Love So Tender: Taking Care of Business / Play It Again, Elvis / Good Luck Charm
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On the other hand, he had to stay on her good side. She was already suspicious of his motivation for being there.
He hung the costumes on hooks, growing more glum as he studied each one in turn—a gold lamé suit, a black vinyl suit, a loud Hawaiian shirt and white shiny pants, the perennial white jumpsuit and a black-and-white striped jail inmate outfit. He began to undress, frowning at the waist holster and revolver—what should he do with it? Knowing he was violating several policies about weapon handling while on duty, he tucked it under the jeans he’d discarded on a chair and, deciding to get the worst over with first, stepped into the gold suit that looked five sizes too big. His reflection made him wince.
“How’s it going in there?” Gracie called.
Maybe it would at least dampen his libido, Steve thought as he opened the door and stepped out.
Gracie grinned. “Not bad.”
He frowned. “Will this take long?”
“Not at all,” she sang, holding up a pincushion. “Just let me mark a few adjustments.” She pointed to a sewing machine in the corner. “It shouldn’t take me too long to make the alterations. Hold up your arms, please.”
Feeling guilty that she would no sooner get the alterations made than he would be gone, he said, “If this position has as much turnover as you say, I suppose you do this a lot.”
She made a thoughtful noise while she reached inside the jacket and gave him what resembled a thorough pat down, running her hands over his chest and stomach. “It depends. We have some of the suits in different sizes, so sometimes we get lucky.” Then she looked up suspiciously. “Are you already planning to leave?”
“No,” he said quickly, then decided he could be realistic without blowing his cover. “Well…eventually, I suppose.”
She nodded. “Right…that’s what drifters do, I suppose—they drift.”
The timbre of disappointment in her voice made his gut clench. “It’s nothing personal. This just isn’t the kind of job I see myself doing forever.”
“Too bad,” she murmured. “Everyone really likes you.”
“Everyone?” The word spilled from his tongue before he could swallow it.
She glanced up sharply and wet her lips. “The customers, I mean. You’re very good with them, getting them to talk about themselves.”
Little did she know, he was simply quizzing everyone to make sure that Mitch Lundy wasn’t sneaking in under his nose, disguised as Larry from Peoria. In fact, Gracie would freak out if she knew that her Elvis carried a .38 revolver on his waist, a .25 automatic in his boot and that his cell phone was equipped with a stun gun.
“But, if you’re determined to leave,” she said merrily, “I’ll use Velcro.”
Instead of pacifying him, her cheerful acceptance of his eventual absence rankled him further. And her hands all over his body were making him crazy—not to mention rock-hard. He dropped his arms in an effort to hide his raging erection.
“Stand still or I’ll poke you.”
Steve closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He was thinking the same thing, although not quite in the same way. He tried to will away his reaction to her roaming touch, but it proved impossible when she bent over and he got a tantalizing view of her cleavage…and yet another lacy bra—this one black. Worse, he could guess that she wore a matching thong beneath her skirt.
“There,” she said with a final pat to his chest. “Watch the pins when you take it off.”
His relief in regaining control over his erection was short-lived when he had to repeat the process four more times. His cock hadn’t gotten this kind of workout since high school.
By the time she finished pinning the black-and-white striped inmate outfit, he was sweating bullets—and his pride was in the gutter. “Thank God that prisoners don’t have to dress like this anymore.”
She, on the other hand, seemed unaffected as she giggled. “Our Jailhouse Wedding package is popular, although I don’t quite understand why.”
“Maybe they see marriage as a life sentence,” he offered, then laughed at his own joke.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not funny.” But a smile played on her lips as she started to turn away.
Before he could think through the ramifications, he reached out and closed his hand around her wrist. “Gracie.”
She turned back, seemingly startled by his touch, then inquisitive. “Yes?”
He pulled her close to him, slowly—in case she resisted…he almost hoped she would. But she didn’t resist—only stared up at him with impossibly beautiful eyes, her mouth plump and inviting.
