Closing his eyes as he shut the passenger door on her and the view of her bare, slender legs, he allowed himself a groan. If only he hadn’t broken things off with Tamara, she would be his date tonight.
Tamara and her palpable hopes for a happily-ever-after life story, with him starring as the male lead.
It was why he’d been forced to end what had been pleasantly pleasant enough. When she’d started making noises about shared vacations and opportunities to meet her parents, he’d felt honor-bound to halt her building expectations. He just didn’t think that type of happy ending was written into the Carlo Milano movie script.
Not that he didn’t believe in happy endings. He’d seen his sister and many of his friends successfully couple up. Not for a minute did he doubt their commitments to their lovers. He went to each wedding wishing them all the best.
But at one wedding… At one wedding he’d started letting go of the notion of a lifelong romantic partnership for himself.
Then, when he’d lost his police partner to an unfair and untimely murder…he’d been certain he was destined to do the life thing solo.
Not to mention it just seemed simpler that way.
“La Jolla isn’t in this direction,” piped up the young beauty beside him. “I thought you said the party was in La Jolla.”
He kept his focus out the windshield instead of glancing again at the blonde wrapped in salsa that was little Lucy Sutton all grown-up. Curse whatever combination of curiosity and kindness had prompted him to ask her out in the first place.
Kindness.
Right. The truth was, the water-cooler incident in the break room had snapped something inside of him. One moment he’d been remembering her as a bubblegum-popping tweenie, the next he was seeing her as a woman. Desirable. Beddable.
Though not available, of course. Not available to him, anyway. There were several reasons that made that a fact: she was an old family friend and almost like a little sister to him; her brothers were among his best friends and would beat him to a pulp if he and Lucy hooked up and he ended up hurting her; and he’d never forgive himself if—when—that very likelihood came to pass.
Still, aware of all that, he’d opened his big mouth and extended the invitation.
So here he was with Lucy. Desirable. Beddable.
Pure trouble.
His years as a street cop, then as a detective, then as a security expert had finely honed his instincts, and his instincts said she was mischief in the making. Lucy Sutton wearing that dress and looking like that in it was going to be up to her curvy hips in trouble tonight if he didn’t stay on the ball.
“Carlo?”
He sighed. “We’re making a stop before the party.” Thank God. Anything to minimize the amount of time he’d have to be on guard-dog patrol. “You wouldn’t by any chance dislike loud music and large crowds?”
He caught her grin out of the corner of his eye. “I love loud music and large crowds.”
“Figures,” he grumbled.
She laughed. “Why are we going, then, if you dislike the party scene so much?”
“You know. It’s a work obligation.” His calendar bulged with them. In a convention town that was also home to major league sports teams and that hosted big-name golf tournaments, as well as big-star rock concerts, McMillan & Milano’s services were in constant demand. “The company’s in charge of security for the Street Beat festival three weeks from now and I’ve got to put in an appearance and do the good ol’ grip-and-grin for at least a few minutes.”
Fewer than few, if he could get away with it. If Lucy Sutton had rattled him, not only a family friend but a man known as Mr. Keep-It-Light-and-Loose, what effect might she have on males who were actively prowling?
He shook his head. She was heading for trouble, all right.
Flipping his car’s signal indicator, he turned right into the driveway of a well-maintained two-story, his gaze noting that the landscaping crew was keeping the hedges manicured and the lawns fertilized per his orders. The porch light added a cheery brightness to the entry, complete with a wreath of dried fall foliage on the front door.
“Come in with me,” he suggested to Lucy. “You’ve met Germaine McMillan before, haven’t you? I said I’d stop by and take care of a minor repair for her.”
Again, he kept his eyes off Lucy’s legs as she exited the car. But he couldn’t keep her light scent away from his nose as they waited for Germaine to answer the ringing doorbell. The fragrance had caught his attention in the break room at the office, too, and remembering that brought back that quick flash he’d had of her plump, pretty breasts rising from the white lace cups of her bra.
To distract himself from the memory, he ran his hand over the molding around the doorjamb. Good. The paint was tight.
For some damn reason, so the hell were the muscles south of his waistline.
He could have kissed Germaine for choosing that instant to open the door. Actually, he did kiss her, an obligatory peck on her soft cheek that dimpled as he moved away and brought his companion forward.
“Do you remember Lucy Sutton?” he asked his partner’s widow. “I’m sure you’ve met her before, as well as various other members of the Sutton family over the years.”
“Of course!” Germaine appeared delighted by the company, which was part of the reason why he’d scheduled the stop. Like the landscaping, he could have hired out the minor repair. But without children or grandchildren of her own, Carlo knew the older woman enjoyed his visits. Just as he’d felt obligated to keep Patrick McMillan’s name as part of the security firm the two of them had dreamed up before Pat’s death, Carlo felt obligated to be the family Germaine didn’t have. “Can I get you two some coffee and dessert?” she asked.
They followed her into the immaculate living room, where fresh vacuum trails showed clearly on the cream carpet. “Nothing for me, thanks,” Lucy replied. “We’re on our way to a party.”
Germaine sat down on the floral couch and Lucy followed suit. “I shouldn’t be keeping the pair of you, then.”
Carlo waved his hand. “There’s no rush. We have plenty of time. The party’s bound to be boring, anyway.” And Lucy would be a whole lot easier to watch over among the flower fields that were Germaine’s upholstered furniture than she would be at a party filled with rock musicians, businessmen and media types.
“Oh, you,” Germaine scolded. “A man your age should enjoy a little nightlife.”
Lucy leaned toward her. “We’re not even there yet and he’s already grumping about the music being too loud. Who knew what a fuddy-duddy he’d turn out to be?”
“Fuddy-duddy?” He frowned at her. Fuddy-duddy? For some reason the teasing jab ignited his usually cool temper. “Is that what you think? But coming from someone dressed in nothing more than a scanty pair of handkerchiefs, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Lucy’s
