Susan Andersen - Coming Undone

It was messy enough already. What the devil had he been thinking to bring sex into the equation?

He'd love to claim it was all part and parcel of their ongoing attempts this past week to outdo each other. But even though he hadn't hesitated to give Peej the impression that it had been nothing more than a golden opportunity to one-up her, he couldn't sell that story to himself. Because rattling her and making her aware of him hadn't been a result of any genius design on his part. He'd simply touched her, looked at her in those worn little red boxer shorts and snug tank top, and his brain had short-circuited and his mouth had started spewing out the thoughts that had been crowdinghis mind, not hers.

Then he'd had the stones to tell her he was a professional. God, that was rich. He'd be lucky if she didn't slap a sexual harassment charge against him.

His brows snapped together. Whathad he been thinking? His professionalism had long been one of, if notthe most important aspects of his life. So why the hell was he endangering everything he'd worked so hard to accomplish to play who's-on-top-now with P.J.?

Because while it might feel like fun and games, it was threatening his self-respect. And unnecessarily so-he'd known a week ago he didn't need to personally accompany her until the tour officially began. But it had been surprisingly enjoyable to match wits with her, and his life had been so fucking serious for such a long time. And, okay, so maybe he felt more alive than he had in ages, but that was a piss-poor excuse. He only had two things he could count on in his life-his family and his work. That wasn't so frigging much that he could afford to blow off one of them.

Thinking of the other fifty percent reminded him of an event he'd missed at home. Happy to divert thoughts that kept circling like vultures waiting for the corpse, he picked up his cell phone from the seat next to him and punched his sister's number.

The phone on the other end of the line rang three times before it was picked up. "Hello," Victoria said and her voice, warm and familiar, was a balm to his raw nerves.

"Hey, Tori."

"Jared! How are you doing? Have you seen P.J. yet?"

"I'm fine. And yeah, I've seen her."Several times, in a number of situations.

She laughed. "Dumb question. Of course you have. John told me you were traveling with her-I just forgot for a minute."

"Ah, caught you at work, did I?"

"Yes. I'm trying out a new design, so my thoughts are a little scattered. It's a Greek temple. Very different, but fun. Although I'm having a tough time imagining what kind of dolls will feel at home in it."

"Maybe Goddess Barbie or Toga Ken. Or maybe it's actually for an adult. Your dollhouses are so amazing I'm guessing they aren't always ordered for kids."

"You sweet-talker, you." Then her voice turned brisk. "But enough about me. Tell me all about P.J."

"She's still fast on her feet and a smart mouth. Other than that, not much to tell."

"Not much to-Jared Hamilton! Don't tell me you haven't rekindled your friendship!"

Shit.This was exactly the conversation he'd hoped to avoid. "I'm here on a job, Victoria."

"And your point is? That little girl was the closest friend you ever had. You can't seriously be holding yourself as emotionally distant from her as you do from everyone but me and Rocket and the kids."

"Christ. What is it with you guys? Like I told John, we were close, but that was a lifetime ago.She tossed the friendship away, not me!" But feeling cracks developing in his normally smooth facade, he pulled himself up short. Drawing in a calming breath, he ordered himself to picture the Rocky Mountains. He was a glacier peak, impregnable and remote. He did not lose control.

Calmer, he felt a bite of satisfaction at how composed and patient he sounded when he said, "Look, is Esme around? That's the reason I called."

"Aw, sweetie," she said in a voice so understanding that for a moment it endangered his hard-won composure. "Hang on a second. I'll see if I can find her."

The telephone went on hold, and Jared pictured his sister in her attic studio tracking Esme down via the intercom system wired into every room of her and Rocket's big, rambling Denver home.

Then the line opened up again and his niece's voice said, "Hullo, Uncle Jared!"

"Hey, pipsqueak. Or should I say college graduate pipsqueak? Congratulations, kid. I'm sorry I missed the ceremony, but a gift is in the mail."

"Lovely. But as it happens, you didn't miss a thing." Traces of her first six years in England colored her voice. "I didn't graduate."

"What?" He took his eyes off the road for an instant to give the phone a blank look. "What happened?"

