Skintight Page 12

  That had been close. Too close, and with renewed determination he headed for her bedroom, telling himself firmly that he couldn’t afford to be squeamish.

  But he stopped short in the doorway, as surely as if he’d run up against a stone wall. Man. The scent in here was elusive and girly and without conscious thought he dragged in a deep breath, inhaling appreciatively through his nose.

  He ordered himself to snap out of it. He couldn’t afford to be sidetracked. Crossing the threshold he glanced around, noting the bright silks and altogether feminine look of the room. Then he shoved his impressions aside for more practical concerns. Focusing on her closet, he decided to start with that, and opened one side of the mirrored slider.

  He had to breathe shallowly as more of that incredible scent wafted out. He was behaving like a callow fourteen-year-old.

  That shook loose a bitter laugh. Treena had said today that he always seemed so at ease and debonaire, but he worked like a Trojan to protect that image. Not that it was a sham. The confidence of having done something well for the past twelve years was ingrained in him by now. He’d established a good life for himself. He’d moved beyond his childhood problems, yet just about the time he grew cocky enough to believe that stupid kid desperate for his daddy’s approval was gone forever, his insecurities would return. The disappointments of a somewhat-less-than-functional childhood still managed to stage the occasional hit-and-run visit on his adult psyche.

  And nothing could shoot his normal self-assurance to hell faster than knowing that he was never fully braced against it, knowing that he had waited too long to tell the old man exactly how he felt and now it was too late to rectify any of it.

  “Jesus,” he muttered. This was the last train of thought he ought to be pondering. He had to quit moping around like some sorry-ass kid and focus on what needed to be done.

  The baseball was what mattered, so he picked a spot to start searching and got busy. Given the ball’s worth, he doubted Treena would just toss it in the bottom of the packed closet. But he’d start there all the same and work his way up. Squatting, he began sifting carefully through the clutter on the floor.

  It was filled with shoes. Red shoes, black shoes, blue shoes, green; they came in all shapes and styles: high heels both of the spiked and the chunky-heeled variety, ballerina-type slippers, sandals, wedgies, and flats. There were also a few handbags and a box that contained some hand weights and some other assorted odds and ends. Mostly, though, it was a jumble of shoes.

  And definitely no baseball.

  After double-checking to be certain he’d left the clutter the way he’d found it, he rose to his feet and reached for the nearest box on the overhead shelf. It was filled nearly to the brim with loose photographs, and he carefully sifted through the pile, working his hand down to the bottom of the carton to make sure the ball hadn’t been buried beneath several inches of snapshots.

  It hadn’t.

  He replaced the box and reached for the next one. Removing the lid, he saw that this one, too, had photographs in it, only this batch were all matted and framed. The one on top was the same professional head shot of Treena that his father had sent him. The one that showcased the slight half smile he now knew was pretty much her default expression. Looking down at it, he remembered the day the photo had caught up with him—it had shown up a good month or two after it had been mailed, arriving in a padded envelope covered with forwarding stamps.

  He watched his thumb brush back and forth against the glass-covered quirk of her lips for another moment, then tipped the frame on end against the side of the box and reached for the next. This one was smaller, a framed snapshot, and he lifted it from the dimness of the box and turned it toward the light.

  He froze, his mind a sudden hot jumble of broken words and scrambled thoughts. His heart pounded with slow, sickening thuds, just the way it had done in the chest of that poor, inept eleven-year-old standing so stiffly within the drape of his much larger father’s arm when the photo was taken more than twenty years ago.

  He remembered that day. A humorless laugh burned his throat, because remembered was such a pallid word. The day was etched in his mind in acid. Big Jim had yelled invective and instructions from the sidelines of a softball game Jax hadn’t wanted to play in the first place but had participated in at his father’s insistence. After the game was over the old man had slung an arm around his shoulders like they were the best of buds while another father snapped their picture. Then, just when he’d thought the whole torturous ordeal was finally over—that he couldn’t possibly be humiliated any further—Big Jim had hauled him off to the pizza parlor where Jax had let him down again with his losing struggle to interact with other players who hadn’t wanted him on their team any more than he’d wanted to be there.

