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  “Umm-hmm.”

  “Well, hell, as long as you’re going to make the trip, maybe you should bring paper so you can make some rubbings.”

  A laugh bubbled out of her, but she nodded, as if actually considering the suggestion. “Maybe. I won’t tell her the part, though, where you could have posed for the relief depicting Power.” She studied him from beneath her lashes. “Of course, I’d have to see you without your shirt on to know that for certain.”

  The suggestion coming from her own lips brought her up short. She never indulged in sexual innuendo, because when it came to her own sexual shortcomings she didn’t fool herself. She knew perfectly well she was unlikely to follow through to anyone’s satisfaction on her implied promises. And nobody liked a tease.

  Unfortunately, it was too late to warn Jax that he was destined to end up frustrated and unfulfilled. The look he turned on her was warm enough to melt rock. “That can be arranged.”

  A little thrill of pleasure shot through her. But before she could analyze it—much less decide what was going on with her own uncharacteristic behavior—they arrived back at her condominium complex.

  As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Jax drove through the gates of the complex and parked in a visitor’s spot. Climbing out of the car when he opened the door for her moments later, she abruptly decided that, right or wrong, she wasn’t ready for their day to end. She reached for his hand and linked their fingers together.

  “I had a really great time today,” she said huskily. “And I’d love to make you dinner to thank you for it, if you’ve got time before your game.”

  Jax ignored the unexpected twinge of guilt that stabbed him and smiled down at her. “Are we talking home cooking here?”

  She nodded. “But before you get too excited,” she said with a small, crooked smile, “be warned it’s only spaghetti. I’m not a bad cook, but I’m a long way from a great one.”

  He pulled their linked hands to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers. “That sounds great.” Belatedly, her mention of his scheduled game sank in, and he glanced at his watch. “If you don’t mind that I have to leave by six-thirty, that is.”

  “Not a problem. We’ll just eat a little early.”

  They walked through the landscaped grounds past decorative ponds and fountains and several pretty three-story, white stucco, red-tile-roofed buildings until they reached the one that housed Treena’s condo.

  “I meant to tell you when I picked you up how nice this complex is,” he said as she let them into the building. “It really is beautiful. The waterscapes alone are amazing.”

  “Aren’t they wonderful? I love the place.” Bypassing the elevator, she led him to the stairs. “It’s the first home I’ve ever owned all on my own.”

  Paid for with the old man’s money, no doubt, he thought cynically, but for some reason his mind immediately rejected the thought. He was usually pretty good at reading people—and she wasn’t behaving the way he’d expect a gold-digging showgirl who’d married an old man strictly for his money to act.

  Not that she couldn’t still be playing him. God knew his judgment got seriously whacked whenever he was in her company, because she had a way of commanding his full attention to the detriment of everything else going on around him. Just look at the way he’d almost told her how old he was when his mother had died, when he knew that, as big a disappointment as he’d been to his father, the old man might have at least mentioned that much about him to his new wife. Such sloppiness was anathema to everything his math-and-logic-trained mind believed in.

  Yet despite all the analytical reasons to the contrary, the longer he was around Treena, the more he began to doubt all the assumptions he’d made about her up to now.

  Then again, sport, maybe they’re right on the money, he thought when they entered her apartment. Giving her furnishings a quick but comprehensive survey, he saw that for the most part she had a cozy mix of overstuffed chairs that had probably been picked up for a song and reupholstered on the cheap—a coffee table that while beautifully refinished, still looked more rummage sale old than antique find-of-the-century, and girly touches such as bright silk pillows, candles in bronze holders, and a large Moroccan mosaic mirror over the mantel of the small gas fireplace. But mixed among them were a few really good pieces—a mahogany credenza with in-lays, a couch that had probably cost a pretty penny, a painting on one wall that looked as if it might be valuable, and an area rug on the hardwood floor that he’d swear was a Tabriz.