“We were interrupted yesterday,” he said on an exhale as he lowered his mouth to hers. She opened to him, and her arms went around his neck. He sucked in a sharp breath as pins dug into his skin, but shoved aside the quick bite of pain. The floral scent she wore filled his lungs and the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest obliterated all other sensation. Their kiss went from exploratory to promising to preparatory as he slid his hands down her back and pulled her hips against his. Their moans mingled as he experienced a few seconds of blessed relief to connect with her body. Nearly out of his mind with wanting her, he pulled her toward the dressing room…and she went with him, devouring his mouth, her hands pushing at the costume. He grunted as more pins found their way home, but he didn’t care.
The door to the dressing room closed behind them just as his shirt fell to the floor. He broke their kiss long enough to lift her tank top over her head and reveal the lacy bra. His sex jerked in anticipation of what lay beneath. “My God, you’re beautiful.” He pulled her close and lifted her skirt, sliding his hands down to her buttocks, finding them almost bare, spanned by a slip of a lacy thong. He groaned in pure ecstasy, and pushed the wisp of a garment over her hips and down her legs to her ankles. Heaven.
She stepped out of her shoes and the thong, standing before him in the bra and flirty skirt. Her violet eyes sparkled like jewels—she was almost too beautiful, too perfect to touch. Desire pinkened her cheeks. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, and the realization made him slow down long enough for rational thought to work its way into his head.
He couldn’t do this.
When she closed in for another kiss, he put out his hands and held her at arm’s length in the tiny space. “Gracie, we have to stop.”
She blinked, then glanced around, as if suddenly realizing where they were. “Oh.” She crossed her hands over her bra. “Oh. Of course we do.”
“Gracie, I’m sorry.” He retrieved her yellow shirt and handed it to her.
She looked a little out of sorts and stumbled back, falling into the chair. From the sudden look of pain on her face, he realized she’d connected with something hard beneath his jeans—his gun.
“Ow!” She sprang back up. “What is that?”
Panic shot through his chest. “Sorry,” he said quickly, moving to stop her from looking. “It’s my cell phone.”
She rubbed her hip. “It didn’t feel like a cell phone.”
“I think I left my camera there,” he improvised, positioning himself between the chair and the door, forcing her to back up.
“Could I get dressed first?” she hissed, putting her arms through the sleeves of her shirt.
He felt like a cad…he was a cad. What was he thinking? If she’d found his gun…had been hurt…“I’m sorry, Gracie.”
“You said that already.”
“I can’t get involved with you,” he said.
“Does this have something to do with Karen, the woman who keeps calling?”
He looked surprised, then defeated. “Yes.”
She nodded. “Well, for the record, I’m sorry, too.” She yanked her shirt down and crossed her arms. “Okay—we both know there’s an attraction here, so why don’t we just agree to be adults about this and keep our hands off each other?”
He set his jaw and nodded.
A noise sounded outside the dressing room. “Gracie? Mr. Mulcahy?”
He winced—Cordelia was looking for them. Gracie closed her eyes briefly, then whispered. “I’ll go out first. Stay here.”
Before he could argue, she slipped her feet into her shoes, scooped up the pinned costumes within reach, opened the door just enough to slide out, and was gone. Steve pulled his hand down his face, thinking if he wasn’t careful, he was going to botch this assignment. And if word got back that he was playing hanky-panky while on duty, his job would be on the line. He fisted his hands in frustration—he’d never let a woman get to him to the point of foolhardiness.
Somehow, some way, until this assignment was over, he was going to have to keep his distance from Gracie. He looked down at the floor and grimaced.
Right after he returned her thong.
CHAPTER SIX
WITH HER ARMS FULL OF COSTUMES and her heart clicking like mad, Gracie manufactured the best smile possible under the scrutiny of her boss. “Hi, Cordelia. Did you need something?”
Cordelia wore a bemused expression. “Just checking on you two.”
Gracie walked over an air conditioner floor vent and realized with a frosty jolt that she wasn’t wearing underwear. A hot flush began to make its way up her neck. “We were just having a fitting.”
“Ah.” Cordelia pursed her mouth. “And did everything…fit?”
“Not exactly,” Gracie murmured.
“But you’re getting there?” Cordelia prompted.
Gracie’s skin tingled in embarrassment.
Cordelia sighed. “Gracie, you know I don’t like to butt in to your life, but I don’t like standing by and watching you get hurt, either. Don’t fall for this guy.”
