DirtyInterludes Page 7

“Who knows how many enemies you make? How many people have you thrown gnomes at lately?”

  Now she wished she’d packed a gnome and thrown it at Gillian. She briefly relished the image of Gillian going down from a knock to the head by a gnome.

  Max looked at her expectantly and she realized he’d asked her something.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “I have an air compressor. I could pump your tires for you.”

  Surprise made her lips part. “You’d help me?”

  He rubbed the back of his head, a wry twist to his lips. “It seems like a neighborly thing to do.”

  The irony of the situation brought a burst of laughter to her mouth. “Yes. It would. I would appreciate that.”

  He shut the door and Bridget returned to her car, packing her cello into the back. Max came across the lawn, still shirtless and lugging an air compressor behind him. Drool gathered in her mouth at the sight of his finely tuned muscles. It was wrong for a man to walk around with just track pants. He put the compressor down and crouched by a tire to attach the hose. The compressor flicked on with a loud burr and Max stood, hand on the hood.

  Close enough to catch his woodsy scent, she tried to ignore the arousal that flared to life. Goose bumps prickled and it wasn’t because of the cold. Wrapping her arms around herself, she took a step back, resenting his gorgeous body.

  “Aren’t you cold?” she asked.

  Max perched his hip on her car. “Nope.”

  “But I can see goose bumps on you.”

  He looked down at his arm then shrugged. “I grew up in Michigan. That’s cold. This is nothing.”

  “A bit far from home, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged the question off, then crouched to check the tire. “What the hell?”

  Bridget crouched beside him to stare at the tire. It looked fine to her, if still deflated. “What is it?”

  He ran his hand along the treads and dipped his head on a curse. Max cast her a searching look as though he couldn’t figure her out.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Your tires have been slashed.”

  “No. That can’t be right.”

  He grasped her hand in his warm and wonderfully smooth one. “Here.”

  The ragged edge of raised rubber was unmistakable. “Oh no.”

  Max stood, leaving her to learn the damage to her tire. The air compressor fell silent. Tears of frustration pinched at her eyes and she sniffled. How could Gillian do this? Dropping her hand, she checked the time. It was too late to call anyone to swing by to pick her up and she’d probably have to call a cab and that was more time she couldn’t afford. “I’m going to be late,” she mumbled.

  Calling a number, she started to organize for a pick-up.

  “I could drive you.”

  She paused and pressed the cell to her shoulder. “Pardon?”

  “You said you were going to be late. I could drive you.”

  Lungs expanded. “Are you sure?”

  One shoulder hitched up. “I got nothing better to do.”

  Relief weakened her knees and butterflies took flight in her stomach. “Oh thank you. I’ll give you money for gas.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get my keys and meet you by the garage.”

  She retrieved her cello and carried it over to his garage, a rendered structure separate from the house. Unlike hers, which had a simple carport. The Lexus chirruped and the trunk clipped open and she put her cello inside. Moving over to the passenger side, she slipped inside, the leather seat whispering as she sat. The car smelled of pine, men’s deodorant and something uniquely Max. Max clipped in, thankfully now wearing a sweater. “Where to?”

  She gave him the address and he typed it into the GPS. The car started with a smooth hum and he pressed his hand on the back of her seat as he reversed. Bridget’s heart did a crazy little hip-hop at the thought of him touching her. Clenching her knees together, she tried to call her desires under control.

  Jazz music rumbled through the speakers. Something that surprised her. She didn’t expect Max to have a sophisticated palate. Turned out she might’ve known less about him than she thought. They drove in silence and all she could think about were his hands. The hands pressed over the steering wheel. Every time he changed gears, her body would tremble with need. Being so close to him played havoc with her libido.

  Clearing her throat, she tried to think of something to say. “So…Michigan?”

  He glanced at her. “Yep.”

  “That’s…nice.”

  He grinned as he turned a corner. “Yep.”

