Good, Bad…Better

Jen leaned against the brick wall, her face in shadows.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.” She grabbed his shoulders, pulling him close. “I came here because I want you.”

Zach skimmed his gaze over her body, taking in the tight top and skimpy skirt. “You didn’t have to dress like this to convince me to be with you.” He smoothed his hand down her side, feeling the ridges of her ribs beneath the satin.

A half smile formed on her lips as she dragged the tip of her finger down his throat. “You don’t like the way I look?”

He dropped his gaze to the shadowed valley between her breasts. “Oh, I like it all right.” He covered her breasts with his hands and squeezed gently. “I was dying in there, watching all those men watching you. Wanting you.” He bent and kissed her neck, her flesh silken beneath his tongue.

“Do you want me, Zach?”

“You know I do.”

“Then show me.”

Dear Reader,

Inside every “good girl” is a bit of a bad girl waiting to cut loose. A lifelong good girl myself, I’ll admit to having my own “bad” side. And the older I’ve gotten, the easier it’s been to let my bad side show—speaking up for myself, putting my own needs ahead of others’ expectations and finding out what really makes me happy.

Those of us who love bad boys know that there’s a lot of good behind their tough exteriors. All it takes is patience and understanding for them to let their good sides show.

I received such positive reader response to Syd, a character in Just 4 Play, Blaze #82, that I wanted to write a story about a similar leather-wearing, motorcycle-riding bad boy. When Zach began to take shape, I knew I’d found the perfect edgy but vulnerable guy to write about. And who better to pair him with than a good girl trying to discover her wilder side?

As always, Jen and Zach had a few surprises for me in the course of the story. I hope you’ll enjoy reading about their relationship as much as I enjoyed writing it.

I love to hear from readers. Visit my Web site at www.CindiMyers.com, e-mail me at Cindi@cindimyers.com or write me at P.O. Box 991, Bailey, CO 80421.

Cindi Myers

Good, Bad…Better

Cindi Myers

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

1

THE TIME COMES IN EVERY woman’s life when she needs to shake things up a bit. This thought ran through Jennifer Truitt’s mind as she parked her VW Bug across from Austin Body Art on a Tuesday afternoon in late June. She stared up at the neon sign advertising Tattoos, Piercings and Custom Body Art and told herself her heart was only racing because she was excited, not because she was afraid.

She’d been doing what other people expected of her for years. Time to surprise them with the unexpected. She was twenty-three years old, ready for adventure, romance and excitement. A tattoo parlor seemed like a good place to start.

Taking a deep breath, she got out of the car and crossed the street. A string of temple bells sounded when she opened the door, and the man behind the counter looked up. “Hello.”

“Uh, hello.” She swallowed hard and tried not to stare at him. But he was the kind of man who commanded attention. His black leather vest fit closely about his torso, emphasizing his muscular arms and chest, which were decorated with intricate tattoos: tribal bands around both biceps, an eagle feather on one forearm and others she couldn’t make out.

Forcing her gaze up, she saw jet-black hair, worn in a single braid. The black sheen of his hair and eyebrows contrasted sharply with his pale skin. His black eyes seemed to look right through her. “Can I help you?” he asked in a voice that sounded like velvet over gravel.

A flush heated her face when she realized she’d been staring. She tried to moisten her dry mouth. “I—I’d like a tattoo,” she stammered.

“You would?” He came out from behind the counter, the heels of his boots echoing on the polished tile floor. His pants were leather, too, encasing long, muscular legs. A silver concha belt hung low about his hips. The heat from her face spread through the rest of her body as his gaze assessed her. If testosterone were a weapon, this man would be labeled “armed and dangerous.”

“What kind of tattoo?” he asked.

“Um, I’m not exactly sure.” She’d changed her mind about what she wanted at least a dozen times in the past few years. Now that she’d finally worked up the nerve to do the deed, she still couldn’t decide on a particular design. She sought inspiration in the samples posted on the walls, but nothing before her was what she’d expected. Instead of eagles, snakes and hearts, the display featured highly stylized sketches of animals, flowers and tribal symbols, reminiscent of the modern art she’d seen the last time her father had dragged her to the Kimball Museum in Fort Worth. On closer inspection, she spotted a section of the wall devoted to copies of famous artworks, from Andy Warhol’s soup cans to Munch’s The Scream.

“Wow, these are really amazing.” She turned to him. “Do you draw the designs yourself or do you, like, order them from a catalog?”

“No, I don’t order them from a catalog.” His expression was guarded as he took a step toward her. She could smell him now: leather and sandalwood soap and the sharp tang of ink. Exotic and masculine and definitely sexy. “Ever had a tat before?” he asked.

She shook her head, turning to study the designs on the walls once more. He hadn’t exactly answered her question, had he? “This is my first.” She winced at the words. They made her sound so innocent. And the whole point of this exercise was to declare to the world just how innocent she wasn’t.

