Summer Attractions Page 5

  “I do a lot of that now,” Kimber said. “Who do you have to pretend to like?”

  Pretending to like Gabe wasn’t the problem; if she was being honest, that she liked him at all was the real issue, but Kimber didn’t need to hear the whole story. “A guy who’s supposed to be keeping an eye on me while I’m here in Rio,” Jemma confided. “He thinks he gets to go everywhere I go. It’s really annoying.”

  Kimber grimaced. “That sounds terrible,” she said. “Is he even nice?”

  Not really, but he’s hot, was right on the tip of Jemma’s tongue, but instead she said, “He’s not awful.”

  “Not awful. What a compliment.” Kimber seemed amused so Jemma kept going. Seeing her smile was so reassuring, even though Jemma couldn’t quite put her finger on why. She’d just met this girl; even though she sympathized with her situation, she would hardly call them friends. Yet, anyway.

  “He thinks he’s real hot shit,” Jemma said.

  “Is he hot?” Kimber asked, and Jemma flushed.

  “He’s not unfortunate,” she admitted. “Passable, I’d say.”

  “Another huge compliment,” Kimber smirked. “Is he going to be mad you left today?”

  “Oh, he’ll be pissed.”

  “So will my mom,” Kimber groused, that melancholy edge returning to her voice.

  “What colleges did you apply to?” Jemma asked, not caring if it was an obvious distraction or if the answer was easily googleable.

  Kimber named a number of schools in Southern California. “But I really want to go to Stanford,” she said wistfully.

  Jemma didn’t mention that her alma mater was one of Stanford’s major rivals. Also the Stanford Tree was just weird. “Home of a lot of great student athletes,” Jemma said. “Including Andrew Luck.”

  “But he’s not hot like Colin O’Connor,” Kimber said with a pensive sigh.

  Jemma was doubly glad that she hadn’t mentioned where she’d gone to school or who her best friend was. Like a wimp, she changed the subject.

  “It looks like it’s cleared out a bunch. I bet nobody will recognize you if we go take a bunch more pictures.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Jemma said, crossing her fingers mentally.

  And it turned out that they were. Everyone had eyes for the statue and the view from the top of the mountain and ignored Jemma and Kimber. Kimber even took off her sunglasses and shook her hair out, eyes sparkling in the sunshine. She hammed for the camera, and Jemma was excited about how cute some of the pictures were. She hoped that someday the world—but mostly Julia Holloway—would be able to see the joy in Kimber’s eyes at being free, even for one measly day.

  When it came time for Jemma to take the tram back to the hotel, Kimber reached out and hugged her tight. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I needed this.”

  Jemma squeezed her even tighter. “You have my number. I promise to help if I can.”

  “You don’t have to,” Kimber said softly.

  “But I want to,” Jemma insisted. “You’re my friend now, and friends help friends.”

  Kimber’s eyes shone. “Good luck with your not-hot bodyguard.” Her smirk told Jemma just how unsubtle she had been. And also casually reminded her how much trouble she was going to have dealing with him when she got back.

  Jemma dreaded the moment she was going to come face to face with Gabriel the whole trip back to the hotel. She dawdled a bit outside and even thought about sitting down at the café and having lunch, but it was very busy and she didn’t feel much like waiting in line.

  Better to go upstairs, she decided, and face the music, rather than let the anticipation ruin what might otherwise be a delicious lunch, now that her hangover had passed and her appetite was back.

  Jemma made it to the elevator, then to her floor, and took a deep breath before sliding the key into the slot. Opening the door, she was dismayed to come face to face with an image of Gabriel leaning against the desk, his arms crossed over his broad chest and a storm of a glare on his face.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded as she closed the door behind her. Jemma set her purse down on the bed and busied her hands toying with the leather strap so he wouldn’t see that they were trembling a little.

  “I went for a walk,” she explained.

  He waved a hand, shoving her explanation to the side. “I thought I made it very clear. You aren’t going anywhere without me. Not a single step without me attached to your hip. It’s not safe.”