  She shifted in her seat. “I didn’t know you liked jazz.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  Yes. “No. I mean, I thought maybe you’d like rock or something.”

  He grinned. “I like that too. But I prefer the old crooners.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I never fit in with everyone else liking the pop garbage.”

  Bridget giggled. “I can relate. Most people like me are expected to like Bach and Mozart and I do. But I also like the def metal stuff.”

  Eyes widened as he shot her a look of disbelief.

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “Yes. I mean, you’re… You portray someone a bit more conservative.”

  Years of ingrained behavior she couldn’t shake. “It’s how I was raised. My family is pretty conservative. Def metal was the equivalent of doing drugs to my parents. In my teens I was quite rebellious. Even had my own electro band.”

  Max chuckled. “Seriously?”

  Bridget folded her arms in defense. “Yes. We were pretty good. Got a few gigs early on. But…”

  Max cast her a questioning stare. “But?” he prompted.

  She shoved the dark weight of guilt. “It didn’t work out.”

  “That’s a shame. I’d have paid to see that.”

  “It probably isn’t your scene.”

  “Hey, I’d give anything to see you with a…cello between your thighs.”

  By his tone she knew he wasn’t talking about cellos. “I don’t sit for those types of things. It was a bit more freestyle. Less restrictive. It didn’t go anywhere though. It’s my guilty pleasure I suppose.”

  He chuffed out a sound. “Yeah, I guess we all have our guilty pleasures.”

  Yes and one of hers happened to be Max. She didn’t like to know he had layers. She liked to think of him as some sex-crazed fiend. That particular Max filled her fantasies and she dismissed him a bit more readily than the idea of the jazz-loving, considerate Max.

  They settled into a comfortable silence until he pulled up at their destination. He twisted toward her, hand on the back of her seat. “Do you need me to pick you up after you finish?”

  “Oh no. Thank you. But I think I can find someone to swing me home.”

  “All right.”

  Bridget exited the car and waved him off when he started toward the trunk. “I’ve got it.”

  Max hesitated but let her remove the cello herself. She glanced down at her watch. They’d made good time, but she was still late. Holding back the sharp disappointment, she pressed a hand over the churning in her stomach.

  “You all right?”

  A brittle smile pulled at her mouth. “Yes. Thank you for the lift.”

  Hurrying from him, she paused at the front door of the building to watch him drive away. The silver car glinted as he passed and she wandered inside. Music filled the auditorium and she rushed down the stairs toward the platform. The conductor turned his head toward her, his features pinched as she laid her case down to pull out her cello. The orchestra became discordant and stopped. Silence condemned her. Gripping the fingerboard she waited, unsure if she should slip into her seat. A seat currently taken by Gillian. A snarl started to pull at her lips, but she held it back.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. Car troubles.”

  The conductor stepped off the podium, his hand on the underside of her ar
m to draw her away from the others. She followed, her heart pounding against her rib cage. Frank eyed her over the top of his glasses. The kind of look someone would give when they were disappointed. It sliced right through her. She felt as if she were fifteen again and dealing with the disappointment of her parents.

  “This can’t go on, Bridget.”

  She tried not to shift on her feet. “I know. I assure you this won’t happen again.”

  “You worked hard to get the principal seat, but you seem distracted. Is there something I need to know?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at Gillian’s smirking face. “No. Nothing that I can’t handle.”

  “This is your final warning.”

  Gulping back her trepidation, she nodded. “I understand.”

  She followed Frank back to the orchestra and worked her way to her seat, which Gillian thankfully abandoned. Settling into position, she watched the conductor begin. Determined not to show Gillian had upset her, she worked hard to get every note change right. She pushed herself despite her sore fingertips.

  As they broke for a fifteen-minute break, she marched toward Gillian, who stood by the coffee machine. “What was that about?”

  Wide-eyed, Gillian faced her, stirring her cup. “What was what about?”