  He looked around for the World Series baseball, but if she had it displayed anywhere it wasn’t in the living room.

  “Nice place,” he said and watched Treena drop her tote on the credenza. “You really like color, don’t you?” It was everywhere: in the Italian villa, gold walls, in the muted rug, and in the art and other vivid accessories that served to pull the room together.

  “What was your first clue, Sherlock?” She laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle, and carried the High Scaler replica over to the fireplace.

  Although her tone was teasing, he answered seriously as he watched her take down a large vase of dried grasses to make room for the sculpture on the mantel. “Your clothes. I’ve noticed that except for that killer dress you wore to dinner at the Commander’s Palace, you’re not exactly a basic black kind of woman. Instead you wear colors I wouldn’t normally expect to see on a redhead.” Looking at her orange top, he mused, “By rights they ought to clash, but somehow it all works.”

  “Glad you approve.” But her reply was vague because she was obviously focused on getting the sculpture’s placement just right. She stepped back to eye it critically, reached out to angle it a fraction of an inch toward the center of the mantel, then backed up several feet to get a different perspective. “There,” she finally sighed after a few additional tweaks. “Perfect.” Then she smiled at him over her shoulder, turning the full wattage of her attention back on him. “I can’t thank you enough for this.”

  And that was what really got him. She genuinely seemed to wring more enjoyment out of a statue that reminded her of the men back home than the much more valuable diamond pendant. If she’d wanted to put on an effusive act, the smart money would have been on doing so over the necklace—not some hunk of rock, wood, and mold-cast bronze that had cost a fraction of the jewelry’s price.

  But since he could hardly demand to know why she was messing with his head this way, he flashed her his most charming smile and said, “Feeding me a home-cooked meal is thanks enough.”

  “Come on, then, and I’ll get it started.” She pointed to a bar stool at the counter as she walked around to the kitchen side. “Grab a seat. You want a glass of wine?”

  “I’d love one, but I’d better not. I make it a policy never to drink within four hours of a game.”

  She nodded. “I can see where keeping your wits about you might be a good idea.”

  “Only if I want to stay in the game,” he said lightly, pulling out a stool at the breakfast bar separating the living area from the kitchen and hitching a hip onto it.

  But she seemed able to see through him to the truth. “You take your work very seriously,” she said approvingly. “Is that why you keep your hand in with these other games you’ve been playing, instead of waiting for the actual tournament to start?”

  “Yeah. It’s kind of like your dance classes—it keeps my skills lubed up.”

  “I hear that. So, wine’s out. How about a club soda, then?” She stretched to open a cupboard.

  “That would be great.”

  She pulled one out of the refrigerator and poured it into the glass she’d fetched. “Ice?”

  “No. Thanks.” He looked at the bright pottery on the counter and the color-coordinated but mixed pattern towels looped through her refrigerator door handle and hanging from a towel bar. “I know I commented on your affinity for color, but I don’t think I said how much I like the way you’ve fixed your place up.” And he did. There was something very hom
ey and welcoming about it.

  Her smile lit up the room. “Thanks. I’ve done it a little at a time.”

  It was the perfect opportunity to find out how long she’d owned the place—and if his father had, indeed, had anything to do with its financing.

  Before he could inquire, however, she handed him the highball glass of club soda and gave him a quizzical look. “Playing in a professional poker tournament must require an enormous amount of concentration,” she said as she reached for a bottle of Merlot and poured herself a long-stemmed glass. She nodded at the club soda he’d picked up. “Not to mention discipline.”

  “You have to keep your mind on the game,” he agreed and watched the taut pull of her khaki skirt over her world-class ass as she stooped to pull a pan from the drawer in the bottom of her stove. “You’d be a definite distraction to have around.”

  She flashed him a smile over her shoulder and rose with the pan in hand. “Why, you ol’ sweet talker.” Slipping the pan onto a burner, she sipped at her wine and began assembling ingredients from her cupboards, laying them out one by one on the counter.

