He found himself smiling during the day for no good reason. Something akin to giddiness arose in him when he heard her car, signaling her arrival home. As Gemma’s hand slid beneath the scrap of shiny red fabric, Chev studied her face as that strange sensation once again curled through his chest. The beautiful lines of her features softened as she began to sink into the rhythm of her fingers strumming her soft center. Her mouth opened slightly, her shoulders rolled languidly; her eyes fluttered and closed. Her cheeks were flushed with pure abandon, and a smile played on her lips. She was happy putting on this private show, and he felt flattered that she had singled him out.
Frustrated, he conceded as he smoothed a hand over his rigid erection—a tiny scratch applied to a raging itch—but flattered. And intrigued.
As Gemma’s body convulsed in orgasm, Chev hardened his jaw against the urge to stroke himself to climax. Not yet. There was something going on with this woman, something that compelled her to experience such intimacy with such detachment. He was determined to find out what made her tick.
Face-to-face…hand-to-hand…and sex-to-sex.
10
GEMMA LOVED to make love in the morning…when the sounds of the day were awakening: the soft tickle of tree branches brushing the roof…the vibrating hum of insects drinking from dewy grass…the rattling screech of something that sounded like a cross between a wet cat and a woman screaming “Help!”
Her eyes popped open. The inhuman noise seemed to be coming from her front yard. So much for a few extra z’s on her day off.
She pulled on a robe and walked to the picture window, but didn’t see anything from that vantage point. She did glance at the window opposite hers, but it was empty. Chev had probably been awake for hours, she decided, remembering the way he’d looked in the window last night, watching her…a zing went through her stomach and traveled down her thighs just thinking about it. How lucky to find a sexy man living next door—temporarily—who enjoyed watching her as much as she enjoyed performing.
The screeching noise sounded again, and she had a feeling she knew the source. She walked downstairs and into the living room for a view of the front yard. Then she gasped. Piles of new mulch and several clumps of flowers—roots and all—were scattered over the recently cut lawn. And the culprit stood in the middle of the mess holding a healthy marigold plant in his beak.
“Not my flowers!” Gemma shouted. As if the bird, or anyone else, could hear her. She nearly ran outside, then remembered her robe and pounded back upstairs for a pair of shorts, a T-shirt and sandals. Her mind whirled for some sort of weapon as she rushed downstairs. Desperate, she grabbed an umbrella on the way out the front door.
“Shoo!” she yelled, jogging down the front steps and into the yard, waving the umbrella at the peacock. It flinched, then squawked at her, dropping the mangled plant it had been holding.
“Go away!” she shouted.
The bird took a few steps backward, then shuddered and unfurled his tail in its magnificent fan in an apparent attempt to intimidate her.
Undeterred, Gemma opened the rainbow-colored umbrella and waved it at the destructive beast for a little intimidation of her own.
Low, rumbling laughter sounded. Her stomach tightened before she even turned around to see Chev standing at the edge of their property lines, leaning on a Weed Eater, his T-shirt already sweat-stained although the sun had barely begun its climb. His lopsided grin did funny things to her vital signs. She straightened and pushed a few strands of hair behind her ear, realizing how ridiculous she must look. Then she lifted her chin. “This isn’t funny. This…fowl destroyed my flower beds!”
He held up his hand in an obvious attempt to stop laughing. “I’m sorry. But you’re only making things worse.”
Gemma frowned. “How?”
He walked closer and gestured to the colorful umbrella she held. “Now he probably thinks you’re a potential mate.”
Gemma squinted at the bird, who did indeed seem to be strutting his stuff versus scrambling to get away. She sighed. “Do you have any better ideas for getting rid of him?”
Chev pursed his mouth. “We males can be difficult to get rid of once we see something we like.”
Her cheeks warmed as his meaning set in. A tickle of concern curled in her stomach. It was a good thing that Chev’s days here were numbered. Otherwise, he might begin to expect more than she was willing to offer.
He lunged at the peacock, waving his arms, and succeeded in driving it into the air. Flying low, the large bird disappeared into a copse of trees several yards away.
