WhatLiesBeneath Page 7

  “The accommodations are better at my place,” he said. “A king-size bed. Hot and cold running water in a shower stall big enough for two. With a detachable showerhead. And if that doesn’t tempt you, how about dirty movies on my high-def, fifty-five-inch TV?”

  “I assume you have surround sound?” She fought to keep the banter going, desperate to deflect the serious conversation Jericho wanted to initiate.

  “Of course.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper. Usually he let her distract him, but this time it seemed he wasn’t letting her off the hook. “I have everything you need, Amanda.”

  Except you won’t let me give it to you. She heard those words as clearly as if he’d spoken them out loud. Bone-numbing apprehension replaced the languid afterglow that had been warming limbs trembling with exhaustion from their passionate…lovemaking. There was no other word for it. She could call it fornication or coitus or knocking boots or NSA FWB—No Strings Attached, Friends With Benefits—or any of the other euphemisms used to imply unemotional sexual relations, but she would be lying.

  Each time they came together, no matter how hard she tried to keep it purely physical, somehow, someway another piece of Jericho attached itself to her heart. Which was ridiculous, considering they didn’t know each other well, mostly as a result of her maneuvering to keep some distance between them.

  “My schedule is crazy right now,” she hedged. “Meeting here is convenient for both of us. If I’m running late, you can still get some work done.” She rose and sauntered over to him, sat on his lap and hooked an arm around his neck. “Can I help it if we’re both so horny for each other that we never make it out the front door?”

  His cock pressed against her hip but the serious expression on his face never wavered. “I want more.”

  Out of nowhere, a white-hot bolt of rage blasted Amanda. She shot up and whirled around. “Too damn bad.”

  She gritted her teeth to keep from shouting and crossed her arms to keep from slapping him. He had no right to make these kinds of demands on her. She was already struggling to maintain the boundaries she’d erected going into the relatio—affair. Someone had to acknowledge the realities of their relatio—association. Clearly it wasn’t going to be him.

  “Tell me why.” His words were as gentle as hers were harsh.

  “It wouldn’t work,” she snapped. The disparities and differences separating them loomed over her like a boulder tottering at the edge of a cliff. One strong gust of wind and that rock would shatter whatever lay beneath it.

  “You haven’t tried.” An edge of frustration showed itself behind his carefully modulated tone. He stood and pulled on his jeans without bothering to zip the placket. They hung low on his hips, emphasizing the definition of his abs and obliques. The narrow trail of dark hair that started just below his navel arrowed into the open gap, tempting her to reach in and grab a handful.

  An involuntary step toward him jerked her back to awareness. Her insatiable hunger for Jericho was the cause of this mess. A flash of clarity hit and Amanda knew if she continued to see him, they were both destined for heartache. Passion might carry them through a few months, maybe even a year. But eventually their dissimilarities would drive them apart. The university and literary community were her world—where did a Harley-riding, leather-wearing, ponytailed, scruffy-bearded, make-your-panties-wet bad boy fit in? She didn’t care what others thought, but she couldn’t bear the possibility of exposing Jericho to the narrow-minded judgment of others.

  “I have to go.” She scanned his office for her clothing. Her skirt was draped over the edge of a wastebasket. Her sweater had caught on the doorknob somehow.

  “Calm down, babe. Let’s talk about this.” He pulled down the bottom of her sweater, which had folded in on itself in her hurry to dress.

  “There’s nothing to discuss.” She gave up looking for her panties and sat on the sofa to pull on her knee-high boots. The blood was pounding in her ears and tears burned the back of her eyes. How had everything gone downhill so fast?

  She got to her feet, arms clasped around her coat and messenger bag. Jericho leaned against the door—forearms crossed, hair tangled, eyes unreadable.

  “I’ve been trying to figure this out from day one,” he said, his tone conversational. “You show up, come on to me and proceed to ride me like a rodeo cowboy. You accept my offer for dinner but the closest we’ve gotten to an actual date is picking up a pizza.