  He watched her work with pleasure. He might have had an agenda when he’d angled for an invitation for a home-cooked meal, but he sure as hell hadn’t exaggerated how much he longed for one. “This is heaven,” he said with genuine contentment. “I can’t tell you how sick I am of eating out.”

  “So you’ve said before. I doubt you and I will ever see eye to eye on that score.”

  “Tell you what: I’ll take you out until you get your fill of restaurant fare. I bet it won’t take as long as you think.” He observed her as she checked over her array of ingredients then grabbed a package of hamburger from the freezer and threw it in the microwave. “Can I do anything to help?”

  “No, you relax. You can help me build the salad a little later on. I just want to get this sauce started so it can simmer a while.” Pouring some olive oil into the pan, she turned the burner on under it, then reached for an onion and a green pepper and proceeded to chop them up with more enthusiasm than expertise on a Lucite cutting board. As she finished preparing the sauce, fragrant steam soon rose to flush her face and tease corkscrew-tight little ringlets away from the bandana tying her hair back. Jax found himself shifting on his stool. Who would have guessed a Betty Crocker moment could be such a turn-on?

  Treena suddenly looked up, and for a second he thought she’d somehow read his mind. But she merely said, “You want to turn on the stereo? It’s in the armoire over there, top section.”

  “Sure.” He rose off the stool and headed for the indicated piece of furniture. Opening its top doors, he discovered a DVD multichanger on the shelf and several stacks of CDs. Selecting a few, he popped them in the player, used her remote to program a random, all-play mode, and hit Play. Strains of Dire Straits’ “Brothers in Arms” soon filled the room.

  She smiled at him. “That’s quite different from what I expected, judging from what you played in the car.”

  “Hey, there’s driving with the top down music, and then there’s music to cook by.”

  She laughed and then disappeared from sight, and he heard her rummaging around in one of the lower cupboards.

  “Oh, I don’t believe this!” she suddenly exclaimed.

  “What’s that?” He walked back to the counter and leaned over it to peer down at her.

  Crouched in front of a narrow open cupboard, she glowered up at him. “I had all the fresh stuff that I’m usually out of to make the sauce, but I forgot to replace the damn spaghetti when I used up the last box.” She surged to her feet. “I’m going to have to run to the store.”

  “Maybe Carly has some,” he said, then could have kicked himself. This was the perfect opportunity to take a look around for the baseball.

  Treena laughed in his face. “Carly’s cupboards have the finest dog and cat food money can buy, but they seldom have anything in them that’s fit for real people to eat.” Coming around the counter, she grabbed her wallet out of the tote on the credenza where she’d tossed it and pulled out her keys. “Make yourself comfortable. I won’t be long.” And a second later, she was gone.

  He simply stood there for a moment, staring at the door that had banged shut behind her. Then he made a conscious effort to snap his sagging jaw shut. But, good God almighty. The woman was a firecracker.

  Having his imagination segue into the red-hot question of how that might correspond to action with her in bed sure as hell wouldn’t get him any closer to finding the baseball, so he shook off the graphic images that had exploded full-blown in his mind and headed across the room. He had a finite amount of time to search, and shoving aside the inexplicable discomfort he felt about pawing through her stuff, he plotted a mental diagram of her apartment. Considering he didn’t see the ball out here, the smart thing would be to start in her bedroom. But this burglary business wasn’t exactly his usual milieu, and he couldn’t quite get past his unease at going through her personal belongings. He decided to search some of the apartment’s less intimate areas first.

  He started with the beautifully inlaid credenza, sliding open the rounded front panel. The craftsmanship of the piece was exquisite, and it must be worth a small fortune. It contained nothing more than china, however, and he closed it again. The small bookshelf held books and girl-type pretties, and he passed it by. He opened the sections of the armoire that he hadn’t already seen and found a TV and a VCR in the middle compartment and tapes, a set of candlesticks and two vases in the bottom.