He crossed his arms over his chest, giving her a too-close-for-comfort view of sharply defined muscles. Her knees felt wobbly. Honestly, she silently chided herself. You’d think you’d never been around a good-looking guy before. But it wasn’t the man’s looks that stirred her so much as his attitude. One look at him and you knew he wasn’t someone who let anyone push him around. Whereas, people saw her and just assumed she would be nice and go along with whatever they wanted. Because, obviously, she was a good girl.

She gritted her teeth and straightened her shoulders. Those days were behind her. From now on, she was going to do what she wanted, be her own woman. And this tattoo would be a kind of declaration of independence. “I want something right here.” She pointed to her left breast, to where the neckline of her tank top dipped down. No way would people miss it if she put it there.

His eyes zeroed in on the place she was pointing to. She felt her nipples contract in the heat of his gaze. “Why do you want one?”

“Because I like them?” Her voice rose at the end of the sentence, betraying her doubt.

He shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

“Because I think it would look good?”

He stepped closer, and bent to look into her eyes, his face only inches from her own. “Have you been drinking?”

She shook her head. “N-no.”

“I don’t work on drunks. It’s stupid to make a decision about something permanent when you’re drunk. And besides, it messes up the tat.”

She leaned back, trying to stand straight though she felt like melting at this guy’s feet. “I don’t drink.”

He quirked one eyebrow. “Ever?”

She shook her head. “I don’t like the taste of beer or liquor, and wine gives me an asthma attack.” It was the truth, but it sounded so pathetic.

Thankfully, he didn’t make any snide comments. He just continued to watch her with those intense black eyes. “So what’s the real reason you’re here?”

The real reason? Talk about a question with no simple answer. She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “I really do like tattoos and I really have wanted one for a long time.”

He frowned. “So you just woke up this morning and decided today’s the day.”

She lifted her chin. “Something like that.” The argument she’d had last night with her father might have had a little to do with her decision. But, really, all that had done was make her see she’d been living the way others expected her to live—instead of doing what she really wanted—for too long. “You can’t change my mind, so don’t try.” She walked over to what looked like a red leather dentist’s chair and sat down.

He came and stood over her, his shadow falling across her face. “How old are you?”

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Old enough to know what I want.”

For the first time since she’d entered the shop, the corners of his mouth angled up in a smile. “You probably knew that as soon as you could talk.”

He had a nice mouth, with full, sensuous lips…. She jerked her gaze away from him. What was going on with her today?

He sat on a low stool and rolled it toward her. “How old are you?” he asked again.

“I’m twenty-three.”

He nodded. “You still haven’t told me what you want for your tattoo.”

“Something feminine. How about a butterfly?”

He made a face. “Cliché. I don’t do cliché.”

“Then what do you do?” Up close, she could see his own tattoos better, the designs intricate and detailed, vivid against his pale skin.

“You saw the sign. Body art. What I do is art.”

So he was the artist. The passion with which he spoke intrigued her. “What do you suggest I do?”

He studied her a moment, his gaze surveying her body from the scuffed toes of her tennis shoes, up the length of her legs, over her loose terry shorts, across her stomach and breasts, coming to rest on her face once more. She forced herself to sit still, though she wanted to fidget or turn away. What did he see that interested him so?

He leaned back behind him and picked up a pad of paper and a pen from a worktable. With a few quick strokes, he sketched something, then turned the pad to face her. “Something like this.”

She recognized a stylized calla lily, the stem ending in a flourish. It was feminine and beautiful and unusual. Her eyes met his. “Why a calla lily?”

“It suits you. You have that look of innocence, but underneath, there’s a highly sensual quality.”

She swallowed hard. He saw all that when he looked at her? Was he psychic, or merely very perceptive? “I like it,” she said.

He turned back to the worktable. “All right. Let’s take care of the paperwork and we’ll get started.”

She completed the information form and signed the release, aware of his gaze fixed on her as she wrote. Did he subject all his clients to such scrutiny, or was there something about her in particular that drew his eye? She might have been flattered, except that he didn’t look too happy about whatever it was he saw in her.

She handed him the paperwork and pen. “What now?”

“Pull down your shirt and we’ll get started.”

She tugged her shirt lower, past the top of her bra. He turned around and began to clean the area. “You have pale skin, so the color will show up nicely, but you need to wear sunscreen over it to keep the color from fading.”

“Okay.” His arm brushed against her breast and her nipples went on red alert. She’d thought getting a tattoo would be a lot of things—exciting, frightening, painful—but erotic was not one of them.

He tucked a disposable towel over her shirt and bra, then laid another damp towel across the spot where the tattoo would go. He pulled a rolling, stainless-steel table closer and began laying out equipment—packets of needles, wipes and ointment. Then he set out a row of small plastic cups and began filling them from larger ink bottles.