  What the hell was that photograph doing here, all framed and matted? As he pawed through the other photos in the box it quickly became apparent all of them had once been his father’s. Staring down at this picture, he saw in his younger self every single bit of the wretched awkwardness he had worked so hard to eradicate.

  So, get over it, he ordered himself sharply. Christ Almighty, you’re not eleven anymore. It was a long time ago, a lot of water under the bridge, spilled milk, yesterday’s news—

  The absurd host of clichés served to steady him. With a slight smile he began straightening the rifled mementos.

  Then another worry assaulted him and his hand stilled within the box. Even though he’d taken care not to disclose anything that might fire off a synapse in Treena’s brain and link him to Big Jim’s son, he’d never genuinely worried about her making the connection between his younger self and the man he’d become. He’d changed so much since he’d left Las Vegas that he doubted the few people who’d actually known him back then would recognize him now. The only thing at all distinctive about him was the shade of his eyes, and how likely was it that anyone meeting him for the first time would think to associate the blue eyes of a stranger to those of a long-gone kid?

  Never in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined the old man would keep a picture of him on display. After all, this was the relative who hadn’t even bothered to come watch his seventeen-year-old graduate with honors from MIT.

  Retrieving the framed snapshot once again from the box, he took it over to the window and unwound the blinds a fraction of an inch to study it by the harsh light of the afternoon sun. And by increments, the tension in his shoulders eased.

  He wore a baseball cap in the photo, and between that and the thick lenses of the glasses he’d worn before undergoing laser surgery, his eye color didn’t even show. The geeky shirt and the jeans that were nearly an inch too short for his then still fast growing legs told him he’d been an even lousier dresser than he’d thought. Smiling, he closed the blinds again, replaced the photograph in the box and put it carefully back where he’d found it. It would prove harder to erase the host of questions its unexpected discovery raised in his mind.

  But he squared his shoulders. This waltz down memory lane wasn’t helping him find that ball, and as that charmer Sergei had reminded him, the clock was ticking.

  He was reaching for the next box on the shelf, a lidded, heart-shaped floral number, when someone pounded on Treena’s front door. He nearly jerked the box off the shelf and, sucking in an angry breath, he grabbed its tilting front tip to stop its downward trajectory. He pushed it back in place. What the hell is the matter with you?

  Usually he had nerves of steel. But ever since he’d connected up with a certain white-hot redhead, his much lauded steadiness seemed to be unraveling faster than a ball of yarn in a kitten’s paws. He gave the closet a quick once-over to make sure nothing was glaringly out of place, and slid the door closed. Smoothing his hand over the front of his T-shirt, he watched his features adopt their expressionless game face in the mirrored slider, then stepped back and turned his back on his reflection. The caller pounded again, and he strode out to the tiny entryway.

  Opening t
he door, he found a short muscular man with steel-gray hair standing on the other side.

  Impatient dark brown eyes regarded him with suspicion. “Who the hell are you?” the man demanded. “Where’s Treena?”

  “I’m Jax. Jax Gallagher.”

  “Ah. The new boyfriend.”

  His eyebrows shot up in a silent demand to elaborate. Is that what she was telling people he was? Inexplicably, his ego swelled.

  A moment too soon, as it turned out. “Or so Carly’s been saying, anyway. I’m Mack.” He didn’t offer his hand. “The guy who makes sure the girls’ dates are good enough for them. What took you so long to answer the door?”

  He gave the man a cool smile. “I was tossing the joint.”

  “I’ll take that as gospel until the day comes that I know you well enough to tell if you’re serious or just being a smart-ass. If you even last that long, that is.” Suddenly he inhaled sharply through his nose. “Whoa. Treena’s making spaghetti?” He took a purposeful step forward.

  Jax had the impression that Mack would have no compunction about mowing him down if he didn’t step aside, even though Jax was more than a head taller than the older man. And since he wasn’t here to get in a pissing match with one of Treena’s friends, he shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped back. “Come on in,” he said drily.