  Since there was no sense in rising to his feet merely to have to squat again a couple of feet away, he crab-walked toward the tiny cabinet she used as an end table.

  He was just reaching for the decorative pull on its door when a key turned in the lock.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TREENA LET HERSELF into the condo and headed through the archway into the living room. “Hi, I bet you didn’t expect me back this quic—”

  The sight of Jax’s muscular butt, thrust up in the air where he knelt at the end of the couch, severed her power of speech. He was twisted from the waist, his right shoulder dipped to the hardwood floor to fit his arm biceps-deep beneath the little cabinet she’d picked up at a Palm Springs flea market and fixed up for an end table.

  “Do I dare ask what you’re doing?” she finally managed, as her gaze ping-ponged between his rump and the slice of flesh above his waistband where his sky-blue T-shirt had separated from his jeans.

  “Hang on a second—there!” Pulling back, he flipped over and rolled to sit on that very fine butt, holding up a gold-rimmed black coin draped in a dust bunny. “I dropped George—my good-luck two-pound piece—and he ran for the hills.”

  She crossed the room and took it from his fingers, blowing off the streamer of dust. “Well, this is embarrassing. Now you know I don’t move my furniture to clean.”

  “Yeah, that’s a real priority in my life. I don’t know if we can still be friends after this.”

  “Hey, I, at least, don’t name my money.”

  He climbed to his feet and reached out to turn the coin in her hand. On the back, in a bold relief of gold against black, was a man on a horse, thrusting a sword into a dragon. “It’s a 1987 St. George and the Dragon.”

  “Thus George, I’m guessing. I also imagine he’s worth more than two pounds.”

  He grinned at her. “A bit. It’s the luck he brings me that’s his real worth, though.”

  “You’re superstitious?” She probably shouldn’t have been surprised, but it wasn’t a label that ever would have occurred to her to pin on him.

  He smiled. “Well, I’ve got something of a split personality when it comes to that. The math lover in me believes in numbers and nothing but. Yet I’m a gambler—and by nature we’re a superstitious lot.” Plucking the coin from her hand, he kissed it, rolled it in a nimble display across his knuckles from index to baby finger and back again, then dropped it into his pocket. “Therefore George here always accompanies me when I
play.” His gaze went to her empty hands. “So where’s the spaghetti?”

  “Oh!” She smacked her palm off her forehead. “I lent my car to Carly earlier. It was supposed to be back in its spot by now, but I guess she ran into trouble.” She crossed to the answering machine on the end of the breakfast bar and sure enough it was blinking its red message alert. “I didn’t even look at this when we got back.” She pushed the Play button.

  The first message was from the studio offering her a newly opened time slot the following morning. The second was from Carly.

  “Treena, I’m sorry!” she said. “Rufus got away from me when we were leaving the vet’s and I’m hunting him down. God, who knew one mangy mutt could disappear so fast? I swear this dog’s going to be the death of me—he’s more trouble than Buster, Rags and Tripod put together! Oh, for— I just ran over the damn curb.” Her stressed sigh came clearly down the line. “I suck at this multitasking crap so I better hang up before I kill somebody. I’ll get your car back as soon as I can. I’m really sorry. I hope this hasn’t screwed up your plans.”

  Treena laughed. Then she considered her predicament. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Let me think. I suppose I could go ask Ellen if she has any spaghetti.”

  “Or you could take my car.” Jax tossed her the keys.

  She caught them out of pure reflex but simply stood clutching them in her hand for a moment as she stared at him. “Are you serious? You’d let me drive that marvelous car?”

  “Sure.” He shot her a look from those blue eyes. “That is—you will bring it back, won’t you?”

  “Oh, absolutely.” She headed for the entryway before he could change his mind. Pausing with her hand on the doorknob, she shot him a grin over her shoulder. “In a week or two.”

  And knowing the value of a good exit line, she sailed out the door.

  Jax watched her go, shaking his head. Then he went back to the work she’d interrupted.