She swallowed hard. “Will this hurt?”

He shrugged. “Everybody is different. People have compared it to being scratched by a cat or stung by ants. The needles move very fast, and your body gets used to it pretty quickly.”

He removed the damp towel he’d placed on her skin and sketched in the lily with a ballpoint pen. “How’s that?”

She looked down and studied the pale blue lines. The design looked as graceful on her as it had on paper. She nodded. “It looks good.”

“It’ll look even better when I’m done.” He picked up an instrument that looked like a cross between a small nail gun and a drill, and began wrapping it in clear plastic. When he attached the needle, she looked away.

“Are you ready?”

Was she ready for big changes in her life? Goodbye, compliant good girl—hello, woman in charge of her own future. Excitement fizzed through her at the thought. She nodded and took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

He leaned toward her, his head so close she could see the dark shadow of his beard beneath his skin. His arm rested against hers and the scent of him washed over her.

“Nice bra.” With one finger, he nudged the white lace half an inch lower. Heat simmered through her and she bit her lip to hold back a moan. “Very virginal.”

She flushed. “I am not a virgin.”

His eyes met hers briefly, then he looked away. “Hey, I didn’t say it was a bad thing, did I?”

“Of course not. Virginity is certainly an acceptable lifestyle choice.” Aaargh! She sounded like a lecture from high school health class. She tried again. “But I’m not one. A virgin, that is.” Well, not quite, anyway. She wouldn’t call her few attempts at sex particularly rewarding. Most men were so intimidated by her father they wouldn’t come near her. The few hasty encounters in cars or dorm rooms had been less than the earth-shattering awakening she’d imagined. The issues of Cosmo she’d read had made sex sound so much more…enjoyable.

Her eyes widened as the tattoo machine touched her flesh. The first jolt stole her breath, but after that it wasn’t as bad as she’d feared.

She’d intended to close her eyes and try to zone out, but she couldn’t stop watching him. He had beautiful hands, long fingers encased in sheer latex gloves. One hand guided the machine while the other held her shirt and bra out of the way, reaching up occasionally to blot the beginning tattoo with sterile gauze. He shifted, and the heel of his hand rested against her breast, his wrist brushing her nipple. She gasped, hot dampness gathering between her thighs.

His eyes met hers, the heat of the look pinning her to the chair. He shut off the machine and backed away. “I’d better let Theresa do this.”

Before she could speak, he stood and stripped off his gloves, then disappeared through a beaded curtain into a back room. A moment later, he emerged with a woman. She had black hair, like his, but hers was worn loose, hanging almost to her waist. She wore tight jeans, high-heeled boots and an inlaid leather halter top. A tattoo of a snarling tiger adorned one shoulder, while a Celtic knot nestled in the cleavage of her ample breasts. “This is Theresa,” he said. “She’ll finish you up.”

Theresa took her place on the stool and picked up the machine while the man walked over to the front counter.

“What’s with your boyfriend?” Jen asked, keeping her voice low.

“Zach? He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my brother.” They both turned to look at him. He was seated behind the counter now, hunched over a sketchbook, blatantly ignoring them. Theresa looked back at Jen. “What did you say to him?”

“I—I didn’t say anything.”

Theresa grinned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d shaken him up.”

“What do you mean?” If anything, she was the one shaken here. Her heart was still racing with the memory of his touch.

“He doesn’t usually go for the innocent type, but who knows?” She started the machine again. “Okay, take a deep breath and relax.”

For some reason, it hurt more this time. Maybe because she didn’t have Zach’s closeness to distract her. She turned to look at him again, trying to ignore the pain. He was still bent over his sketchpad, shoulders tensed. She had a feeling he was aware of everything that was going on in her corner of the shop. Was it possible Zach was as attracted to her as she was to him?

Come on! A sex god like him could have anyone he wanted. Why would he pay attention to a plain-vanilla “good” girl like her?

She looked away from him, at Theresa. “That’s a gorgeous top you have on,” she said. The black leather was inlaid with designs of vines and flowers in tan and dark brown.

“Thanks. It’s from a shop over in Lakeway. The woman who owns the place has some amazing things. Clothes and jewelry. I can give you her card if you’re interested.”

“Oh, thanks. But I could never wear something like that.”

“Why not?” Theresa’s eyes, black like her brother’s, bored into Jen, challenging her.

She felt like squirming, but didn’t dare for fear of messing up the tat. “I guess I’ve always dressed a little more conservatively.” But why? Because it was easier to do what was expected than to give in to the little voice inside of her that said wearing leather might be a real kick? She smiled. “But I will take the card. Maybe I’ll find something there I can’t resist.”

“Zach, dig out one of Sandra’s cards for me, okay?” she called across the room.