  “I keep coconut water in the refrigerator because I know that’s your favorite drink, and I added Jennifer Lopez to my playlist because you said you like to sing along when she comes on the radio. The only other thing I know about you is that you never seem to take off those fucking pearls.”

  He pounded the door with a fist and stared at her. “Do you realize you haven’t even told me where you live or what you do for a living? Anytime I start a conversation remotely personal, you start taking off your clothes until I’m so distracted I forget what I was saying.”

  He stalked toward her and hauled her up to his chest, hands banded around her arms. He stopped just short of shaking her as he demanded, “What the hell is all of this?”

  “A mistake. This was a huge mistake.” Amanda pushed away from him, frantic to escape before she gave in to the tears blurring her vision.

  He didn’t try to stop her when she fled out of his office, out of the studio and out of his life.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Dammit, J. You’re killing me.” Al Jimson twisted away from the tattoo gun. “We’re going on six straight hours. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Jericho let the electric motor slow before setting the device aside. “Sorry, man. I guess I got distracted.”

  “Bullshit. You were like this when I came in last week.” The football player stood and rolled his shoulders. “I’m still catching it from Deborah because you bailed on her birthday party. She wanted to introduce you to one of her sorority sisters who just moved here from Denver.”

  Al’s wife was on a mission to fix Jericho up with every single woman she knew until she had cured him of his wild ways and tamed him into matrimonial submission. For the time being—and possibly a significant chunk of the foreseeable future—Jericho had zero interest in playing the dating game. The stakes had gotten out of hand the last time he played…and lost.

  “Thanks, but tell Deb I’m off the market for a while.” He felt more than saw his friend’s scrutiny. “When you’re ready, let’s finish this. There’s only about an hour’s worth of work.” He pretended to check the supplies laid out nearby.

  “Some woman got you bad, didn’t she?” Al straddled his chair so Jericho could resume detailing the magnificent dragon coiled across his back. “When did this happen? I didn’t even know you were seeing someone.”

  “I wasn’t.” The sarcasm slipped out. “I mean it wasn’t a big deal. We got together a few times and when I wanted more, she took her ball and went home. For all I know, she’s already playing on a new court.”

  He latched on to the bitter anger aroused by his suspicion that Amanda had moved directly from his lap onto someone else’s. A few days after she walked out, unable to help himself, Jericho found her address in his client file and cruised by late one night. The million-dollar mansion was no surprise, but the sight of Amanda with the same guy she’d gone to dinner with had knocked the air out of his lungs. He watched them through the huge bay window until he couldn’t take it anymore. Her rejection stung, but what really hurt was knowing this dude was allowed into her life but he wasn’t.

  “Ow. Take it easy.” Al flinched. “It’s me, not the chick who done you wrong.”

  “Maybe this isn’t the best time for me to work on you.” Jericho cast worried eyes over the tattoo but didn’t see any poorly completed areas.

  “If you haven’t screwed up yet, keep going.” After a minute, Al said, “I’ve never seen you like this, J.”

  “Yeah, well…” He’d never fallen for someone as fast and hard as he
had for Amanda.

  He tried to concentrate on the needle and ink and image, aimed for the contentment he usually found when he hit The Zone. When memories flared—the whisper of her fingertip tracing the lines of his tattoo, the little sounds she made when she came, the sassy look she gave him before dropping to her knees and taking him in her mouth, the rightness he felt when she was in his arms—he shoved them away.

  The effort was exhausting. His days and nights were a series of highs and lows. He was, by turn, energized by indignant anger and drained by helpless heartache. He didn’t know if he wanted to confront her, charm her, punish her or make love to her. The only thing he knew for sure was he wanted her.

  A furious knocking interrupted the silence in the room, after which the door slammed open, rebounding off the wall behind it.