Gracie’s heart jerked sideways. Cordelia cared more about her happiness than anyone in the world. “Do you know something about him that I should know?”
A frustrated look came over her boss’s face. “Only that Steve Mulcahy isn’t the type who’s going to stick around.”
Gracie pressed her lips together. Hadn’t Steve just reiterated that he didn’t like staying in one place for long? Had he been warning her? Don’t fall for me—I’ll leave.
Cordelia’s expression softened. “Gracie, you told me you were going to hold out for a guy who would be there for the long haul. Do you still feel that way?”
A lump formed in Gracie’s throat and she nodded.
“Then stay away from Steve Mulcahy. Trust me—he will break your heart.”
Moisture gathered in Gracie’s eyes. Cordelia was right. She’d made a pact with herself to wait for love and a ring before she gave herself and her heart to another man. Yet she’d met Steve Mulcahy only yesterday and here she stood with her bare privates being subjected to an arctic blast. Shame rolled over her. “I understand what you’re saying,” she said carefully. “And I appreciate your concern, Cordelia. But you have nothing to worry about—Steve and I aren’t involved.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Cordelia said, although she didn’t look completely convinced. Then she straightened, all business. “What time is our first wedding?”
Relieved at the subject change, Gracie inhaled deeply. “Four-thirty. Between answering the phones, I should have time to do these alterations by then.”
Cordelia nodded. “And what will Mr. Mulcahy be doing?”
“I thought I’d take a few pictures of the chapel,” he said, walking up behind Gracie. He was fully dressed and looked completely collected, the strap of his camera over his shoulder. But the memory of him without his shirt made her pulse skyrocket.
“Your shift doesn’t start until four,” Cordelia said to him. “You don’t have to be here until the weddings begin if you’d like to leave and come back.”
Guilt prodded Gracie because she knew the veiled antagonism Cordelia directed toward Steve was because of Cordelia’s concern for her.
But he seemed to brush aside his new boss’s slight. “I also brought a toolbox and thought I’d take a look at the Caddy, if that’s all right, Ms. Conroy.”
Cordelia hesitated, then nodded briefly. “If you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on H.D.—he needs to be outdoors more.” On cue, the fat dog waddled into view, his tongue hanging almost to the floor.
Gracie smothered a smile at Steve’s wry frown. “Okay,” he said finally, then excused himself and walked out into the hall. He snapped his fingers at H.D. The hound turned as quickly as his thick body would allow and followed him, his collar jingling.
Cordelia went back to work and Gracie, after scouring the dressing room for her thong and coming up empty, was forced to look for Steve. She found him outside in front of the chapel with the camera to his eye. H.D. sat nearby, panting but with rapt attention focused on Steve.
She watched quietly as Steve shot the front of the chapel, then the road, even the parking lot across from them. To her untrained eye, he didn’t seem to be taking time to frame interesting shots, yet the photos he’d taken after the ceremonies had shown a keen sense of composition. And the midday sun didn’t strike her as the best light for taking photos, but for all she knew he could be using a lens filter.
It was a scorching hot day, rendered just short of miserable by the breeze. The wind ruffled Steve’s dark, shiny hair and the sun silhouetted his broad shoulders and lean build. He moved more like an athlete than a photographer—his long muscular limbs sure and steady, with no movement wasted. How could a man who controlled his body with such unconscious resolve be a transient? Then she chided herself—there she went ignoring the obvious and projecting her needs onto the situation. Next, she’d be trying to convince herself that Karen wasn’t his lover.
He slid the camera strap over his shoulder just as H.D. caught sight of her and barked hoarsely.
“Hi,” she ventured casually, walking closer.
Steve raised the camera and pointed it at her. The whir of the shutter closing sounded several times.
She bristled self-consciously. “What are the pictures for?”
He shrugged. “Just practice.”
“From what I saw of the photos you took yesterday, you don’t need the practice.”
“Thanks. I’m glad you’re happy with my work.” One side of his mouth slid back. “At least some of my work. I don’t know that I’ll ever get the hang of the lip-synching.”
“You’re doing fine. By the way, our other minister Roach will be performing this evening’s ceremonies.”
He pressed his lips together then asked, “Did Cordelia give you a hard time about…us?”
“Not really. She’s just concerned about me, that’s all.”
“She seems very protective.”
