She heard J.D.’s seat creak as he leaned back next to her. Too bad they were barely speaking to each other, much less romantically involved. It was probably fun as hell to make out on a private plane.
Larry Mullen! That was the fourth guy’s name! Was he married?
The rustling noises of J.D. settling himself more comfortably in the seat next to her finally eased into relative silence. Bored with her fantasies already, she dared to crack an eye open and sneak a glance at him. She caught him rubbing the heel of his palm against his thigh. Leg cramps again, she’d bet.
It was a shame really, about the wife. He was just so lovely to look at. All thickly muscled limbs and darkly forged features. Funny. Because she could look at Spencer, her sister Addy’s husband, and see dispassionately what a good-looking man he was. Tall and long and lean, throwing off an aura of whiplike strength and intensity. He was attractive, definitely. But when she turned her thoughts to J.D… J.D. with the bunching weightlifter muscles, J.D. with the wicked cheekbones and half-hidden grin and speculative glint in his eye that didn’t say, “I wonder what it would be like to know that woman on an intellectual level,” J.D. with the pirate’s long hair and the poet’s mouth, J.D. just, hmm…
Yum.
And, purr.
A giggle slipped out and she shut her eyes in a panic. When she thought the coast was clear, she peeked again. Safe. He was still napping.
If only his good looks weren’t matched by an equally fine ability to make her feel like an awkward teenager all over again. It had been bad enough to feel like an alien species the first time around, waiting for her boobs to grow in and the braces to finish straightening her teeth, all the while watching the older and oh-so-handsome Joey Damico charm and disarm older girls who needed the bras they wore and were past the terrible pimples of adolescence. No doubt nothing much had changed for him—women, she was sure, still fell at his feet with swooning regularity. But things had changed for her. She was a grown woman, sure of herself and fully aware that she was at least cute, with a possible upgrade to foxy if she put the time in on her hair and makeup. Of course, his wife had been asked to pose for Playboy.
Nothing like a nude pictorial to make a girl feel intimidated. Classier, yes, but intimidated nonetheless.
She closed her eyes. Better to remove temptation from sight. She was doing just fine so far in her unspoken vow to stop thinking of J.D. as a potential…well, anything, and return to treating him like the old childhood chum he was.
Return to.
Who was she fooling? At no point in her life had she thought of J.D. with anything other than lust in her heart. Even if at first she’d only been lusting for a chance to hold his hand. She huffed out a breath and shook her head.
Foolishness.
It had been made clear to her long ago that if wishes were horses, beggars would ride, but Sarah Tyler would never be the kind of woman who could hold the attention of a man like J.D.
* * *
“So I’m not your main problem? What is?”
Sarah answered without thinking, which made this the first time he’d managed to get an uncalculated answer out of her in the past two hours. He spread his legs and settled a little deeper into his seat, trying to get comfortable on the plane.
“Convincing my brother that I’m not gonna sleep with you in Vegas.”
Sarah had always been easy to catch off guard as a kid. It had taken two glasses of champagne to achieve the same feat now that she was an adult.
Not that he’d had any luck whatsoever in getting her to listen to his attempt to explain the kiss. He’d meant to tell her that there’d just been something in that moment, leftover heat from the fire maybe, a certain look in her eyes. Something that had made it impossible for him to let her walk away.
Now, he couldn’t imagine what had possessed him. Maybe too many painkillers?
“You’re not going to sleep with me? Then why the hell did I invite you?”
Her eyes flew open.
It sure was fun to tease her, though.
“Ha ha ha. Very funny,” she said and threw herself back into her own seat. “You remember the ground rules.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And they are?”
“Really?”
Silence.
He ticked the rules off on his fingers, one by one. “No kissing.” The glance he shot her was pure sin wrapped in a red velvet ribbon. “I didn’t actually agree to follow any of these rules, you know.” She raised an eyebrow, and he scowled back. “I didn’t know what I was agreeing to when I said we’d do whatever you wanted. Yeah, yeah, rule number two: no salsa. That was confusing. At first, I thought you had something against Mexican food, and I was going to scrap this whole trip. A woman who doesn’t dig jalapeños isn’t worth knowing—”
“Let’s focus here, shall we?” She broke in. Clearly, it was important to keep the rules at the forefront. “The waltz and the cha-cha—”
“Are allowed, I get it. But no salsa.”
“I have issues with salsa. It’s safer to avoid it completely.”
He pictured Sarah stomping on his foot and flushing with embarrassment and was almost tempted to make one of the dance clubs on the Strip their first stop. Of course, given the continued weakness of his leg, it was more likely that he’d be watching from the sidelines, nursing a drink. Which might be the safer way to go, actually.
“Noted. And finally, under no circumstances, no matter how much you beg—which is difficult to imagine, mind you, since I can hardly picture you even saying please at the moment—am I to let you within twenty yards of a high-stakes poker game.”
J.D. looked at Sarah. Her long, sleek dark hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail. She was wearing cream khakis, a white turtleneck and a tailored black velvet jacket that seemed to have invisible little hooks up the front, since he couldn’t see buttons or a zipper. Black lace-up flats. A little lip gloss, maybe. She looked very nice, clean and conservatively stylish.
Not exactly like a woman who had issues with salsa dancing and high-stakes poker. He couldn’t imagine that he’d have a hard time following her rules. Maybe bringing her with him was enough of an apology. He could drop her off by the pool and go find that up-and-coming actress from the last film he’d documented. The one who kept asking him to show her his darkroom as if digital had never happened, what was her name…something Italian, Donatella…
Beatrice, which she pronounced in the Italian way, Bay-ah-tree-chay. Despite knowing no more Italian than ciao. Beatrice from Boise, with a body that was putting some L.A. plastic surgeon’s kid through college. Her number was still in his cell phone, he’d bet. Although he’d need to make sure to “forget” his camera, if he wanted to avoid being asked to shoot porn photos.
A harrumph broke into his fantasy of stripping Signorina Beatrice out of her Juicy Couture faster than she could say, “I really admire your art.” Sarah