  “Hellfire and damnation, Creegan. What the fuck is the matter with you? Are you trying to fuck up your fucking writing career before it even fucking starts?” Hands on hips, stilettos planted, eyes narrowed, face florid, Dolores D’Agnostino stood in the doorway. “I’m fucking going to—”

  “Please don’t tell me this is the bewitching creature you’re mooning over.” Al twisted in his seat and gave the infuriated redhead a once-over.

  “Who the fuck is this and what the fuck is he talking about?”

  “This is my client, it’s none of your business what he’s talking about, and you’re intruding on a private session.”

  Truth be told, Jericho had been expecting just such an appearance from his friend and publicity manager. Her repetitious use of the F-word warned him exactly how pissed she was. Once meant she had gotten laid the night before and the coffee shop got her order right the first time. Half a dozen indicated nuclear meltdown.

  She traipsed over, heels snicking off the tile like gunshots, and leaned in until she and Jericho were nose-to-nose. “Let me make this abso-fucking-lutely crystal clear. You will not leave for that dig in Peru before your book release. You will attend all scheduled media events. That includes the signing at my store, three radio interviews, an appearance on Good Morning, San Fran!, and the reception at the university. Do you under-fucking-stand me?”

  “What book?” Al sounded confused. “What dig?”

  Rescheduling his airline ticket for an earlier departure had been a knee-jerk reaction to the situation with Amanda. But as much as Jericho wanted to escape the hurt and regret, he owed Dolores big time. Without her bulldog tenacity and citywide contacts, the debut of Inked: Mankind’s Immortal Inscriptions would have been little more than a blurb buried in the newspaper.

  “Who the hell are you? You look familiar.” Dolores squinted at Al. “Goddam! You’re that Nickelback fellow. When are they putting you back in the game? I’m tired of seeing the 49ers getting their asses handed to them.”

  “Dolores, Al. Al, Dolores D’Agnostino. She owns a bookstore down the block.”

  “Maybe you’ve heard of it. Wicked Words. The ultimate source of erotic literature for historians, collectors and masturbators.” She underscored the tag line with a lecherous grin.

  “I can’t say I have, but it sounds like a visit is in order.”

  “Make it next Friday. I’m hosting a fucking book-signing for Jericho Creegan, author and photographer of Inked, a compelling analysis of mankind and tattoos from prehistoric man to modern-day soccer moms.” She winked. “Catchy, huh?”

  Al eyeballed him. “You wrote a book? I didn’t even think you could read, man.”

  “I’m full of surprises,” Jericho muttered. Maybe he should have told Amanda about the book. If it impressed a football player, maybe it would have earned points with her.

  “Does that have anything to do with this dig you mentioned?”

  “It most certainly does.” Dolores was in marketing mode now and continued with her advertising spiel. “For more than ten years, Creegan has studied the tradition, culture and history of tattoos. His worldwide explorations have taken him to thirty-seven countries on every continent, and he has consulted on archaeological digs in Egypt, China, the Middle East and Europe. Researchers credit Creegan with the theory that some tattoos were used for curative purposes, which he formulated after the discovery of several mummified infants and juveniles in Burma, all of whom were tattooed similarly on their chests and were found to have died of lung infections. Creegan’s next adventure will take him to—”

  “Enough.” Jericho sighed. The book release would keep him busy—maybe so busy he wouldn’t have time to obsess about Amanda. As soon as he jumped through all of Dolores’ hoops, he could bury his head in the Peruvian sand.

  “I’ll email the damn schedule to Vix. Otherwise you won’t know where the hell to be or when.” Her good humor restored, Dolores blew air kisses to both men. “Don’t fucking make me come back here again, Creegan. Next time I won’t be so nice about things.” She pranced out, pulling the door shut behind her.

  “I’d show up if I were you. She’s scary.” Al sniggered and glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, while you’re back there, can I have your autograph?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Will pulled into the parking lot adjacent to Ad Lib, the students’ affectionate nickname for the university library, which bore the cumbersome surname of its benefactor, Jonas P. Adelsperger. He switched off the motor but left the heater on.