  Lips thinned. “You know what I’m talking about. I know you want my seat and that was a dirty move.”

  She shrugged, not denying it. “You weren’t here, so I don’t see the harm.”

  “I do, when you slashed my tires.”

  Gillian’s face scrunched in disbelief. “I didn’t slash your tires. You probably drove over something.”

  “Something that makes a four-inch gash on every single tire? I’m not stupid.”

  Gillian eyed her disdainfully. “I didn’t do anything to your tires. You should just accept the consequences of your actions and move on.”

  When she started around her, Bridget latched on to her shoulder, pulling her to a stop. “I’m not making this up. My neighbor had to drive me here. If it wasn’t you, then who else would it be?”

  Gillian glowered. “I don’t know. I don’t go around slashing tires.”

  “You want my seat.”

  “You might do something like that. But I’m above doing that, I let my work speak for itself.”

  Bridget stiffened at the carefully veiled insult while Gillian storm off. Breathing hard, she turned to find the other musicians staring at her as if she’d grown an extra head. She wasn’t making any of it up, but from the looks of a few people, they thought she was paranoid. Gillian had made her insane.

  Gathering her composure, she poured herself a drink, ignoring the way her hand trembled and the thundering of her heart. If what Gillian said was true, Bridget couldn’t think of anyone else who’d want to slash her tires. Max said it wasn’t him and for some reason she believed him. Even if it was him, why would he have given her a lift to work if he’d slashed her tires? Was it some type of ploy?

  Alex wandered up to her, his gaze flicking about the room. “What was that about?”

  Bridget sipped her coffee, anxiety tight in her stomach. “Someone slashed my tires.” She looked at him then, earnestly hoping he would believe her. “I’m not making it up.”

  “I believe you. Was it your neighbor?”

  “No. He tried to help and then drove me here. If it was him he wouldn’t have done a thing, would he?”

  Alex rubbed his forehead. “I understand you’re having it tough right now. But you really need to focus on your job. You can’t have a cohesive line if you’re fighting.”

  Bridget sighed. “I know.”

  “Look, take a breather and find a way to repair the cracks in your team.”

  “I was going to invite everyone to a wine-and-cheese get-together, but now…”

  “Do it. Remember, hold your friends close, but your enemies closer.”

  Bridget nodded, her gaze zeroed on Gillian. She’d find out her agenda and defeat her by keeping her seat.

  * * * * *

  Wineglasses clinked and laughter filled the room. The entire cello section sat in her living room and some in the kitchen as they chatted. The wine-tasting get-together had turned out wonderfully. Gillian had settled in the corner of the kitchen, talking with one of her confidants, but overall, her pull on the group was loosening. For the last few days, Bridget played smoothly and kept everything above board. She never mentioned that day again with Gillian and treated her with professional courtesy. And that perhaps was her saving grace. People weren’t as wary of her anymore. Frank didn’t find fault in anything she did.

  Things were starting to look up. Laughing at a story relayed by another cellist, she paused at a knock on the door. She opened it and all laughter ceased at the sight of two police officers on her porch.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Is your name Bridget?”

  “Yes.”

  “May we come inside?”

  Bridget waved them in, wondering what they could want. She glanced at her friends and shrugged.

  “Having a party are we?” The blond officer raised his brow in query.

  “Uh, I guess. Is it the noise?”

  The partition wall was thin, but she didn’t think she had the music too loud as to disturb Max.

  “Yes,” said the female officer. “There isn’t enough.”

  Music blared from a little boom box the woman had placed on the table. Confusion clouded her mind right up until the man ripped his shirt open. Women squealed and mortification made her stomach drop. The man gyrated as the woman sashayed about to focus on the other men. Jaw slack, she stood immobile as both strippers played to the room. Men cheered as the female stripper stepped on the coffee table, knocking a plate of fruit onto the floor, her dance moves overtly sexual.