“Thank you,” Gemma said. “Again.”
Chev’s eyes twinkled. “You’re welcome, but I don’t think you’ve seen the last of him.”
Gemma pushed one hand into her hair as she surveyed the damage to her flower beds. To her horror, tears filled her eyes. “I so don’t need this hassle.”
“Hey, hey,” he said, sounding alarmed. He moved closer, touching her arm. “It’s nothing that can’t be fixed. I can give you a hand.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said, wiping her cheeks hurriedly and pulling away from his disturbing touch. “I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Besides, you have your hands full with your own property.”
“Actually, I was hoping I might negotiate some kind of trade.”
Gemma swallowed hard. “What did you have in mind?”
A small smile played on his lips for a few seconds, as if he were considering all the pleasurable possibilities. “Your expertise in return for any handyman work you have around here.”
“My expertise in what?”
“My house,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the Spanish structure. I want to stay as true to authentic Mission detail as possible, but I’m afraid I’m in over my head. I thought with your background in art history, you might be able to steer me in the right direction.”
Gemma crossed her arms and considered his proposal. “For example?”
He shrugged. “Some guidance on the fireplace in the living room, the light fixtures in the bedrooms and things that I haven’t even encountered yet.”
“I have some reference books on the Mission style,” Gemma said, her mind already sifting through options. She recognized a flowering sensation in her chest as pleasure. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had asked for her opinion on anything. Jason had been the resident expert on everything that mattered, she had simply been the attentive sidekick. “Would you like to come inside while I look for them?” she asked.
He nodded, and followed her. Her heart raced as they climbed the steps and crossed the porch. She turned the knob on the door and swung it open. As soon as he crossed the threshold, she regretted asking him inside. She felt guilty and skittish, as if someone might catch them, and found herself practicing explanations in her head. He’s the neighbor…a carpenter…temporary.
“Nice place,” he said, turning his head from side to side.
She saw the house as he might…clean, but dark and cluttered with little piles of Jason’s stuff everywhere—the overflowing basket of mail, the milk crate of shoes and belts and crushed ball caps, the laundry basket of office equipment and thick volumes of books on Florida law. “I apologize for the mess—these are my husband’s things.” She put a hand to her head and gave a little laugh. “I mean my ex-husband. We recently divorced.”
He nodded. “So I gathered.”
She was embarrassed. She should’ve gotten rid of everything after her last phone conversation with Jason. The air seemed especially stifling.
“Sorry it’s so stuffy in here. My air conditioner is on the blink. I’ve been keeping all the windows open, but it hasn’t helped much.”
“It’s helped me a great deal,” he said, his voice low and amused.
His candor shocked her—and pleased her. It was refreshing to speak honestly about a sexual experience instead of flirting around the edges. “I’m glad you think so,” she murmured, and the air between them fairly crackled with static electricity. His dark eyes seemed to pierce her, and behind the blatant physical appreciation, she could sense his mind was racing, trying to figure out why a nice girl like her would be compelled to exhibit herself in such an intimate way. Gemma broke eye contact as a wave of anxiety washed over her. Honesty came with its own price.
“I could take a look at your air conditioner unit if you like,” he offered, changing the subject easily.
“I couldn’t bother you—”
“I might not even be able to fix it,” he interrupted. “But I’d like to do something for you in exchange for your help with the details of the house.”
There it was again, the look that said he wanted—needed—her help.
“Okay,” she relented, then proceeded up the stairs. “The unit is up here in the hall closet if you want to take a look. I’ll try to locate my reference books.”
He strode to the closet with a casual authority that she admired, a man comfortable with houses and the things in them. Unlike Jason, she mused, who saw the yard work as a chore, the smallest repair around the house an inconvenient waste of time. He would often grumble that he had two college degrees, yet he was expected to know carpentry, too. He was too busy to be bothered, she’d always reasoned, hating to see him spend his precious few hours of free time on tedious tasks. Rather than bringing things to his attention, she would attempt the repair herself or call a repair service, with Jason none the wiser.