  “I was perfectly safe.” If Jemma was being completely honest with herself, she would much rather be arguing about her safety than about what had happened last night.

  “Wait,” Gabe said, his whole body freezing, and Jemma experienced a sudden, very inconvenient, quite visceral flashback of his muscles tensing under her hands. “This wasn’t about last night, was it? You weren’t running away, were you?”

  Jemma lifted her chin stubbornly. His incredulity certainly didn’t make it any easier to admit the truth, especially not when he was giving her that snooty judgmental look that hadn’t reappeared since he’d first picked her up.

  “Running away?” she asked incredulously. “I wanted to go to Christ the Redeemer so I went. You’re not my keeper or my boss.”

  His face grew harder, tougher, the disapproval etched into deep lines. It was hard for her to believe this angry totalitarian was the same man as the one who’d put his hands on her hips and had taught her to move with the music. Jemma didn’t like it at all.

  “You know when I told you that you weren’t going anywhere without me? That wasn’t a suggestion or sometimes or a pickup line. I meant it.”

  Jemma felt her stomach drop to the bottom of her feet. “I never thought it was a pickup line.”

  She hadn’t. Maybe some of what he’d done and said later, but damn it, if he kept this up, she was going to get pissed. She was already embarrassed, now bordering on humiliated, and he wouldn’t stop shoving her face in it. If he didn’t quit, she was going to lose her temper, and nothing good ever came out of that.

  Like that time when the locker room rumors of she and Colin dating had reached a fever pitch, and she’d snapped and posted up flyers with her picture, a fake eHarmony ad, and her phone number.

  Certainly not her finest moment. But the players on Colin’s team had finally agreed that if she was secretly dating Colin, she wouldn’t be trolling for a boyfriend. She’d had to change her number after a few days of prank calls, but it had been worth it to get rid of the persistent gossip.

  “You’re way too impetuous,” Colin had complained later. “I was going to take care of it.”

  “Eventually,” Jemma had snapped back in one of the few arguments they’d ever had. “So I took care of it first.”

  The truth was, she hadn’t liked the idea of waiting around for Colin to show up on his pseudo white steed to save her. She’d liked the idea of saving herself. And the idea of Gabriel never letting her out of his sight didn’t sit right with her either. She hadn’t liked the idea when he’d first suggested it, and sleeping together hadn’t changed her mind on that point. Yes, that technically wasn’t why she’d snuck out that morning, but the point remained. She didn’t like it, and that wasn’t likely to change no matter how many times they had sex.

  “I told you it wasn’t a pickup line,” Gabe admitted with a grimace. As if somehow catching him being a dick was worse than him being a dick. Jemma felt the tether on her temper beginning to fray.

  “I think we should discuss when your presence is necessary,” Jemma suggested as diplomatically as she could, hoping the discussion could be salvaged before it devolved into an argument. Already anger simmered hot and ready inside of her, and the look on Gabe’s face kept getting colder, until she imagined he might freeze to the floor. She felt like a volcano and he looked like Antarctica.

  It was not a stellar combination.

  “This isn’t a negotiation,” he replied, his expres
sion continuing to drop in temperature.

  “I will sneak out on you every chance I get!” slipped out of Jemma’s mouth before she could grab it back.

  Gabe’s mouth opened and then snapped shut again. His gaze narrowed on her, and he raised himself from where he’d been leaning, tense but relaxed, against her dresser.

  He took a step forward, and she took a step back. If she’d been a fraction less aggravated, she might have thought it was funny how even now, they were still moving in sync.

  But as it was, she just wanted him to stop him from moving closer to her, because whenever he did that, she couldn’t think straight. All she could remember were flashes of the night before, snippets of sense memories that reminded her how much fun they’d had together and how much of an asshole he was being now.

  He took another step toward her. Some women might have felt threatened or menaced by the cold angry gleam in his eye, but less than twelve hours ago they’d been together on her bed, and there’d been passion and respect and gentleness in him. She couldn’t buy the façade he was selling.