  In the passenger seat next to him, Amanda shivered. She hadn’t been able to get warm since she walked out the front door of Body of Art two weeks ago. In a moment of melodramatic misery, she’d told Will her heart felt like one of those frozen inserts people used in drinking pitchers to prevent the beverage from becoming watered down by ice.

  “I hate to say this, duckie, but you look a shambles.” Will frowned. “Let me take you home.”

  The only thing she wanted more than her own bed right now was her own bed with Jericho in it. Or Jericho’s bed. Or the backseat of Jericho’s Harley. She just wanted him.

  She’d never imagined doing the right thing would feel so bad. The first two days after leaving him, she’d called off sick from work. The headache and upset stomach were legit, brought on by crying jags that left her red-eyed and snot-nosed. She ignored the phone, which prompted Will to show up on her doorstep. He let her sob for a full two hours before shaming her into a shower and clean clothes. After staring her down until she ate most of the cheese sandwich he had grilled for her, Will tucked her into bed and said he expected to see her back in the classroom the next day.

  Since then, she had gone through the motions of living. Her students noticed the change, a few expressing concern, most just becoming more and more disengaged. The Abbess Collection had become nothing more than a bunch of dusty old papers; Amanda no longer cared about the exhibit. Will and a shy adjunct named Lindsay had taken the lead on the project, leaving Amanda to handle the paperwork. She wasn’t so immersed in her own wretchedness that she missed the affection developing between the two. She was happy Will had moved on; seeing his eyes light up when the quiet brunette came into sight relieved some of the guilt she still carried for their failed romance.

  “Timothy would be disappointed if we didn’t show up. He’s been hounding everyone in the department to be here tonight. There’s supposed to be some kind of big announcement or something.” She stared through the windshield, not seeing the city lights or the clear night sky. This evening’s event was simply another motion to go through. The sooner they went in, the quicker they could leave. “We’re already late. Let’s go make an appearance and then you can take me home.”

  “I’m worried about you, Amanda. You haven’t been fine in quite a while.”

  Will’s play on her name reminded her of the first time they’d met. He’d said something similar. Why oh why hadn’t she fallen for this sweet, funny, tender man? Instead she’d mistaken passion for lust, or love for passion, or lust for love, or…oh hell, the mix-up didn’t matter. The end result was still the same—confusion, regret and a huge, gaping hole in her heart.


  Unwilling to dump more of her emotional mess on him, she took his hand and squeezed.

  “I have something for you.” Will pulled a small package out of his inside coat pocket and put it on her lap.

  Something rippled inside her—so faint she almost didn’t recognize it. It was only a brief, tiny burst of pleasure but the fact that she could feel something more than pain buoyed her spirits. She untied the simple white bow and folded back the brown paper to reveal an aged, small blue book. She gasped.

  Honoria’s Heartbreak.

  “When I asked you what this book was about, you said it was the kind of love every young girl dreams of experiencing.” Will lifted her chin with his forefinger so he could look into her face. “Do you remember what else you said?”

  Unable to speak, overwhelmed by his gift, she shook her head.

  “‘I have a much more practical outlook on such things’, you said.” Will removed the keys from the ignition. “It’s time to stop being practical, my dear.”

  Love without passion is life without breath.

  Amanda was suffocating from the heaviness weighing down her heart. Her chest was so tight she couldn’t breathe. Life had become nothing more than a series of meaningless motions.

  Oh dear god in heaven above the earth and beyond the stars! How had she missed it?

  It wasn’t the sex that drew her to Jericho. It wasn’t chemistry that made their physical encounters so amazing. It was the love. Instinctive, all-consuming, passionate love.

  As she sat, absorbing the dumbfounding truth, heat flooded her body. She blinked and stared at Will. “How did you know?”

  For less than an instant, naked grief shone in Will’s eyes, but he covered it with a smile. “I can’t wait to meet your peasant, Honoria.”