  Bridget’s attention shifted to the women. Some had already dived for their purses and were waving dollar bills as if they were in some seedy stripper joint.

  “Stop!”

  The combination of music and cheers drowned out her voice. Hands over her cheeks, she shook her head in disbelief. What was supposed to be a calm, sophisticated night of socializing and bonding had turned into an orgy of screaming women and bug-eyed men.

  Max. His name exploded in her head like an erupting volcano.

  She squeezed through the tightly knit people and slapped her hand over the stereo. Both “officers” stopped dancing. Thank God. “Stop.”

  Her colleagues groaned.

  Hands in a placating gesture, she faced the two dancers. “Look, this is some kind of joke. I’m sorry, but you have to go.”

  “Don’t be such a party-pooper,” Harry said and slapped his hand over the boom box.

  It cranked out music and the crowd overpowered her protest. This was a disaster. They were supposed to be bonding. Not ogling half-naked people.

  Twisting away, she hurried from her house, closing the door behind her. The lights to Max’s house were on and she knocked on his door. It opened moments later, a question in his eyes.

  “You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?”

  Dark brows lowered. “What?”

  “You know every month I have a social get-together, and you send that to my door?”

  “That being?”

  “The strippers?”

  His hand covered his mouth, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “I forgot about that.”

  Bridget mimicked a laugh. Knowing on some level how stupid she probably looked. “I bet you think it’s funny. Well, it’s not.”

  “If I seem to recall, you did the same thing to me.” He opened the door wider. “Care to return the favor?”

  She rolled her eyes. “As if.”

  He angled his head as though listening for something in the distance. “Sounds like they’re having fun.”

  “It’s my colleagues. I’m trying to make an impression.”

  “Well, your impression obviously wasn’t working. Up until a few minutes ago, I wouldn’t ha
ve pegged you for having fun at all.”

  “Life isn’t always about sex and parties.”

  He leaned on the doorframe and folded his arms. “But it’s more fun that way.”

  She threw him a look of disgust and pointed to her house. “You can go over there and tell those strippers to leave.”

  “I don’t think I will. Think of it as a gift.”

  “A gift I don’t want. This isn’t funny. I thought we’d become friends.”

  He pushed off the door, eyes narrowed, a muscle leapt in his jaw. “Friends?” he bit off harshly.

  He stepped forward, his presence sucking the air from her lungs. Feet rooted to the ground, she could barely breathe as he surrounded her with his alpha aura. A finger traced her jaw to tip her chin up. His head dropped, warm air touching her cheek. He swayed infinitesimally, a dance so sexy in its subtlety. She followed him, wanting him to curve her body into his. To touch that ache inside her.

  “Is that what you think we are?” he whispered.

  She swallowed hard and managed a small nod.

  Moist lips brushed over hers, and the wet flick of his tongue touched the cusp of her mouth. Desire bloomed in the depths of her stomach and pinged between her thighs. Her thoughts of the strippers became wisps on the wind. Max’s fingers trailed over the arch of her ear and down her neck. Tingles followed after his touch. Hot breath skated over the flesh between her neck and collarbone. Instinctually, she turned her head, exposing herself to his kiss. She wanted to feel his tongue on her. Wanted him to touch her breasts. A hot flush built in her chest and her nipples ached with need. He ran his knuckle along the décolletage up to one shoulder and down again. Oxygen stalled in her lungs.

  A brief chuckle weighed with disbelief left him and he straightened. “People like you and me can never be friends,” he rasped, his voice derisive and beautiful.

  Reeling from the change of mood, she frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “We can’t be friends. Ever.”

  Bridget blinked, her breasts heavy and wanting his touch and yet he was denying her. Confusion fell under the pounding force of embarrassment.

  “Why?” Inwardly she cringed at the desperate note in her voice.

  He rubbed the back of his head, then exhaled through stiff lips. “Look, I got a hot date tomorrow and I don’t want to send you mixed messages.”