Hot & Bothered by Susan Andersen Page A

talking to Ms. Hamilton and I’m just heading back to my office to get to work.” He nodded at the towels in her arms. “How about you? Are you restocking the rooms? You sure keep things nice. The way you anticipate every need, I feel like I’m in a four-star hotel.”
    A blush of pleasure colored her cheeks. “Thank you! I’m so glad you’ve been pleased.” She ran her hand up the stack of towels, flipping the folded edges. “I’m not changing out all of the bathrooms right now, though. I’m just taking these up to Mrs. Hamilton. She rang down for more.”
    â€œHow’s she doing? I haven’t seen much of her in the past couple of days.”
    â€œYes, well, that’s probably because she hasn’t been around very much. She’s been spending a lot of time at the country club. Taking tennis lessons, you know.”
    â€œHas a real passion for the game, huh?”
    â€œOr for the tennis pro at least,” John thought he heard her mutter, but it was said in a low murmur and she gave him such a perfectly polite smile as she headed up the staircase that he might have misunderstood. Making a mental note to look into it, he continued on to the office.
    His mind kept trying to return to that all-too-brief kiss up in the workroom above the garage, but he slammed the brakes on, determined not to go there. He had to stay away from Victoria, that was all there was to it. There was just something about her and he didn’t try to fool himself into thinking otherwise. One kiss would never be enough with her. Hell, almost a week of screwing like minks hadn’t be enough, so it wasn’t as if there were a hope in hell he was going to work her out of his system that way. He’d learned during their first go-around that one session of lovemaking merely made him crave more.
    Crap. He’d said it before and he’d say it again: the woman was crack cocaine and he was a stone junkie. But from now on, no more sampling—cold turkey was clearly the only way he could hope to stay sane around her.
    To facilitate that, work was the key. He threw himself down in the chair behind his desk and reached for hisPalmPilot. Then, pulling up the number of Stand Up For Kids, he picked up the phone, punched out the numbers and settled down to do what Victoria Hamilton was paying him to do.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    J ARED FELT ALMOST…CONTENT . For the second time that week he and P.J. had hit Sock’s Place—he had a full stomach, was freshly showered and had even caught a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. He refused to wreck his decent mood that evening by worrying about his dwindling money supply and concentrated instead on the last of the sun shining on P.J.’s hair as she danced around him, talking ninety miles an hour as they headed for the 16th Street Mall. Like the last time she’d washed her hair, she’d left off the baseball cap she usually wore and red highlights sparked threads of fire in her short, chestnut curls.
    He found it hard to believe he’d ever thought she was a boy.
    She stopped suddenly, favoring him with a brilliant smile. “You know what?” she demanded in her funny, raspy voice. “I think I’m gonna give my mom a call.”
    Panic clawed at his gut, but he swallowed drily in an attempt to push it aside. It wasn’t as if he wanted her to remain on the streets. He knew her mother had thrown her out of her house following a big argument and that P.J. wanted desperately to make up so she could go home again—even if home wasn’t the most ideal place in the world. God knew he could appreciate the contrariness of that wish.
    But what the hell would he do if she went? He didn’t think he could stand going back to being all alone and the temptation to talk her out of making the call rode him with acid-tipped spurs.
    He shoved aside the little voice that told him not to be selfish. Why shouldn’t he