Wendy Etherington - Can't Help Falling In Love

“I’m kidding,” he said, as if he sensed her unease. “But wear a dress.” He kissed the side of her neck, just below her ear. “And the purple undies.”

She shivered. God, the man knew how to proposition. He was assuming a great deal about the outcome of their dinner, she supposed, but his tendency to push the limits was part of his charm.

“How about a skirt?” she suggested, not about to give him total control over this date, though he seemed to have commandeered—temporarily, of course—her hormones.

“And the undies?”

Smiling, she waggled her finger at him. “My undies, young man, are none of—”

The alarm above the door jangled.

Skyler jumped away from Jack as if she’d just grabbed a hot frying pan.

Mrs. Markenson—a regular customer and cousin to the mayor—sailed through the doorway, her sixteen-year-old daughter trailing in her wake.

Jack, damn him, discretely stroked her side and whispered, “Relax, chère. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Nothing, absolutely nothing about Jackson Phillipe Tesson was safe.

“Good afternoon, Skyler,” Mrs. Markenson said, nodding her perfectly styled and highlighted head of light brown hair. “I need to find something appropriate for the church picnic for Christine.” She pushed her giggling, blushing daughter, whose wide blue gaze was riveted to Jack, forward.

“Absolutely.” Skyler approached her customers. “I have some trendy new styles for teens.”

Mrs. Markenson wrinkled her nose. “Nothing too stylish, I hope.”

Skyler resisted the urge to groan. More girls in living room drapery fabric—just what the world needed. “Of course not.” As they moved toward the back of the store, she took the opportunity to introduce her customers to Jack. The momentary distraction gave her time to wonder what semitrendy top or skirt she had in her back room that would flatter Christine without offending her mother.

“We’re so happy to have you in Baxter,” Mrs. Markenson was saying. “I’m on the council, you know.”

Yes, we know, Skyler echoed. We also know if you found out about the latest shipment of edible underwear, I’d be out on my purple-undie-clad ass.

Jack, of course, was smooth as glass. “I’m honored you show such confidence in me, madame.”

Mrs. Markenson actually blushed at the French form of address.

“We’re planning an exciting Fourth of July celebration,” Jack continued.

Skyler frowned. She’d forgotten about his appointment to the same committee as her. How was that going to work after she told him they could have one and only one date? As Christine giggled beside her, she waved aside this concern for the moment. Happy customers first. Concern for love life second.

After securing Christine and her mother in a large dressing room with several modest, solid-color dresses and a few skirts and tops, she jerked her head toward the door. “You’re distracting my customers,” she said to Jack. “Out you go.”

“Me?” he had the nerve to ask, eyes all innocent.

She shoved his shoulder. “Yes, you. And don’t give me that wicked-but-innocent grin of yours. I have a business to run.” She held open the door. “Out.”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the opening. “What grin?” he asked before producing the distracting expression.

Good grief but he was sexy. She half considered hopping on that sleek, black motorcycle parked at the curb, driving away with him, where no inhibitions existed, and she could ease the hunger clawing at her body.

Wait a freaking minute. Sleek, black motorcycle?

She groaned. “Don’t tell me—the motorcycle is yours, isn’t it?”

He threw one long leg over the seat. “Course, chère. Wanna ride?”

“No, no—” it does look kind of cool, her libido prodded “—absolutely not,” she said firmly, striding toward him. He looked so perfect, so right, so dangerous sitting astride the bike, she had to suppress a moan of longing. And of course he wanted her to wear a dress. Wouldn’t that be just like a man to satisfy his prurient fantasies by having her straddle him—she had to fight back another moan—with her dress hiked up to her thighs?

“We can’t go out to dinner on that,” she said, her voice high and tight. She hoped she hadn’t offended him, but the clash between sensible and risky was overwhelming her senses to the point of irrationality.

“I’ve got a car, ange. We’ll save the motor for our second date.” He kicked the engine over, and the street beneath Skyler’s feet vibrated. “See you Friday,” he mouthed just before he dropped a black helmet over his head and roared away.

Skyler stomped her foot in frustration. There wasn’t going to be a second date, much less one on that rolling organ donor. As she turned to enter her shop, it occurred to her that she was trying to get a dangerous man to play it safe.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah, Sky. That’ll work.”

FRIDAY NIGHT, Jack slid into the seat next to Skyler just as the mayor called the Independence Day Committee meeting to order. “What’s the emergency?”

“I have no idea,” she whispered back. She shrugged her shoulder—bare except for her dress’s bright pink spaghetti strap. The rest of the thigh-skimming dress clung to her curves and matched perfectly with her heeled sandals and toenail polish.

Delicious. He considered dropping a kiss on her icy pastel pink lips, but knew public affection was definitely a move in the wrong direction. He focused on positive thoughts. Their date might be a secret, but she’d prepared carefully for the event. Definite good sign. In the past few days, he’d managed to dispel the niggling spark of worry that she didn’t want to be seen with him. She was worried about his job. She cared. Her motives were sweet. She wasn’t using her brothers as an excuse. She didn’t have to remind him of the “good girls” in high school, who flirted with him on Saturday nights, then ignored him during school, where he’d certainly not been a part of their clique.

“Okay, people,” the mayor said, rising from behind his desk. “I know it’s Friday night, and I know y’all have plans, but we’ve got ourselves a crisis.”

Eyes wide, Jack had a hard time concentrating on the man’s serious tone. Mayor Franklin Collins was dressed as Elvis—the Vegas years—in a white-sequined jumpsuit, gold necklaces and huge rings on his fingers. The First Lady didn’t disappoint in complementing her husband. She had the voluptuous figure, exaggerated makeup and headdress of a Vegas showgirl.

Jack leaned close to Skyler’s ear, inhaling the sweet, flowery scent clinging to her skin before he asked, “What’s with the costumes?”

Before she could answer, a male voice called out, “Hold on, honey.” Roland swished into the room. At least Jack thought it was Roland. He wore glamour-girl makeup, a blond wig and a gold-sequined evening gown, so only the voice was recognizable. The pet store owner waggled his fingers in Skyler’s direction as he crossed the room.

Jack glanced from the mayor, to his wife, then back to Roland. He asked Skyler, “Did I miss a dress code meeting?”

“No.” She met his gaze, her blue eyes twinkling. “The mayor’s an Elvis fanatic, and Roland performs at a local bar on the weekends. His act is a riot, sort of Ru Paul meets Tony Bennett.”

“These are the people who voted against a lingerie shop?”

“No,” she whispered back. “The mayor only votes if there’s a tie, which there definitely wasn’t. Roland was my only supporter. The rest of the committee—led by two Baptist deacons—trounced the idea.”

The mayor waited while Roland arranged himself in his chair, crossing his unshaven legs. “Could we get back to the problem at hand?”