  Mack either didn’t hear the irony or he chose to ignore it. He looked him up and down with steely eyes. “So, where did you say Treena is?”

  “I didn’t. But she ran to the store to get something for her dinner.”

  “And you didn’t bother going with her? What are you, one of those bums who lets the women do everything?”

  Having a guy old enough to be his father find fault with him right out of the gate rubbed an exposed nerve, but he said evenly, “She took off the first time before I could even offer.”

  “The first…?” Mack nodded. “Ah. Sure. Carly’s got her car. I thought she planned to be back with it by now, though.”

  “Apparently her dog staged a getaway from the vet, and she’s out looking for him.” His brows furrowed above his nose before he could prevent them, but he smoothed them out pronto. “I suppose you think I oughtta be out helping her look, too.”

  The other man laughed. “Hit a sore spot with that, did I?” The idea clearly pleased him.

  Jax shrugged. “It’s not like I’m not used to old men finding fault with me—my father never hesitated to say I wasn’t worth much, either.” Shock sizzled down his spine. He couldn’t believe he’d just said that. He’d always been the Sphinx where his private life was concerned. Now suddenly he was Chatty Cathy? What the hell was this town doing to him?

  Before he could even consider trying to backpedal, however, Mack sobered. “Now, that I’m sorry about, because I can’t wrap my head around laying that kind of garbage on a kid. I raised two girls, and they were the apples of my eye. Still are. Unfortunately they live in North Dakota and New Hampshire these days, but I’ve got the girls here to practice my protective impulses on.”

  Without further ado, Mack headed for the kitchen, where he pulled a couple of beers out of the refrigerator. He offered one to Jax, but shrugged without comment when he shook his head in refusal. The older man simply returned it to the fridge, then twisted the cap off his own bottle.

  “Carly’s strays are her problem,” he said. “The truth is, they’re usually not much of one, but Rufus is proving difficult. My money’s on her, though. She’ll get him whipped into shape one of these days.” He strode into the living room, flopped down on one of the upholstered chairs and looked at Jax when he sat in the chair opposite him. “So why didn’t you go with Treena the second time?”

  “Because she wanted me to stay here. Mostly, I think, because she wanted to drive my rental.”

  “Why? What’s so great about it?”

  “It’s a Viper SRT-10.”

  Mack sat upright. “No shit? And you let her drive it?”

  The incredulousness in the older man’s voice sent unease crawling through his gut. “Yes. Why? Is she a lousy driver or something?”

  “No, she’s a good driver. But a Viper. I’ve only seen one once, but it was a beauty.” He took a pull on his beer and grinned. “You might as well turn down the heat under the sauce, boy. She may or may not have your car back some time this week.”

  Jax felt a smile tug the corner of his mouth. “That’s what she said.”

  “And you probably thought she was kidding.” Mack shook his head. Then he leaned back in his chair once again, cradling the beer bottle against his flat stomach, and regarded Jax with level eyes. “Carly tells me you’re some kind of gambler?”

  “I’m a professional poker player,” he agreed and braced himself for the older guy’s condemnation.

  But Mack merely asked, “And you can actually make a living at that?”

  “Yes. A pretty good one.”

  “Huh. It’s a different world than when I was your age.”

  Jax shrugged.

  Surprisingly, Mack laughed. “I know. It’s the standard old fart speech. When I was a kid—” his voice went stentorian “—ice cream cones were—”

  “A nickel a scoop,” Jax supplied, amused in spite of himself.

  “Heard that one already, huh? Well, I’ll make you a deal, son. I’ll refrain from dragging out the rest of my When-I-was-youngs—and, trust me, I’ve got a million of ’em, so this is no small deal. I’ll even back off on my protective shtick where Treena’s concerned…as long as you agree to treat her right.” Then the warmth bled out of his dark eyes. “You hurt her, though, boy, and I’ll hunt you down like a dog.”

