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  What Lies Beneath

  Margo Diamond

  As a professor of historic literature at a prestigious San Francisco university, Amanda Fine has the perfect job in the perfect city. The new guy and fellow academic at work should be the perfect man for her. Except Amanda’s idea of the perfect man is Jericho, a Harley-riding, leather-wearing, ponytailed, scruffy-bearded, make-your-panties-wet, world-class bad boy. When Amanda struts into his tattoo shop ready for a down-and-dirty seduction, Jericho can only assume the high-falutin’, pearl-wearing beauty is slumming.

  When their explosive chemistry starts moving toward something deeper, preconceived notions and assumptions blind Amanda and Jericho. But with love on the line, this not-so-traditional literature professor and not-so-unconventional tattoo artist need to learn to see what lies beneath.

  Reader Advisory: This story has graphic sexual language and scenes—no closed bedroom doors (or other rooms) here!

  A Romantica® contemporary erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

  What Lies Beneath

  Margo Diamond

  Chapter One

  Amanda Fine couldn’t step out of her new Pac Heights digs without stopping to appreciate the view of San Francisco sprawled below her, and this morning was no different. She shifted her messenger bag across her shoulders while surveying remnants of fog caught between the nooks and crannies of the Bay City’s natural and man-made architecture. Born and raised in the flat farmlands of Ohio, she wondered if the postcard perspective would ever lose its ability to enthrall her. She only had a few months to enjoy the hilltop panorama that came courtesy of the Pacific Heights Victorian she was house-sitting while its owner, a fellow university professor, was on sabbatical, so she planned to make every moment count.

  As much as she would have liked to linger and savor the sight, she had a class to teach in less than an hour. The university was only a brisk, fifteen-minute walk away, but she was scheduled to meet with a student beforehand. She set off toward the city center, her step almost light enough to pass for skipping. Sometimes she wanted to pinch herself to prove this wasn’t all a wonderful dream, and that she really was living and working in one of the most exciting cities in the country. And not just employed as an overworked, underpaid, anonymous adjunct either but as a professor of historic literature at Benbine University under Dr. Timothy Mueller, one of the foremost authorities on medieval lit, her personal passion.

  Life couldn’t get any better.

  Oh yes, it could!

  Her pace slowed as she approached Body of Art. It wasn’t really a tattoo parlor, not in the traditional sense of pierced and inked fringe-type people. Amanda thought of it more as a tattoo studio.

  First, it was located amongst a collection of posh boutiques, trendy galleries and eclectic coffee shops-slash-wine bars. Second, expansive plate glass windows revealed an interior more reflective of an upscale salon or exclusive spa. Life-size black-and-white photographs showcasing tattoos on beautiful—and naked—men and women adorned the walls of the reception area where an attractive young woman checked in clients at her glass-and-chrome desk. A leather couch provided seating for those waiting to be accompanied to one of the private rooms off the corridor that ran to the back of the shop. Last but not least was the clientele, any of whom could have posed for the studio’s provocative décor.

  The only element at Body of Art that matched the stereotypical tattoo parlor was its proprietor. Jericho Creegan was a Harley-riding, leather-wearing, ponytailed, scruffy-bearded, make-your-panties-wet, world-class bad boy.

  Amanda knew all of this, including the damp undies factoid, because she’d been stalking Jericho Creegan for the better part of a month. Ever since she’d seen him in almost all his tattooed glory one Monday night.

  She’d been one of a few late diners at a nearby restaurant and had stopped to wait out a sudden downpour in a doorway across the street from the tattoo studio. Jericho came around the corner of the building from the alley where he parked his motorcycle, hair and clothes plastered to his skin. Amanda had watched him unlock the front door, hit the lights and dash inside, only to skid across the tiled floor. His arms windmilled as he careened into the glass-topped receptionist’s desk. Despite the curtain of rain, Amanda had been able to make out Jericho’s frustration with his sodden condition and the water puddling around his feet as he slicked the hair back from his forehead and pulled at his shirt. Another step toward the back of the shop and he’d slipped again, clutching the edge of the desk to steady himself.

