windows were long and graceful, like princesses standing tall. The moment she’d seen them, her soul had let out a sigh.

“All right,” he said, finished with his survey. “Lead the way inside.”

Though it looked far worse in there, once they were past the trashed vestibule, he rewarded her with a low whistle. He moved straight past her to the front parlor.

“Look at the freaking plasterwork on that molding. And the carving on that fireplace surround.” He craned his neck to check out the ceiling medallion. “Chelsea, that’s an original chandelier under those cobwebs!”

“I know.” She was absurdly delighted by his amazement. “This place has been in one family since it was built. It still would be if the latest heirs weren’t cash-strapped.”

He turned to her with passion flaring in his green eyes. “I can’t tell you how rare it is to find a house of this vintage that’s been untouched.”

“Oh, it’s been touched,” she warned. “You haven’t seen the nineteen-seventies kitchen.”

“Still.” Obviously seduced, he wandered out to the slim stairway. His hand caressed the rickety banister. “It’d be a crime to cut this place into condos.”

“I have to,” she said, completely understanding the pang he felt. “It’s the best way to recoup my investment. If I try to keep the whole thing together, it’ll be so pricey it could take years to sell.”

“
If
you sell.”

“I’m a businesswoman. I can’t tie up my capital that way.”

He said nothing, just proceeded slowly through the rest of the home. As she’d expected, the seventies kitchen inspired some choice curses, but—like her—Liam saw the underlying potential. The lovely bedroom floor left him speechless, as did the tangled ghost of the brick-walled garden down the back stairs. When he turned to her there, his face was stoic.

“It’s gonna cost a fortune,” he said. “New plumbing, new electrical, new roof. I’m willing to bet the beams in your basement need jacking up, because your filth-encrusted parquet floors are slanting like the deck of the
Titanic
. Basically, we’re gonna have to take the place apart with kid gloves and reassemble it the same way. Even if you got a bargain, even if nothing too big goes wrong, you are not gonna make a fortune flipping this house around.”

Chelsea released a gusty sigh. “That’s what I figured. I just couldn’t resist it.”

He stared at her for a second before snorting out a laugh. “You know you’re not supposed to fall in love with your investments.”

“I
know
. Why do you think I always flip ranchers?”

“Jesus.” He touched the side of her face like he might caress it. A moment later, before she could decide what she hoped he’d do, he dropped his hand and squinted up the row house’s plain brick posterior. “Repointing,” he said, thrusting one finger at the crumbly mortar. “Another bill to add to the mix.”

“Don’t rub it in,” she moaned.

Laughing, he dropped his arm around her shoulders. To her probably stupid pleasure, he left it there. “It is gorgeous. And you
did
get a damned good deal.”

“Deals I’m good at. Now and then, I forget to be sensible.”

“I assume you’d want your own crew to be involved.”

Chelsea’s heart sped up. This sounded like he was going to take the job. “Yes,” she said, striving to maintain a calm demeanor. “They’re not experts in this work like your guys, but I promise they’re quick learners.”

The arm he’d draped around her gave her a little squeeze. “Chelsea, the last thing you need to worry about is me not knowing how good you and your people are.”

The pleasure of him being aware of her reputation brought a quick burn into her eyes. She blinked it away before lifting her face to him. “Are you saying you’ll let me hire you?”

He smiled at her with his eyes. The crinkles that appeared around them did distracting things to her train of thought. “You’d see a lot of me. Probably every day for the next six months.”

“I’m hardly afraid of that, Liam.” She blushed when she heard herself. She’d said his name like they were lovers.

“Good.” His tone was soft as well. His gaze held hers, the moment drawing into something not businesslike at all. She told herself she was glad he broke it by stepping back. “Why don’t I feed you, and we can talk about this some more.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I do. A, I heard your stomach growling, and, b, the last time I took you to a restaurant, you ran out before the hors d’oeuvres.”

“Liam—”

“Let me,” he said, his hands framing her face. “Let me enjoy my old friend being here now.”

She couldn’t resist him. Maybe she didn’t want to in the first place.

“All right,” she said, butterflies gone wild in her stomach. “Dinner sounds great to me.”

“So …” Liam lifted a pot lid to assess its merrily boiling contents. “You buy the ugliest house on the block and turn it into the best.”

“Yes, but only the best for
that
block. If you turn a flip into the best house for some upscale block five streets up, you won’t get your money back.”

Liam knew this, Chelsea was certain, but was attempting to put her at ease. He hadn’t taken her to a restaurant, but to his gasp-inducing twenty-fourth-floor apartment in Midtown. The place was spacious by city standards—three beds, three baths, the open concept living/dining/kitchen as sleek as a spread in a magazine. Its modernity revealed a side of Liam she hadn’t known existed, along with letting her know how well his firm must be doing.

Chelsea admitted she was a teensy bit intimidated, and also weak in the knees from the wide floor-to-ceiling view. Preferring to look at him for reasons both complicated and dangerous, she rested her spine and elbows on his gleaming white quartz island.

“It’s just a house,” Liam said, reading her wry expression. “
My
house. Note the mail tossed on the dining table. And the napping blankie on the sectional.”

“The white leather sectional,” Chelsea corrected. “Which you probably imported from Italy.”

“Eh.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Leather’s easier to clean if you spill something. I should—” He looked around as if he’d lost something, and she realized he was nervous, too. “Would you like me to pour you a glass of wine?”

“Stomach’s empty,” she said, her lips curving just a bit. “Doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“Breadstick then? Or I could throw the salads together now.”

The sleeves of his pale yellow oxford shirt were rolled above his elbows, baring his strong forearms. Unable to resist, Chelsea brushed the dark gold hair on those corded muscles with the back of her hand. “You don’t have to fuss over me. I’d be happy grabbing a sandwich in a café.”

“No, no.” His laugh seemed more directed at him than her. “I’m fussing for my own sake. This way, if you run out, there’ll be no pack of waiters to pity me.”

Chelsea turned her palm to lay it across his forearm. Liam looked at it, then at her. His eyes gave away that this wasn’t really a joke to him.

“I didn’t mean to run out on you that night. I just couldn’t handle, well, hardly anything then.”

“I know.” Visibly coming to a decision, Liam snapped off the burner and exhaled. His attention was all hers then, the intensity of his focus making her a little too warm inside. When his hands came up to chafe her shoulders, tingles swept to the need coiled between her thighs. Never mind drinking a glass of wine on an empty stomach, seeing Liam after such a long stretch of datelessness probably wasn’t her best idea. Though they’d only been together the once, she remembered very well how good and
right
he’d felt making love to her. Maybe he was remembering, too. His gaze slid down to her nipples—which weren’t cooperating with her desire to get her toes wet one at a time. He blinked as if she’d distracted him, then dragged his eyes up to hers again.