Zach responded with a grunt, and began rummaging through a drawer beneath the cash register. Jen took the opportunity to study him some more. His tough-guy image didn’t mesh with the sensitive artist who had produced the beautiful work that filled the shop walls. There was definitely a lot more to Zach than his leather and tattoos implied. The idea intrigued her.

And there was his perceptive assessment of her. He’d said she looked innocent, but had a highly sensual quality. Could it be that, maybe for the first time ever, someone had looked past her “good girl” image and seen the real woman who was trying to assert herself? A bubble of hope swelled in her chest. If Zach could see that in her, maybe she could find a way to make others see it, as well.

ZACH JACOBS DIDN’T NEED some gorgeous innocent messing with his head. For one thing, she absolutely wasn’t his type. He went for busty, brazen women who could give as good as they got, not some delicate, timid girl who looked as if a strong wind might carry her away.

Not that she was exactly timid. She looked that way at first, mainly because she was so small, with all that blond hair falling around her shoulders like an angel in a Botticelli painting. But when you really paid attention, you could see the fire in her eyes, hear it in her voice.

That was what got to him most—not her looks, but that fire. That…wanting.

Her response to him had been so obvious. Where some women tried to be coy, her desire was out there in the open. And his own reaction had surprised him in its intensity. When he’d brushed against her nipple, an electric shock had passed through him. His hand had started shaking so badly he knew he’d mess up the tat if he’d tried to finish.

He’d responded not just to her body, but to her obvious need. Talk about ready to explode….

He took a deep breath and tried to focus on the sketchpad in front of him. But he was too aware of her, only steps across the room. Through slitted eyes, he let himself take a longer look. Theresa had pulled the shirt down even farther, and the curve of the woman’s breast swelled above the white lace of the bra, which itself barely covered her nipple. His groin tightened as he thought of running his tongue along that satin skin, flicking it across that taut peak….

She winced, and he winced for her. “Take a deep breath,” he said. “Pick out something in the room to look at and focus all your attention on that. It’ll take your mind off the pain.”

Most people chose to look at one of the flashes on the wall, but she turned her eyes to him. He wanted to look away, but couldn’t. She had unusual eyes, gray and slightly almond shaped, luminous against her pale skin and hair. “Tell me about your art,” she said.

He gave her the general spiel he’d uttered hundreds of times before. “Tattooing has been around since ancient Egypt. People decorated their bodies with images for religious, ethnic or simply aesthetic reasons. At times, it’s been considered a rite of passage, or something that marked you as part of a particular group. Sailors and travelers brought the idea of tattooing to Europe and America from the East. Today, it’s as much a matter of fashion as anything, though for some it’s still a sign of rebellion.” His eyes met hers. Was she rebelling against something? Or someone? What was going on in that gorgeous head of hers? “We specialize in custom designs,” he concluded. “We can do just about anything a customer wants.”

“You’re obviously very talented. Some of your work reminds me of Alex Katz.”

Her mention of the New York artist surprised him. “You’re familiar with Katz?”

“Not especially, but my father has some of his work. He collects modern art.” She flinched again as Theresa began work in a new area of the tat.

“Breathe deep,” he reminded her.

She nodded and did so. “Why did you decide to become a tattoo artist and not a painter or maybe a commercial artist?” she asked when she’d regained her composure.

As if etching a design on flesh didn’t take as much—or more—talent as rendering it on paper or in a computer file. “I prefer the human body to more traditional canvases.” It was a stock answer, but not entirely true. “I like to play by my own rules,” he added. “Doing tats lets me do that.”

Her gaze flickered over him, taking in the long hair, the leather. Some women really got off on the whole rebel image; maybe she was one of them. Just like some dudes really went for the innocent-virgin type. But he wasn’t one of them. At least, not before now.

“I imagine you meet some interesting people in this line of work.”

“Uh-huh.” Bikers and college students made up the majority of his clientele, but he got his fair share of businessmen and even the occasional bored housewife. Then there were ones like her, who were harder to classify. “What do you do?”

“I’m a dancer.”

Surprise jolted him. Exotic dancers were also frequent customers, but she didn’t look the type. He took in her trim figure and killer legs, and hazarded a guess. “Since when do ballerinas get tats?”

She smiled and looked pleased. “I do some ballet, but mostly modern dance. Jazz. Hip-hop. Even Latin dance.”

He thought of her dancer’s body. Fluid and graceful. Flexible and strong. The kind of body a man could get lost in….

Don’t go there, Zach. “You must be pretty good if you make a living at it.”

“Right now, I teach at the Austin Academy of Dance. But I have a chance at getting on with a dance company in Chicago. They’re doing a new stage production that combines hip-hop and jazz dance with urban and pop music. Sort of Riverdance meets Stomp. It’s called Razzin’!” Her eyes took on a new light as she spoke, like a student anticipating recess. “They don’t take very many new dancers each year, so to get on with them would really make my career.”