Gracie nodded, then cleared her throat. “Speaking of which, I’m, um, missing an article of clothing and I wondered if you’d seen it.”
“Got it right here,” he said, reaching into his jeans pockets and withdrawing a handful of black lace. His face reddened as he handed it to her. “I wasn’t going to keep them or anything—I just didn’t want someone else to find them.”
“Right,” she said, not sure whether she believed him, but wanting to. She palmed the filmy thong, feeling like a complete idiot. “Thanks.”
She wheeled to go and the movement lifted the hem of her skirt slightly—just enough for a sudden gust to catch hold and send it straight up, baring her behind—and her befront—to the world. Gracie gasped in mortification and fought with her skirt while horns from passing cars honked in appreciation. In the process, she managed to let go of the thong, which promptly sailed airborne. She cried out and Steve, heretofore frozen, yelled, “I’ll get it.”
At last she got her skirt under control, holding the hem in her fist lest it get away from her again. Abject humiliation flooded her in waves as she imagined the spectacle she had presented. Worse, Steve had abandoned his camera and was chasing her underwear, which, being as light as a piece of paper, tumbled and rolled through the air and on the ground, always inches out of reach. H.D. lumbered behind, barking as if they were on the trail of wild game.
“This can’t be happening,” Gracie murmured to herself.
Oh, but it was.
Finally, the thong caught on a fence, allowing Steve to catch up. He plucked it like a flower and turned to hurry back to her, fighting an enormous grin and losing. By the time he reached her, he was struggling not to laugh. Between two fingers, he held out the thong, now dusty and peppered with bits of dry grass.
“Thank you,” she said, snatching the underwear and wishing the ground would open up to swallow her whole.
“It was my pleasure,” he said, then clamped down his jaw. His eyes, however, were dancing with laughter.
Gracie turned on her heel and, maintaining a firm grip on her skirt, marched back into the chapel with as much dignity as she could muster.
When H.D. started to follow Gracie, Steve snapped his fingers and called him back. “I know how you feel, buddy,” he murmured as he stared after her receding figure. The belly laugh he wanted to release was tempered by the rigid erection pressing against his fly at having witnessed what was undoubtedly the most erotic vision he’d ever seen.
If he lived to be one hundred, he would never forget the sight of Gracie Sergeant fighting her wayward skirt, her long, slender legs and curvy rear end perfectly outlined in the sun. And, if he’d had any doubts, the lovely woman was not a natural blonde—another gut-clutching sight. He closed his eyes and groaned. If only he weren’t on assignment. If only Gracie was willing to indulge in a quick fling, with no attachments. But he’d already been warned by Cordelia and by Lincoln that Gracie was looking for something he couldn’t give: commitment, longevity, happily ever after.
A dull pain radiated out from his breastbone. If only—
The ring of his cell phone split the air. He unhooked it from his belt and glanced at the screen—Karen. He pushed the connect button. “Yeah?”
“Just checking in, partner. Any developments?”
“Uh, no.” He rubbed stubbornly at the strange sensation in his chest. At least no developments relating to the case.
“Got those descriptions of everyone who works there?”
“I’m taking photographs. I’ll have them to you in the morning.”
“Great. I can’t wait to see this woman with the amazing eyes.”
He chose to ignore her. “Any more news from the informant?”
“No.” Karen sighed. “She hasn’t returned any of my calls—I’m starting to worry that maybe she’s in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“If someone close to Lundy found out that she’s a snitch, she could be in danger. If she told them what she told us, Lundy could decide not to show.”
“Or show up with firepower,” Steve said, his adrenaline kicking in. A sudden pain in his foot distracted him momentarily—H.D. had once again decided to park his fat butt.
“That’s not Lundy’s M.O.,” Karen said. “He’s more likely just to lie low. The last thing he needs is civilian casualties at a Vegas wedding chapel—if he did something to scare off tourists, the city’s business leaders would form their own posse.”
“You’re probably right,” Steve said, yet he pivoted his head to look all around—up and down the street, in the parking lot across the road—searching for anything suspicious, anything out of the ordinary.
A wry frown worked his mouth. Such as a man and a hound running down the street chasing a woman’s thong?