  Fuck.

  His word choice had been obvious, although she could not hear him. Suddenly Jericho had looked up through the window, his furtive gaze prompting Amanda to move deeper into the shadowy doorway. After glancing up and down the street and determining it was empty, he’d begun to strip.

  He reached back to pull the black T-shirt over his head then wadded up the fabric to swipe water from his arms and face. From her vantage point, Amanda had been surprised to discover Jericho was not as heavily inked as she’d expected. A tribal pattern started at his left wrist and continued upward, covering a well-defined pectoral muscle and sinewy shoulder. Balancing one ankle over the opposite knee, he’d tugged off heavy black motorcycle boots and socks. The position had showed off a broad back that narrowed at the hips. Her gaze had roamed the smooth expanse of skin that shimmered wetly.

  Wearing just a pair of very wet, very tight jeans, Jericho had dropped the boots next to his T-shirt and headed for the rear of the shop. A few seconds later, he’d come back into view.

  And Amanda had forgotten how to breathe.

  He had one towel knotted at his waist and was vigorously rubbing another one over his head. Once finished, he’d draped it around his neck then strolled to the entrance. Bracing a hand on either side of the glass panel, he’d peered out into the rainy night. Framed between the doorjambs, he had reminded her of the erotic photographs displayed on the wall behind him.

  Her physical reaction had been immediate, her body simultaneously melting and hardening. The flutter of desire low in her belly had triggered a warm, wet response from the inside out. As her knees went weak, her nipples knotted so fiercely they ached. The emotions that had accompanied her gut-wrenching reaction to Jericho elevated it beyond lust to something more akin to need. As if there were empty spaces only he could fill, a secret only he could reveal, a turbulence only he could calm. Amanda had the wild urge to cry and laugh and scream all at once.

  There had been something intimate about seeing him swathed in terrycloth, his hair loose and tousled as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. Amanda had closed her eyes and pretended he was coming to join her in a tangle of silk sheets atop a king-size brass bed. He tugged to loosen the towel and…

  Water had sprayed over Amanda’s feet, yanking her from the fantasy, as a car zoomed through a puddle in the street. The vehicle’s sudden appearance had seemed to remind Jericho that his shop’s windows offered a fishbowl view for passersby and he’d turned away. She’d caught a glimpse of shadowy temptation between lean thighs when he bent to pick up his discarded boots and shirt and the towel had hitched up over his ass. Gingerly carrying the soggy bundle, he’d entered one of the rear rooms and closed the door.

  Once home, Amanda had gone into the bathroom to dry off and dress for bed. The towel was soft but abraded the still-puckered tips of her breasts. She’d never experienced such a dramatic, instantaneous physical reaction to a man, especially a stranger and someone so different from the men who usually appealed to her. Jericho embodied the classic bad boy, with his unconventional livelihood, bold sexuality and untamed good looks. She tried to picture him escorting her to a literary book reading at Benbine, envisioning the other faculty members—most of them as old and
musty as the tomes in the university library—sneering in disapproval while Professor Mueller took her aside and suggested she might be better suited for a job at the local adult bookstore than with one of the most prestigious academic learning institutions in the northern hemisphere.

  No. Someone like Jericho Creegan would never fit into Amanda’s world but he was the perfect candidate for her private fantasies. She had closed her eyes, transporting them from the dark-paneled library to a sandy tropical beach.

  It was the perfect backdrop for his staggering masculinity. She pictured him standing over her while she reclined on the sand—the sheen of suntan oil on the smooth expanse of his chest and torso, the intricate tribal tattoo on his arm and shoulder marking him as primal as the other island natives, his thick, hard, outthrust cock.

  The mental imagery had fueled her fervor so that her nipples pulled even tighter while her clit pulsed. A wave of lightheadedness had washed over her, as if all the blood in her head had drained to flood the flesh between her legs.