  It just pissed her off.

  “All you had to do was wake me up,” Gabe ground out. “Instead, you snuck out, like . . .like. . .”

  Like I was embarrassed, Jemma’s uncooperative mind completed for her.

  “Like you had something to hide. Like you had something to prove,” he finished instead.

  “Like I had to show you up?” Jemma asked insolently, raising an eyebrow. “Let’s face it, your presence with me isn’t required. You’ve decided, from some misguided obligation to my boss, that it’s your job to keep me safe. But it isn’t. You aren’t needed.”

  Jemma couldn’t help but see his arm muscles flex once, then again, as he clenched his fists together. Later, she wasn’t sure why she’d decided it was such a good idea to prod the angry beast, but she’d stepped forward anyway, sensing she’d gained the upper hand in the situation.

  But she hadn’t. She hadn’t at all, because as soon as he was close enough to him, she could smell him, and the sensory flashbacks were stronger than ever. She could remember biting him just there, on the ridged muscle next to his collarbone. She could remember the way he’d looked with his hair mussed, leaning over her, eyes glazed with pleasure. She could remember everything, and she wasn’t alone, because suddenly the air between them felt so thick she could have sliced it with a butter knife.

  “Not needed, huh?” he asked, and the smirk on his mouth was all it took for her to decide, again, that there was no other way to shut him (and also herself) up.

  She kissed him. She felt him freeze for a split second, as if he’d honestly not been expecting this to happen, but then whatever indecision he’d had seemed to melt away as kissed her back.

  This time there was no cachaça dulling her senses. She could feel every wiry ridge of muscle on his arms as she slid her palms up them, could feel the rasp of his scruff on her cheek as they kissed, each kiss deeper and each kiss one step closer to an inevitable second foray between the sheets.

  Gabe must have had the same thought she did because his hands moved to her butt, and after a brief caress along the curve, he picked her up. Jemma only had a second to react before she was on the bed again. It would have felt like déjà vu, but he was a fraction less gentle and she was definitely a fraction more sober than she’d been last night.

  She could have stopped him, could have said no, and she was a hundred percent certain he wouldn’t have proceeded, but she stayed quiet, and watched in the dull afternoon light as he stripped off his clothes first, then hers, efficiently and quickly.

  He hadn’t shaved that morning, the rasp of his beard trailing sensation and red patches on her pale skin in its wake. Jemma couldn’t let herself think of why that might be. Too hungover? Too lazy? Too worried? If she started down that path, she might empathize with his feelings, and she didn’t want any of that baggage. She only wanted to enjoy his snide remarks, how good he looked naked, and way his calloused fingers felt on her skin.

  She’d wondered if the alcohol had blurred her senses last night and that’s why everything had come so easily, why she’d been so turned on by the ways he’d touched her. But as his fingers skimmed over her skin insistently—breasts, hips, stomach, and finally coming to rest on her thighs—she knew it hadn’t been the caipirinhas. He was good and he knew how to touch her just the way she liked. She was wet when he finally slid fingers through her folds, arousal blooming at every nerve ending.

  He sank one, then two fingers, into her and she burned with it. He tugged the condom on with as much perfunctory movement as last night and with her incoherent pleading urging him on, thrust into her.

  It was rougher, the edge of his anger still present in the ways he touched her. He nearly manhandled her to get her at the right angle, in the right spot. Jemma pushed aside the twinge of embarrassment at how much she liked it and didn’t hold back either, letting her nails dig into the skin of his shoulders then his back. It felt good to not be careful; it felt even better to indulge in exactly what she wanted with no worry about what it all might mean.

  She let the last of the awkwardness and embarrassment burn out of her as he gave her everything she’d wanted—fast and uneven strokes that left her breathless and speechless. It was easy to care about her own pleasure when she didn’t care what he thought anymore, and she slid a hand down to touch herself. Jemma told herself she didn’t care that he groaned and snapped his eyes tightly shut when he saw her. But she couldn’t deny she liked affecting him as strongly as he affected her. He bellowed then, his mouth buried in her neck, his lips mouthing words into her skin as his hips stuttered and he orgasmed. It only took her a second longer, pulsing around him as she rode out her own high.

