Terms Of Engagement. Kylie Brant
Lindsay, his look of contrition as insincere as that of a ten-year-old altar boy caught sampling the sacramental wine. “The stuffing and the beard were hot. I normally wear shirts. Almost always.” He paused, as if to reconsider, then corrected, “At least a lot of the time.”
Because she was feeling a little warm herself, Lindsay picked up her beer and drank. And took the time to remind herself of all the reasons she’d sworn off men just like Jack Langley.
He fairly sizzled sex appeal. Anyone with a pair of X chromosomes was bound to respond to it. And it didn’t hurt that she had an up close and personal view of his rock-solid build, which had no resemblance to the real Santa’s. She’d never given it much thought, but she doubted Jolly Old St. Nick had ever had such broad shoulders, muscled arms, or that washboard belly. Which was a real pity for Mrs. Claus.
But…Lindsay was through looking for thrills. In life, and in men. Safe, solid and secure were the new parameters of her life. And if that equated with dull and dreary…well, at least it kept her alive.
There was nothing remotely safe about Jack Langley.
She set her bottle down and listened politely as the other three talked shop. Despite what she’d said earlier, she remembered everything Jolie and Dace had ever said about the half-naked man sitting next to her. Specifically that he and Dace went way back. That he was a detective like her two friends, assigned to the same SWAT squad. He wasn’t a negotiator like Dace and Jolie but was one of the guys who entered the building when an assault became necessary. An adrenaline junkie, she figured, watching him as he conversed. The kind who thrived on danger and risk. The kind who hadn’t yet found out that excitement carried its own risk and all too easily could turn deadly.
“Doesn’t matter.” Jack lifted a shoulder and reached for his beer. And it was annoying to find herself more focused on that expanse of bare skin than on his words. “I’m cleared for duty, and our squad’s in line for the next incident. Don’t worry about me, I’m ready.”
“What happened?” The words were out of Lindsay’s mouth before she could stop them.
“He was injured in that explosion at the Metrodome a few months ago,” Jolie informed her, her gaze still on Jack. There was a slight furrow between her eyes that indicated Jack hadn’t completely alleviated her concern.
“Hurt my leg, but it’s healed.” Jack picked up one of the sadly wrinkled drink umbrellas from the table in front of him and reached over to tuck it in Lindsay’s hair. “Nothing to worry about. But if you’d like to kiss it better, I could be persuaded to drop my Santa britches and show you the wound on my thigh.”
The dare in his words was reflected by that wicked glint in his eye. The invitation should have sounded sleazy. But somewhere along the line, probably by grade school, he’d mastered the art of delivering a line with enough humor to engage rather than repel.
Lindsay definitely did not want to find him engaging.
“I’m going to say thanks…but no,” she drawled, eliciting laughter from Dace and Jolie. She couldn’t prevent a smile at the crestfallen expression Jack affected. He might be—how had Jolie described him?—something of a player, but at least he didn’t seem to take himself too seriously. Relaxing a bit, she took another sip of beer. There were worse ways to spend an evening than chatting with friends with a half-naked hunk by her side.
Since looking was about all the action she allowed herself these days, what was the harm in treating herself to a little eye candy for the next couple hours?
Two hours and two beers later, Lindsay had the belated answer to that question.
Harm was an abstract concept.
The time spent in his company had only fanned her slumbering hormones to an unwelcome simmer, which was definitely a waste, because there was no way she was going to indulge them. It would have been simpler if she could dismiss Jack as just another good-looking guy with a smooth line and easy banter. But the affection Jolie and Dace had for him was evident. And he was amusing, whether trading good-natured barbs with Dace or directing humorous asides to her.
It was almost enough to lull her well-honed instincts into believing Jack Langley was harmless, and that would have been a mistake. Lindsay was perceptive enough to see the toughness beneath the charm and smart enough to steer clear of both.
To distract herself from the stab of regret that thought brought, she focused on her friends across the table. Jolie was as guarded as Lindsay was herself, which was why it had taken weeks after their initial meeting outside the restaurant for Lindsay to learn the woman’s occupation. By then it had been too late for that inner shrill of alarm. They’d been solidly on the way to becoming friends. Jolie had told Lindsay enough about her and Dace’s past to make Lindsay doubly happy for the plans they were making for their future. The thought of not being around for their wedding this spring brought a pang, but there was always the possibility that she could come back for it.
Panic stabbed through her at the errant thought. Once she moved on, she never went back. Not ever. She didn’t use the same identity twice or even stay in the same state. Doing the unexpected had kept her alive this long. She couldn’t alter her strategy now.
Troubled, she rubbed at the condensation on the bottle with her thumb. This was why it was best to have no lasting relationships. Ties elicited emotion. Emotion fogged logic. Made it difficult to leave and start over.
But starting over had long since lost the appeal it had once held.
“Jolie says you’re a cook at Piper’s.” Jack’s husky baritone sounded in her ear. “Maybe you’d like to go out somewhere you can order a meal you don’t have to prepare.” At her silence, he lifted a lazy black brow. “I’ll wear a shirt, I promise. And I do have clothes that aren’t red and trimmed with fur.”
“For the department’s sake, that’s good to know.” She met his gaze, far more tempted than she should have been. “But I don’t think so.”
He studied her. “Still holding that Barbie–G.I. Joe screwup against me? I can make that up to you this Christmas. I won’t let the elves near the package this time. Promise.”
Her lips curved. He was far too likable for his own good. “I’m not going to sleep with you.” Her hormones sent up a disappointed chorus. But she didn’t make decisions based on her hormones these days, so they were easily ignored. Mostly. “And I’m not your type, anyway.”
“What type do you think that is?”
“The type that will sleep with you.”
He grinned, a quick flash of white teeth. “And if I reserve the right to try and change your mind about that?”
“Then you’ll be wasting both our time.” With more regret than she cared to show, she stood. “Will you excuse me for a few minutes?” Without waiting for a response, she picked up her purse and wound her way through the full tables to the restroom at the back of the bar. She fully expected Jack to be gone when she returned to the table. He didn’t strike her as the type of guy to hang around after a rejection.
And she’d been issuing rejections for far too long for this one to be causing her so much regret.
But even though she lingered in the restroom far longer than necessary, Jack was still seated at their table when Lindsay came out. Seeing him, she stopped, indecisive. Maybe he needed a little more time to grow bored and move on. As if in response to her thoughts, a woman wearing what looked to be the top of Jack’s Santa outfit sauntered over to him and draped an arm around his neck, planting an enthusiastic kiss on his mouth.
Saved by the Santa slut. Turning, she made her way for the back door, intent on delaying her return to the table a bit longer. Give him the amount of time it took to get a breath of fresh air, and he’d be gone. She’d lay odds on it.
And she was suddenly desperately in need of fresh air.
Moments later she was standing outside in the shadows. After the press of bodies