Whoa there!” Nikki held up her hands to keep Cole’s blur of a body from slamming into her. “In a hurry?”
Cole pressed his hands against his knees and exhaled a curse. “New. Client.”
“Aren’t you a runner?” she wondered out loud. “How are you out of breath?”
“Running.” He heaved, holding a finger in the air. “Sprinting.” Another curse as he exhaled. “Two very…different…beasts.” Standing to his full height, he gripped her by the shoulders and spoke slowly. “He’s deaf.”
“Huh?”
“He. Your next client. Horrible, um, train accident, he was a conductor, and you know how those careers are. Trains. Loud. Deafness.”
No. No, she didn’t know because he wasn’t making any sense. “A train conductor? Wow, now I’m curious, I wonder if—”
“Pay attention.” Cole cupped her face with both hands. “He’s extremely…sensitive about it, so don’t try engaging in conversation. Besides, he won’t be able to hear much except for mumbling, and mumbling makes him—”
“—sad?” she offered.
“Yes.” He sounded so relieved, she patted his shoulder. “So very sad. His poor wife just wants a nice vacation with him. Your job is to relax him, and do not, under any circumstances, speak.”
“Okay.” She drew out the word. “Can I head in there now? Or is there something else you aren’t telling me? Because you don’t sound like yourself.”
“How was the burrito?” His words tumbled out on top of one another.
“Burrito?” She frowned. “You mean the pasta?”
“Shit, pasta, yes, how was the pasta I sent you? Ha-ha, I must have had the burrito.” He coughed.
“Cole, seriously, what’s going on?”
“Busy afternoon.” He took a step back. “Remember, you’re mute.”
“Right. I’m mute, he’s deaf, if only I were blind. Oh, wait!” She snapped her fingers. And offered a sad smile.
“Very funny, now get in there.” He grabbed her hand and placed it on the door. She was surprised he didn’t slap her ass and say something like Go get ’em. Cole was acting weird. Very weird.
With an eye roll she knew he had to have seen if his snicker was anything to go off of, she opened the door and let it quietly close behind her.
And immediately she knew something was wrong. Her body went on high alert as a familiar scent invaded her nostrils.
With shaking hands, she willed her body to calm down. What were the odds? Besides, Cole would have said something—it wasn’t like he didn’t know every painful detail of her past.
And he’d been odd, but not pissed.
And if he’d seen Brant, talked to him, well, the cops would probably already have shown up, right?
She shook her head at her own idiocy and the stupid fluttering in her stomach at the thought of touching Brant again.
Running her hands down his smooth body.
Suddenly hot and aching in all the wrong places, she gritted her teeth and ran her hand along the arch of the man’s foot, before sliding it up his strong calf and pausing on the tightest ass she’d ever felt—and it was her job, touching bodies.
Would she get fired if she squeezed? Just once?
Bad Nikki!
She shook the errant thought away.
And just like that, the memory of Brant transformed into the feel of the man beneath her. What the hell was wrong with her? She’d never been tempted by a client.
Ever.
Clearing her throat, she worked her right hand from his ass to the dip of his lower back. What did the guy do in his spare time? Run until his shoes fell off? His muscles were lean, defined, toned.
And suddenly she found her treacherous bitch of a right hand sliding back toward his ass.
It was going to be a long massage.
* * *
She touched his ass.
Twice.
The second time wasn’t a mistake, was it? He sucked in a breath when her fingers dug into his already overheated skin. The sheet did nothing to protect him from the erotic way her fingers spread across his body.
Too bad his masseuse was mute; he’d at least tell her he didn’t mind if she lingered in those places if she kept touching him like that. Cole had written specific instructions in the itinerary, which Brant thought a bit weird, but who was he to judge? The poor woman could hear him but not respond, and even though she could hear, according to Cole she only understood some obscure Japanese dialect he had never heard of.
Which was fine by him.
Her hands flexed over his back and slid down his ass a third time. He wasn’t sure if he should laugh or wonder if he had a sexual harassment lawsuit in his future. Great. That was just the news Nadine would want to hear about his first day.