  Gabe collapsed into her, sweat dampening the skin of his back as she stroked up and down it, reassuring both him and herself.

  And unlike this morning, not once did she ask herself, what have you done?

  What have you done? Gabe asked himself, and why do you keep doing it?

  He’d never intended to sleep with Jemma the night before. As the evening had worn on, it had become obvious that they were attracted to each other, they were in increasingly close proximity, alcohol was involved and the kind of music that would’ve made a priest think of sex—but he’d told himself firmly, absolutely, that he would not be fucking Nick’s assistant on her first night in Rio.

  That was the best he was able to do. She was pretty—gorgeous, really—and easy to talk to. Funny and feisty and a bit like his mother’s cat, cautiously reaching out a paw to test the way the water felt, only to find itself jumping in despite the consequences of getting wet.

  He could sense that hunger in her. A hunger to know and to do and to see. To travel. To understand the way the world worked. Nick had the same hunger, lean and mean in his eyes most of time. It was the hunger that had driven him to make that ill-advised foray into the unpacified favela. He had no intention of letting that same hunger override any common sense Jemma had about her safety.

  It had seemed inevitable that they might eventually sleep together. They were here, thrown together, for the next three weeks. It would probably happen. But it didn’t have to happen right away. Unfortunately, he’d let her desire to experience everything Rio had to offer overwhelm all his good intentions.

  She didn’t seem to understand that all his anger and frustration came from a place of good faith—she only seemed determined to drive him mad.

  Gabe sank back into the bed, the condom disposed of, and offered her the cool, damp cloth in his hand. She took it this time with no blush, not even a hint of the embarrassment she’d shown last night. Or this morning, he corrected wryly. Because he’d come to realize that was almost certainly why she’d escaped this morning and ventured off alone. She’d been embarrassed.

  He was a little embarrassed himself. He usually had a lot more self-control, but she shredded it with barely any effort. He didn’t like it, and he liked even less
the possibility that she’d gotten to Colin O’Connor the same way.

  She wiped herself and laid back down on the bed, a contemplative expression on her face. “Well,” she said.

  He raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t read her as easily as he wanted to. As soon as he thought he’d gotten a handle on what she was thinking, she did something completely different. He’d never expected her to kiss him again, not after he’d woken up to an empty bed this morning. But she’d done it and he’d been helpless to resist.

  “I didn’t think we’d do that again,” she said, as if she could read his mind.

  He laughed, even though he should have felt uneasy that she’d said exactly what he’d been thinking.

  “Well,” he echoed her. “I didn’t really expect you.”

  She laughed too. A quiet, private laugh. He couldn’t help but be charmed.

  “I know you think it’s a ridiculous request. I know you think it’s unnecessary,” Gabe began again, because with her open and relaxed, he felt duty-bound to try again. To try to help her understand if something happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. “But would it be so bad to hang out with me for the next few weeks? We can even go to all the rhythmic gymnastics you want.”

  “Rhythmic gymnastics,” she pondered, rather than answer his request, “is that when they have the ball and the hoop and the bowling pins?”

  She earned another laugh from him. Three weeks with her and he would probably end up soft and fat. Right now, he was beginning to wonder why he should care.

  “I don’t think those are bowling pins,” he answered seriously, like she’d asked a serious question.

  “I think we’re going to have to go just to find out,” she said decidedly.

  Correction: By the time they returned to LA, he was going to be soft and fat and an expert on rhythmic gymnastics.

  “Does that mean. . .?” he dared to ask.

  Jemma shrugged her shoulder, her pale skin glowing in the afternoon sunlight flooding in through the window. He could see a pattern of freckles dusting her arm, and he wanted to touch each of them. With his tongue.