"Turns out my high school French classes don't count toward my foreign language obligation because I failed the competency test I took for college entry. Only no one bothered to tell me that until just now, which I think is complete and utter bollocks. Regardless, I'm stuck taking a French class summer quarter."

"Sorry to hear it, Es." He waited a beat, then said, "Send me back my prez."

"You wanker!" She laughed. "Just try to get it back. You always give great gifts."

"So you're taking one class this summer. That sounds cushy enough. What are you doing the rest of the time, lounging by a pool?"

"I wish. I'm working part time at Daddy's."

"He's letting you muck around at Semper Fi?" He injected the proper horror into his voice. "A girl who couldn't even graduate college? What are the chances of there being a business to come back to when I'm finished with this job?"

"Pretty decent, considering Gert doesn't let me do a damn thing without supervision. Shouldn't she be retired by now? She must be eighty years old."

"Seventy-four. And retire to do what? Crochet doilies?"

"You sound just like her." Amusement laced her voice. "And I have to admit, the woman's a machine. I'm running my arse off just trying to keep up with her."

"She keeps us all slapped into shape," he agreed. "Well, listen, kid. I'm running into traffic and it looks like there's some road construction ahead, so I'd better hang up and pay attention. Keep your nose to the grindstone and I'll see you when we get to Denver."

"Mum got us tickets to Priscilla Jayne's concert. She said I met her once, but I don't remember. I've listened to her new CD, though, and it's actually good."

He grinned. "I'll be sure to pass on your effusive praise."

"That didn't come out right. I guess I just thought all country music was twangy, but hers isn't. I really like her voice and her songs tell great stories. I'm looking forward to hearing her in concert."

"She puts on a helluva show," he said, thinking of her energy knocking them dead in honky-tonks across three states. "I'll see if I can't get you backstage passes."

"Sweet."

When they disconnected a minute later, Jared emptied his mind of everything but the need to concentrate on the sudden backup on a stretch of freeway that moments ago had been nearly empty.

Once traffic opened up again, however, his mind went straight back to the subject it had been worrying since the wee hours of the morning. He was like some damn hamster on a wheel, he thought with disgust, running his ass off to get nowhere. He had to knock it off.

One thing was certain, though. He was glad the tour was finally starting.

Because it was bound to be a whole lot easier getting back on professional footing with a mess of people around to dilute the effect of one-on-one time spent with P.J.

"WELL, LOOK WHO'S HERE," said a familiar voice as P.J. strode onto the stage in the Portland venue later that afternoon. "Hey, little girl. Early as usual, I see."

She grinned at Hank Hartley, who stood a short distance away tuning his banjo, his fiddle carefully nestled in its open case at his feet. He gazed at her with warm hazel eyes from beneath the brim of his ever-present leather bush hat, a small return grin playing around his lips. "Sound check's not for another twenty minutes, babe," he informed her.

"What can I say, H.H.? Promptness is a hard habit to break." She raised her eyebrows at him. "But I don't have to tellyou that. You got here even earlier than me."

Laughing, he crossed the short distance still separating them and hauled her into his wiry arms. Strong as a bear at forty, he gave her a big hug that left her feet dangling off the floor and the neck of his banjo digging into her spine. She drew in his familiar scent of tobacco, aged leather headgear and wrist straps, and Drakkar Noir cologne. The top of her head bumped the underside of his hat and, reaching up to hold it in place with one hand, he set her gently back on her feet.

"I'm sorry about your mom and all the shit with the press," he said gently.

"Aw, thanks, Hank." She touched the little sandy-brown soul patch beneath his bottom lip, the single silky surface in a hundred-miles-of-bad-highway craggy face. "It's been a:challenging few weeks."

"I bet." Gently he hooked one of her curls behind her ear. But several strands snagged on fingertips callused from years of playing stringed instruments and pulled free again. With a whispered curse, he smoothed it back to join the rest. Then, looking beyond her, his eyes narrowed. "Who's this?"

She knew who she'd see before she turned. But she glanced over her shoulder anyway. Jared stood several feet away, hands in his pockets and his posture relaxed, observing them.