“Beat cop was right. He beat me to the orgasm then took off before I could even work up a decent flush.” Jessie heard the crunch of a taco chip through the phone—a sure sign Georgia wasn’t exaggerating about her miserable evening. She always drowned a bad day in a bag of Doritos. “Tell me your night went better than mine.”
Jessie smiled as she recalled the events of the evening, starting with the stormy look of intent in Rick’s sizzling blue eyes and ending with her desperate cries of release as she’d dug her fingers through his thick, dark hair and climaxed one last time. Still she tempered her excitement for the sake of her friend. “Marathon Man,” she said. “If I wasn’t so excited about my meetings tomorrow, I’d be dead to the world like he is.”
“Beginner’s luck,” Georgia droned.
Could be, but Jessie knew it was more than that. It was Georgia who had convinced her to take Granna Hawley’s advice—and inheritance—and come out to San Francisco. And once she got here, it was Georgia who taught her how to put herself ahead of everyone else. Lesson one being to stop looking at men as potential husbands and start using them for what they’re good for: sex and vehicle maintenance.
Okay, so maybe Georgia’s ideals were soured by one too many jerks, but Jessie had to admit a certain liberation in having sex with a man she had no intention of getting serious with. For the first time ever, she abandoned concern over making a good impression and decided to go for broke.
And in the process left her dark and sexy companion completely and utterly spent.
Perhaps it was beginner’s luck that she’d found a man who could keep up with her. Or perhaps it was that, away from her hometown roots, she’d had the nerve to step into the driver’s seat and have the kind of sex she’d always wanted. Either way, this newfound freedom was working, giving Jessica Beane yet another reason to be thrilled with the new life she’d been given.
“I’ll take luck however it comes,” she said, prompting Georgia to finally laugh.
“Hon, you deserve a good time after everything you’ve been through.” Another crunch and Georgia added, “Now tell me where you are so I can send you back to Marathon Man and put an end to my own disastrous evening.”
“Hold on a sec,” Jessie said, trying to remember where exactly Rick’s two-story flat was. She recalled turning off Nineteenth Avenue, but that was about it. There’d been an Asian market down the block, but she’d forgotten the name, and with an Asian market on every street in San Francisco, that wouldn’t help her.
Her sexy sheriff had driven all the way from Scotty’s with one hand up her skirt, and by the time they’d turned down his street all she could think about was how many steps to the bedroom door. Street names and house numbers were just a lusty blur. Still, she and Georgia had a pact. If they went home with a new beau, they were to call each other with addresses just to be safe.
Something Jessie had completely forgotten about while she and Rick were testing the limits of sexual acrobatics.
Pulling his shirt over her head, she was pleased to see the hem nearly reach her knees. No surprise since the man had more than a foot on her five-foot-two frame. But it helped that she wouldn’t have to go back to the bedroom in search of her underwear, and after picking up the phone from the couch, she crossed the front room and opened the drapes of the large window that faced the street.
A wall of two-story row houses lined the opposite side of the street, each one painted a bright pastel, some topped with clay tile roofs, others adorned with iron balconies. All had single-car garages on the ground floor next to wide stucco stairways leading to the top-floor entry. Ornate iron gates guarded each doorway, and grand bay windows hung like turrets over the garages, providing an unobstructed view of the public sidewalk below.
It was the picture of just about every street in San Francisco.
She looked one way, then the other. “I can’t see the street name from here. I think I’m in the middle of a block.”
“Missing Persons will probably want more information than that.”
Jessie scowled but relented. She’d gone home with a cop for heaven’s sake, but Georgia had always told her to stay aware of her surroundings and never trust a soul.
Advice she could have used long before she moved to San Francisco.
Making her way to the front door, she unlocked the dead bolt and the latch on the painted white gate and stepped outside, finally locating both the street name and house numbers and relaying them to her friend.
“See how easy that was?” Georgia asked. “Now, if you show up missing, someone knows where you went. Congratulations, you’ve just passed your first course in Casual Sexual Encounters, albeit you’ve barely squeaked by with a C minus.”
Jessie laughed. “I’ll be home earlier than later. Remember, I’ve got interviews with assistants in the morning.”
Just saying the words sent a shiver up her spine. Her Assistants. Her assistants. She was actually going to own a business…with employees.
“Swan will be opening the shop. If one of your candidates gets there before you, I’m sure she’ll keep the girl rapt by showing off her latest in Native American jewelry.”
Chuckling, Jessie said goodbye and tossed the phone in her purse, the conversation a reminder that she really should still try to get some sleep. She’d never interviewed anyone for a job before, and she wanted to be clearheaded enough to make the right choice. So after making a quick stop in the bathroom, she headed back to the bedroom to do that when her phone rang again.
She picked it up and huffed. “Yes, dear?”
“Was he good?”
The low, familiar voice slithered through her veins like ice, trapping the air in her lungs and freezing her feet to the cold wood floor.
She opened her mouth and tried to speak, but the only thing that came out was a low gurgle.
“Aw, c’mon, Sugar. When a woman cheats on her husband, the least she can do is share the gory details.” She heard the draw of a cigarette before she added, through an exhale, “Is pretty cop-boy good in bed?”
Her heart thumped and her knees buckled causing her to brace a hand to the back of the couch. A hundred questions spun in a flurry of disbelief, blurring her thoughts and reducing her words to a stutter.
Rounding the couch, she slowly lowered to one arm. “Wa-Wade?”
“Well, since you forgot that I’m your husband, I’m glad you at least remembered my name.”
She blinked and sputtered then finally managed to hiss, “You’re not my husband.” Not that that was the primary thought going through her head right now. She just wanted him to stop saying it.
More importantly, she wondered how he got her cell phone number, why he was calling her and how did he know where she was?
The thought put her feet in motion and she scampered to the front window, peering down to the street below. There were cars parallel parked up and down the quiet avenue, but other than that, it looked deserted in the wee hour of the night.
She heard him blow out another puff of smoke and she darted her eyes back and forth before seeing an old battered pickup parked two doors down in front of a pale yellow stucco. The windows on the truck were fogged and she caught a faint puff of smoke escape from the driver’s side.
“Yeah, well, that’s where you’re wrong, Sugar. You and I are still entirely conjugated.”
“You’re in jail,” she whispered, hoping that saying the words out loud would make it true.
“Not anymore, Sugar Beane. And I’ve come all the way to California to reunite with my loving bride.”
“Stop calling me that!