  Unable to endure the relentless throbbing, Amanda had caved in to the urgent wanton impulses. Propping one heel on the bathroom counter and cocking her knee sideways, she’d watched herself in the mirror as she stroked the swollen folds of her pussy until she’d cried out in shuddering relief.

  Chapter Two

  After that rainy evening, she’d taken to strolling past the tattoo shop on her way to the university as though she had all the time in the world, even if she was running late. Those precious seconds netted her a few enticing glimpses of Jericho, who seemed to spend most of his working hours behind closed doors. On one occasion she thought they’d made eye contact through the window. Her entire body had gone hot, the sensation so startling she’d dropped her backpack. When she’d stood, he was gone.

  This morning, as she cleared the lingerie boutique next to Body of Art, the studio’s front door opened and Jericho bolted out, crashing into her. The impact knocked the air from her lungs and upset her balance. As she toppled sideways, he pulled her to his chest.

  “Whoa, sorry.”

  Embarrassment tinged a voice that was low and husky, and sounded exactly as Amanda imagined it would. Like fine whiskey laced with molten honey. Her other senses kicked in, assembling a glorious collage composed of the controlled strength of his hands around her biceps, the scent of soap and leather, the rapid pace of his breathing and the intimate press of their bodies from shoulder to hip.

  After dreaming what it would be like to get up close and personal, the real thing put Amanda into sensory overload and she shivered.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Jericho released her and stepped back.

  Just as before, lust and a mix of other emotions careened out of control to form a confusing vortex within her. Amanda stepped forward into the space between them and laid her hand on his chest, her palm curving over his pectoral muscle. Her gaze flew to his face.

  Like a scientist observing an experiment, some oddball voice in the back of her head was making notes about the way Jericho’s nostrils flared and his eyes—not quite green and not quite brown—darkened. It registered the way his nipple pressed into her palm and how his body heat warmed the fabric of his T-shirt until another voice piped up. This time it was the voice of reason, suggesting she stop manhandling Jericho as if he was her own personal slab of beefcake.

  Embarrassment scorched her face and Amanda jerked her arm back as if burned. “My god, I’m so—”

  He glanced down at his chest where her hand had rested, frowning, as if confused. She watched as color crept up his neck and he fidgeted. It was the last reaction she expected from a cocksure bad boy like Jericho. Their eyes locked, and Amanda swore a tremor rippled the ground beneath her feet. She gasped. Earthquake? She shook her head. No…that didn’t make sense. Looking up at him, she whispered, “What happened?”

  The question seemed to snap Jericho out of his bemusement. He blinked a couple times and shook his head. “I didn’t think I hit you that hard. Are you okay?”

  “Yes. But did you feel that? It was as if the sidewalk…shifted. I’ve never experienced an earthquake.”

  Jericho swept the street with a quick, assessing glance and shook his head. “No, nothing.” He tipped his head toward the sign hanging overhead. “Usually you can see things swaying or shuddering. Small pools of water, like a puddle or a bird bath, sort of jiggle.”

  Realizing how close they still stood and feeling awkward for blurting out such a silly comment, Amanda moved to leave. “Well, sorry—”

  “Hold on.”

  She paused. Again, Jericho seemed at a loss for words and he looked…well, rather adorable.

  And again, not a reaction she’d expect from a hardcore stud but it eased the tension. “Really, I’m good. Don’t worry about it.” Unable to resist, she laid her fingers across his forearm. “Probably just my overactive imagination.”

  He slid his hand over hers. “You’re sure?”

  The sensation of his skin on hers, starkly erotic, gave rise to all sorts of crazy compulsions. Unable to speak, she nodded and moved away before she gave in to temptation and flung herself into his arms.

  Jericho Creegan watched the gorgeous young woman he’d almost steamrolled hurry away. Although his view was restricted to blonde curls neatly held back in a barrette and slim hips encased in khaki trousers, he had no trouble recollecting her huge blue eyes and pink-glossed lips. His balls grew heavy as he remembered the weight of her breasts pressing into his chest when he’d first tried to steady her. He shifted uncomfortably, reaching down to adjust himself at the exact moment she glanced back at him.