  His gut went hollow, because that was exactly what was going to happen. He didn’t give a damn about Mack’s threats. But although he hadn’t worried about hurting Treena when he’d first set out on this quest, the idea of it now was beginning to bother him.

  A lot.

  But he gave the older man a steady look. “What if she’s the one who ends up hurting me?”

  “Then I’ll assume you were begging for it.”

  His mouth twisted beneath the sudden stab of bitterness. “Of course. Why worry about a little thing like fairness?”

  “I never claimed I wasn’t partisan. I’m on her side, all the way.”

  “Well, as long as we understand each other.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  A key turned in the dead bolt, breaking their damned-if-I’ll-be-the-first-to-look-away locked gazes.

  “Honey, I’m ho-ome.” Treena’s voice preceded her into the room. “I want you to know I was a good, good girl. I really wanted to take that car down to L.A. for a test spin, but I wrestled mightily with my conscience and resisted.” The sound of keys disengaging from the dead bolt and the door closing accompanied her words, then she appeared in the archway, her arm hooked around the paper bag riding one hip. Golden brown eyes widened for an instant as they took in Mack’s presence, then a warm smile lit her face. “Well, hi there. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I smelled spaghetti cooking and came to investigate. Young Gallagher here insisted I stay for dinner.”

  Treena’s surprised gaze whipped over to lock with his. “You did?”

  He snorted. “In his dreams. But ancient as Old Mack is, he’s far from feeble—and I couldn’t budge him.”

  “Ancient, my ass,” Mack grumbled. But he gave Treena an affectionate, wheedling smile. “A hot dinner sure sounds better than the cold, stale sandwich I was planning to have.”

  “Please,” Jax muttered. “You’re breaking my heart.”

  But Treena laughed. “Mack, won’t you stay for dinner?”

  “Why, thank you, sweetheart. I’d love to.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” He couldn’t hide his dismay as he saw his chances for a little one-on-one with her go up in smoke before his eyes. “You can’t possibly have fallen for a con that weak.” But when they both turned to look at him, she with a chastising gaze, Mac
k with a smug one, he knew he might as well give in gracefully. So he did.

  Sort of. “Fine. He stays. But he’s doing the dishes.”

  The doorbell rang, but before anyone could move to answer it the door opened with a bang. There was a scramble of nails on the tiled entryway floor, then Carly and a black-and-brown dog exploded into the living room.

  “God, what a day!” She crossed to the couch, collapsed in a sprawl of long legs and shoved the dog away when he tried to climb up onto her lap. “Get down, you fleabag! You’re on real shaky ground here—I’m talking one nudge away from euthanasia.” But when Rufus’s tail thumped enthusiastically against the hardwood floor, she gave his ears an absentminded scratch. “Hi, Mack. Hi, Jax.” She looked up at her friend. “Treena, I’m so sorry about keeping your car this long.”

  “Not a problem. I got to drive Jax’s Viper.”

  “What’s a viper? No, wait, is that the red sports car I saw down in the parking lot?” At Treena’s nod, she gave him an approving look. “Whoa. You have serious great taste in rides.”

  “Thanks. I’d love to be able to tell you that it’s mine, but I just rented it for the day.”

  “Still classy either way.” She inhaled. “Oh, my God, is that spaghetti I smell?”

  “Yeah.” Treena blinded Jax with her smile before saying to her friend, “Wanna join us?”

  “You know it, toots.” She slowly straightened. “But I’ll decline. I don’t want to horn in on your date.”

  “Wish your buddy here felt the same way,” Jax said.

  “You mean Mack’s staying?” At the older man’s decisive nod, she smiled brilliantly. “In that case, why not? After the day I had, a meal someone else cooked sounds so divine, I can’t even begin to tell you.” She surged to her feet. “I’ll just go put Rufus in the apartment and feed the rest of the babies.” Grabbing the dog by the collar, she detoured by the breakfast bar, where she picked up the bottle of wine. “I suppose it wouldn’t be cool to drink this straight from the bottle. But if you don’t mind, I’ll just pour myself a glass for the road. A big glass,” she muttered. “I earned it.”