Cold air hit his back as the sheet was pulled down and tucked beneath his hips. He flinched when the tips of her fingers nearly had a shaky first encounter with his dick.
He barely suppressed a moan of pleasure as she worked out every damn knot in his upper back, pulling her hands down his sides until he thought he was going to experience an honest-to-God orgasm from her touch.
It was…magic.
His eyes jerked open as he focused in on the simple black-and-white Nike shoes in his line of vision.
He froze.
No.
Nope.
Hell, no.
Rejecting the idea as soon as it popped into his head, he closed his eyes again.
Her fingers dug deeper, harder, and suddenly what had started out amazing quickly took a turn toward hellish and spiraled into What the fuck do you eat for breakfast? Wheaties?
Brant squirmed under the pressure of her elbows as he gripped the massage table with both hands and tried to breathe in and out.
What the hell was he supposed to do? Flip around and wave his hands in the air?
What was the universal sign for Bad touch, make it stop or you’ll see a grown man cry?
He bit back a curse when her fist dug into his ass and twisted, then he nearly leaped off the table when her elbow replaced her fist, right underneath his ass cheek.
Five minutes went by. Then ten.
He counted. It was the only way to keep himself from strangling the woman or making a run for it—naked—down the hall.
Finally, the woman removed her hands and slid the sheet away from his leg, tucking it suspiciously close to his junk—again. His treacherous body perversely seemed to respond to her abuse, since he had a hell of a time keeping his dick from leaping into her hands. What the hell? She ran her hands down his thigh muscle and then dug into his calf.
Minutes whizzed by, and suddenly he was getting tapped on the shoulder.
“Huh?” He pressed his palms to his eyes and rubbed, then blinked, then rubbed again. She held the sheet up high like she wanted him to turn over but he still couldn’t see her face, not that it was important that he put a face to the woman who’d copped a feel and nearly killed him.
With a grunt, Brant flipped onto his back and stared up at the ceiling as a flash of dark hair entered his line of vision and then a hot towel was placed over his eyes. It smelled like lavender.
She worked out every knot in his hands, every single muscle strain in his arms. When the door clicked shut behind her, he jolted awake, feeling as if he’d just been taken advantage of, but in the best way possible. A little violence, a little pain, a lot of ass touching, and apparently a raging hard-on.
Huh. So her hands got him that turned on? Interesting. Maybe she was single? With a groan, he moved to a sitting position, an uncomfortable sitting position, and froze.
The air—he could have sworn he smelled her.
Damn it. Brant’s mind always had a way of playing tricks on him. How many times had he woken up from a drunken stupor to smell her against his pillow? Even though she’d been gone for years?
You’d think after a few years the vision of her would fade, the feel of her, the scent of her. If anything, his memories of her were stronger than ever.
He gripped himself in his hand and let out a moan.
Jet-black hair.
Red lips.
Dimples.
Soft laughter.
He pumped harder.
I have everything.
I’ve lost everything.
“Fuck.” Rage replaced every lust-filled thought, and then shame. Shame that he’d left, shame that she’d let him, shame that he’d had it all—and allowed it to slip through his fingers.
Brant slammed his hand down on the bed and stood on shaky legs.
Bikini wax, Grandma Nadine, Grandfather Naked. He looked down. Problem almost solved. With an exhausted yawn he reached for his clothes and slowly put them back on, then made his way to the door only to backtrack, pull a hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket, and drop it on the table. The least he could do was tip, right?
For some reason he was lingering. He inhaled. Exhaled. Closed his eyes, and tried to even his breathing. It was just a massage, and this? This was just another job.
His eyes flashed open. He glanced around the small room and slowly took stock of the candles, the oils that weren’t labeled. His eyes zeroed in on the table; dust had collected across the wood grain.
Frowning, he ran a finger across the table, and it came back dirty.
He immediately grabbed his cell, took a few pictures and wrote down a few notes, then jerked open the door.
Room five.
Best massage of his life or not—the woman clearly didn’t understand how important it was to have a work space that adequately represented a luxury hotel, and it was his job to make sure she did.
And if she refused to listen, he’d just fire her.