MARISSA VANDERSON
"All I ask is that you allow me to purchase some clothes and that you drop me off at the café to meet Tuesday," finished Marissa.
"I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Yes, you did." She pushed away from the wall and put some distance between herself and Dane. "What I don't understand is why. I've done nothing to indicate I wish to prostitute myself. I simply want to enjoy what you and everyone else take for granted."
"Marissa, I—"
Beep! Beep! A blue truck whipped into the parking space in front of them. A handsome, blond-haired man stuck his head out. "Hey, buddy! Good thing you didn't wear your Batman underwear, huh?" The man's gaze assessed Marissa. His hundred-watt smile indicated he liked what he saw. "Hi there."
"This is Marissa Vanderson," said Dane. "Marissa, this is Brent Williams."
He put his hand on the small of her back as if to guide her to the truck, but she moved away from the possessive touch. She didn't much like him right now and she didn't have to put up with his behavior.
She had choices, too.
Brent tossed basketball shorts and a tank at Dane, who immediately put them on.
Then Marissa found herself squeezed between the two men, straddling a stick shift. Dane stretched his arm across the backrest; her neck tingled as his arm slid across it.
Dane's naked thigh heated her right leg and Brent's jean-clad thigh produced interesting friction on her left leg. Her nightgown only stretched so far, giving both men bird's eye views of a considerable amount of flesh.
If she wasn't careful, her panties might make an appearance.
She felt decidedly hot.
Really hot.
In her wildest dreams, she never thought she'd be sandwiched between two handsome men.
"Is it warm in here?" she asked.
"No," answered Dane.
Brent reached between her legs to shift the gear. When the truck hit a pothole, his arm—going for the gearshift—bumped against her inside thigh. He shot her a wicked grin and winked.
Next to her, Dane stiffened. She glanced at him and found him staring out the window. She might have believed his nonchalance if she hadn't noticed the tenseness of his jaw.
Marissa wasn't sure what to do. She didn't understand Dane at all. Men were much more complicated creatures than she'd been led to believe.
Daddy always gave in to Mommy's demands. Her father and mother finished each other's sentences. They did silly things like intentionally misquoting Shakespeare to suit their romantic moments and wearing those ghastly matching Hawaiian shirts when they went golfing.
They loved each other, and they loved her, but their protectiveness had turned into control. It was almost as if they believed she would be fourteen-years-old forever; somehow, they had convinced themselves that time would stop for their little girl. But time didn't stop.
Eight years had passed and she had grown up.
For the millionth time, she wondered what her life would be like if Gillian hadn't died.
Shaking off her thoughts, she turned to Brent. "So, what do you do?'
"In what circumstances?"
She almost said, "This one," but thought better of it considering Dane's grumpy mood. Brent was nice-looking, sure, but so far, Dane was the only man she'd met that produced in her a peculiar heart-pounding, breath-catching response—just by thinking about him. Hmmm. She needed to analyze these feelings and figure out how they were reproduced.
"I meant what do you do for a living?"
"When I'm not working at the TeenCenter as a counselor, I'm a pilot."
"Private or commercial?"
"Instructor. I teach people how to fly." He grinned at her. "What do you do?"
The question startled Marissa. She chewed her lower lip as she thought about it. She'd never considered a career. Her life was one of luxury. She could have just about anything she wanted, except her freedom, by asking for it. The idea of a job—of doing something productive with her time—interested her. "I don't really do anything. How does one go about finding out what to do with one's life?"
Brent blinked. "Huh?"
"Don't go there," said Dane. "Marissa, you've got enough to do on your current list without adding anything else. In fact, you should probably pare down the list. Get rid of a few items."
Like the one-night stand? Not likely. "I'm not giving up a single thing."
She sized up Brent. Handsome with a to-die-for body, he was a prime specimen for a sexual encounter. She resisted the urge to squeeze his biceps, only because she didn't want him to feel like a choice bit of meat. Dane had made it clear he would not ask Brent to engage in a one-night stand with her.
If Dane wouldn't ask, she would. "Brent, I know we just met, but since you're a good friend of Dane's, I feel comfortable asking if you would consider—"
"We're here," interrupted Dane. "Just stop the truck by the building. You don't have to park and come in."
"Wouldn't dream of it," said Brent.
Dane opened the passenger-side door and grasped Marissa's arm. "C'mon, princess."
"But what about—"
"Later."
She scooted to the edge of the bench seat, attempting to resist his grip. "Can I just ask if—"
"No." Dane grabbed her purse from the floorboard, slung it over his shoulder, then grabbed her by the waist and slung her over his other shoulder. Her T-shirt threatened to ride up and expose her lacy panties.
"What are you doing?" she said, feeling rather alarmed.
"Saving you from yourself."
"That's ridiculous." She huffed out a breath. "I'm feeling a bit light-headed." She looked down and saw the view. "Oh, my. You do have a wonderful butt."
She heard Brent's choking laughter, then the slam of the truck's door. "Thanks for the ride, Brent."
"Sure you don't need any help there, buddy?"
"Get outta here. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
Marissa heard the clank of the gearshift and the truck motored off.
"Honestly, Dane, I'm perfectly capable of walking."
"You're perfectly capable of getting into trouble." He put her down in front of a staircase. "My apartment is up there. Number seventy-one."
His eyebrows nearly touched his hairline and "don't mess with me" glittered in his eyes. Marissa realized Dane wasn't in a negotiating kind of mood, so she tucked away her questions about sexual relations with his friend and jogged up the stairs.
His low groan stopped her movements. She turned around. "Are you—"