  “Shit.” He froze, feeling very much like a toddler caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  When she winked at him—winked, by god!—he burst out laughing and gave his package an exaggerated tug. Offering one last smile that did amazing things to an already incredible face, the woman disappeared around a corner, leaving Jericho rubbing his cock in the middle of the sidewalk in broad daylight.

  “Hell, Creegan. When did you start playing with yourself again?” A familiar voice pulled Jericho from his musings.

  “Hey. I was just on my way over to see you.” Bending to avoid brushing his pelvis against Dolores D’Agnostino, a close friend and neighboring business owner, he kissed her cheek. While the slender redhead was ultra feminine, he knew she would happily trade his impressive erection for a sweet pussy any day of the week.

  “The fuck you were. You’re busy jacking off.”

  Her penchant for four-letter words and foul language, so at odds with her demure appearance, usually drew an audience when they conversed in public, so Jericho steered her back toward her shop.

  “If you can wait, I haven’t had my coffee yet and I’m out of creamer.” Dolores’ silvery laugh only underscored her crassness.

  “I swear, I don’t know how you keep your clientele with a vocabulary like that.” He slowed so she could keep pace in her four-inch stilettos.

  Tucking an arm through his, Dolores shrugged. “Shit, you know the saying. Men want a lady in the streets and a freak in the sheets. Since this dyke has no interest in attracting a man, she can talk any fucking way she wants to talk. And really, would you expect anything less from the owner of a bookstore named Wicked Words?”

  She was right, except too many women today acted like freaks. Pick any reality show and by the end of the season, the entire female cast would have exposed their low-class nature. The nastier and more dramatic the behavior, the higher the ratings.

  He wondered about the blonde. She was high class, with her starched, button-up blouse, yellow cardigan and string of pearls. Odd, he thought, recalling that she had worn a narrow strand. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman wearing pearls. Or only having a single button undone so her entire rack wasn’t on display.

  “Goddamn, Creegan. Where the hell are you off to now?” Dolores stood in front of him on the sidewalk, hands on hips, foot tapping the c
ement. “Who is she? I’ve got to meet the biatch who can put you in a trance like that.”

  Jericho strode past her, hands fisted and jaw clenched, labeling the emotion annoyance instead of anger, as he knew it to be. Dolores was just being herself, but for some reason her disrespectful reference made him want to defend the stranger’s honor. He was acting foolish over a woman he didn’t even know, so maybe he was really pissed at himself and not his friend.

  He didn’t have time to moon over some sidewalk encounter. After meeting with Dolores to discuss publicity for his upcoming book launch, he had a full line-up of clients. Still, he couldn’t help but growl at the smirking redhead, “She’s not a bitch.”

  Chapter Three

  Although the door was propped open, Amanda knocked to announce her arrival at Dr. Mueller’s office. “Good afternoon, sir. I had a message you wanted to see me?”

  “Come in, my dear.”

  With coke-bottle eyeglasses and tufts of gray hair ala Albert Einstein, Timothy Mueller embodied the stereotypical absentminded professor. Nothing was further from the truth. He could out-quote professors half his age, and it was standing room only in the lecture hall when he deigned to present to students. For the last twenty years, his passion had been researching and documenting obscure medieval texts, primarily erotic missives penned by monastic clergy. Amanda shared his interest in what was essentially Middle Ages porn.

  “Can I offer you some coffee? Mae-Ling just brewed a fresh pot and I have those coconut macaroons you’re fond of.”

  Amanda suspected he offered refreshments as an excuse to indulge his own sweet tooth so she accepted a cup of coffee, sliding into one of the comfortable leather chairs provided for visitors.

  “What was it you wanted to see me about, sir?”

  He made a dismissive motion with one hand while pushing a plate stacked with cookies across his desk. “I’ve told you before. Call me Timothy. Otherwise I feel like an old fuddy-duddy.”