“Still, I wanted to let you know,” Karen said. “Let’s not panic—our informant might simply be out of reach for a while. For now, we stick to the original plan. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Okay.” He disconnected the call with disturbing what-if scenarios tumbling through his head—all of them involving Gracie getting hurt. He winced. The discomfort around his breastbone was back. With much effort, he dislodged his foot from underneath H.D.’s behind and limped toward the chapel, rubbing his chest.
CHAPTER SEVEN
GRACIE PASSED the next couple of hours working on the costumes in between answering the phone, although her preoccupation earned her several pricks with the needle. She relived the degrading Marilyn-Monroe-standing-over-a-grate-gone-wrong incident over and over, until she was sure her face would be permanently flushed. To prevent an encore, she’d sewn curtain weights into the hem of her skirt. And she’d washed the bothersome black thong in the bathroom and used a hairdryer to dry it enough to put it on.
From now on, she would wear nothing but tidy whities.
“Oh. My. Gawd.”
Gracie looked up to see Lincoln in the doorway. His arms were full of flowers and today his sunglasses were pink. She angled her head. “What?”
His jaw dropped. “Steve is outside working on the Caddy.”
“I know.”
“Shirtless.”
She smiled. “Oh.”
“Gracie, the man is simply too gorgeous for words. You simply have to have sex with him.”
She gave a choked little laugh. “I do not.” Besides, she’d tried.
“You’re killing me,” he said. “If I were you, I’d wait to start looking for Mr. Right until after this guy left.”
She laughed and helped him to arrange the flowers in the chapels and store the bouquets and boutonnieres in the refrigerator.
When they were finished, he said, “I’ll see you tonight when I relieve Cordelia at the drive-through.” He grinned. “Want to follow me out to take a looky-loo?”
She smirked. “No. And stop trying to get me into trouble. He has a girlfriend.”
“Oh? You asked?”
“It…came up.”
“Still—no ring, will fling.”
“Goodbye, Lincoln.”
He left shaking his head. For her part, Gracie tried to tamp down the image of Steve, bare-chested, and get back to work. After a particularly frustrating bout with the sewing machine, she sighed and held up the black-and-white striped shirt of the inmate costume—so many pins had been dislodged during their frantic groping episode that she wasn’t sure she’d made the right adjustments. She checked her Betty Boop watch and stretched her arms overhead in a yawn.
A break sounded good, so why not check on Steve and ask him to try on the shirt? She had to face him sooner or later. Besides, she was dying to see if he’d made progress on the Caddy.
On the way, she stopped by the kitchen to grab two bottles of water in case he was thirsty. Her heart beat double time as she pushed open one of the doors leading to the back lot. Her breath caught in her chest.
Steve was indeed shirtless, leaning into the engine beneath the raised hood, working either to loosen or to tighten something, considering the way the muscles in his arms bulged with exertion. His back was slick with perspiration. He stood and wiped his hand across his brow.
If she lived to be one hundred, she would never forget the sight of Steve Mulcahy standing half-naked in the blistering sun, his developed pecs and six-pack abs glistening with sweat. He was simply the sexiest man she’d ever seen.
H.D., on the other hand, lay in the shade holding a wrench in his mouth, which he happily discarded when he saw Gracie, and lurched to his feet to greet her.
She smiled at Steve and lifted a bottle of water. “I thought you might be thirsty.”
He nodded and reached for it. “Thanks.” He opened the bottle, lifted it to his mouth, and proceeded to down it in one long drink, the column of his throat convulsing as he drained the bottle. She was mesmerized—more so when he grabbed a towel and wiped his chest and neck. “Wow, it’s hot.”
She couldn’t have agreed more. To derail her wicked train of thought, she opened her water bottle and poured half of it into a bowl for H.D. She resisted the temptation to douse herself with the rest of it.
“Have you ever thought of getting a real watchdog around here?” Steve asked.
Gracie pouted. “H.D. is perfect just the way he is.”
“Tell me something—what does ‘H.D.’ stand for?”
She grinned. “Hound dog, of course. What else?”
“Oh. I get it.” He looked mildly amused. “Is he yours?”
“He belongs to Cordelia, really, although we’ve all adopted him.”
“He needs to lose some weight. I’ll bet this morning’s run is the most exercise he’s had in a while.” His mouth twitched with humor.