I’ve got a hell of a lot better cull shoot than Tom Bradley,” he said, pulling her close to his side. “I know which fillies to keep and which to let go. Come on, Magpie. Let’s find us a quiet place to sit.”
They stayed only for dinner and a dance, long enough to make a gracious showing, then Maggie and Jake left and drove home.
As they strode across her parking garage toward the elevator, Maggie winced. She should have opted for the expensive black heels, rather than the fashionable strappy sandals she’d purchased to go with her evening dress. While they waited for the door to open, she curled her toes, trying to eliminate the pain her new shoes had caused.
“What’s the matter?” Jake asked.
The fact that he’d picked up on her discomfort surprised her, but in the past, he’d always been in tune with her feelings. Apparently, he was just as discerning now. How was that possible?
Tom had always been too wrapped up in himself to give much notice to Maggie. In the evenings, he’d always asked for a head-and-neck rub, stating how stressful his day had been. Maggie’d had plenty of stressful days, but she’d never asked for any special attention.
“Just an uncomfortable pair of shoes,” she said, not wanting to complain. “It’s no big deal.”
They rode the elevator up to the fifth floor, and she led the way to the little apartment she called a temporary home.
Jake took the key from her hand and unlocked the door. “Go inside and make yourself comfortable.”
She’d intended to, but his suggestion took her aback. It had a slight, seductive sound to it. Or maybe he was just being nice, and her imagination had read seduction into his words.
This was Jake, her old friend, she again reminded herself. But the ex-rodeo star had, according to his sister, acquired more than his share of gold buckles along with a host of female fans eager to join his fan club.
Loyal childhood friend or sexy ladies’ man? She tried to reconcile the two images, but found it difficult.
“Take off your shoes,” he said, his voice intoxicatingly smooth, like a velvety shot of whiskey.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m going to give you a foot massage.” He bolted the door, which gave her an odd, anticipatory sensation, one that was sexually charged, at least on her part. Surely, he didn’t mean to seduce her, because she wasn’t sure how much of a struggle she’d put up. And a one-night stand with an old friend would certainly complicate her life.
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll be all right, once I get out of these shoes.” She dropped her purse onto one of the barstools that faced the mirrored bar in the living room, then removed the sandals that had blistered her feet and placed them in the seat, next to her evening bag. “I’ll be fine as soon as I can run around barefoot.”
Jake slipped off his suede jacket and draped it over the sofa. Then he removed his bolo tie and undid the top buttons on his shirt, revealing a dark patch of chest hair. She really shouldn’t stand there and stare at him, but she couldn’t remember when she’d last watched a man undress and found it so interesting, so arousing. So tempting.
He strode toward the living-room window and gazed out at the brightly lit Boston skyline. Her interest followed his. Stars glittered in the sky, offering a magical ambiance that she’d never known the plain apartment had.
“It’s a pretty view,” he said, “if you like big city sights.”
“You’re right.” Maggie studied the evening panorama, amazed that she hadn’t noticed it before.
He turned slowly, then his gaze swept over her, lingering, it seemed, upon her face. She brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. What did he see? What was so interesting?
She cleared her throat. “Would you like to have something to drink? Coffee? An after-dinner liqueur?”
He studied her as though the offer had surprised him. She wasn’t sure why. It seemed a friendly thing to suggest, even though she’d already drank more this evening than she had the past year.
“I guess you finally acquired a taste for alcohol,” he said.
“Not really. I enjoy an occasional glass of wine.”
“And champagne,” he said with a lazy smile.
“Only when someone fills my glass.” She nodded toward the mirrored bar that graced the sunken living room. “The liquor belonged to Tom, but he left it behind when he moved out. He and Rhonda are on a health kick, so he says. I’ll probably pour it all out rather than pack it all up and move it again.”
He nodded sagely, as though he understood much more than she’d told him. He’d always had an amazing ability to read a person, to reach under the surface. She wondered what he saw in her.
“How about a glass of wine?” he asked. “I’ve never been partial to fancy liqueurs.”
“Sure. I hope you like a dry white. It’s all I have.”
She started toward the kitchen, but he strode forward and placed a hand upon her shoulder to still her steps. “Don’t bother, Maggie. I’ll get it. Just take a seat in the easy chair.”
He’d already reached the kitchen and had begun opening the cupboards before she could argue.
“Wineglasses are in the dining-room hutch,” she said. “And a bottle is chilling in the fridge.”
In no time at all, he’d prepared two drinks, then brought one to her. He nodded toward the chintz-covered easy chair and matching ottoman. “Now, sit down and put your feet up.”
She should have declined, but for some reason, a foot massage sounded incredibly nice. And luxurious. She padded across the room and took a seat, sinking into the softness of the chair Tom hadn’t liked.
Jake handed her a glass of wine, then straddled the ottoman. His knees corralled her feet. “Do you have any lotion?”
Kama Sutra oil came to mind, but she quickly whisked the naughty thought away. If she wasn’t careful, she’d embarrass them both with some crazy suggestion that would screw up a perfectly good friendship. No pun intended.
Good grief, she’d thought about sex more this evening than she had in the past year. What was it about Jake that made her mind stray in a sexual direction? Was it because the sensual cowboy knew how to treat a lady? Or was it her own fascination and curiosity?
“You have pretty feet. They’re soft and smooth. I like the polish.”
“I just had a pedicure,” she said, as though needing an explanation. “Because of the strappy sandals.”
“I hope you tipped her well. She did a great job.”
As he kneaded her foot, she found herself slipping back into the softness of the chair. She closed her eyes, relishing each deft movement of his fingers, his thumbs. And suddenly she wanted his hands to continue up her leg. The massage, at least in her mind, had turned into a sensual rub. And if it hadn’t felt so darn good, she would
