Bad Attitude (10 page)

Mitch's response was a strangled groan.

“Then the groom settles his hands on the bride's waist,” she instructed.

Mitch moved his hands.

“On the bride's
waist,”
Molly repeated until he followed her direction exactly.

“The blindfold. I misjudged ….” Mitch lied.

“The bride then unbuttons her lace jacket, because it's warm.”

“And the groom helps her, laying the lace jacket across the table beside them.”

Molly stretched her arms high.

“Now what?” Mitch asked, feeling her move.

“The bride is waiting for the groom to slip her camisole over her head.”

Moving his hands very carefully, Mitch tucked his fingers beneath the bottom edge of her long sweater and tugged it up, over her head.

“In case you're wondering, the groom's hands go back on the bride's waist,” Molly said into the sensually charged silence.

“I was afraid of that,” Mitch grumbled, reluctantly following her directions.

“What about the groom's mouth?” Mitch asked hopefully.

“The bride isn't ready to be kissed, not just yet.”

“How about things other than kissing?”

“Such as?”

Mitch leaned forward, his warm breath brushing the shell of her ear. “Such as licking and sucking, if the bride says please,” he rasped.

Molly's pulse quickened; she did his bidding. “Yes, please.”

Mitch traced the full, sexy pout of her lips with his furled tongue … suggestively, slowly, exquisitely.

When he didn't kiss her, she felt bereft, despite her instruction not to.

He lowered his mouth to her neck and began sucking gently, giving her the hickey he'd promised her, the night she'd crawled naked into his bed to protect him. A naughty thrill stole through her.

He paused to whisper decadent suggestions of what he would do to her if only time permitted. But, alas, the guests and caterers would be there at any moment.

Escalating the pitch and fever of the moment, he moved his mouth from her neck to her breasts, sucking hard and urgently on one pearled nipple.

Her response was immediate and overwhelming. She moaned loudly and caught her breath.

He favored the other nipple with the same treatment, until the slight, aching warmth in her loins became a throbbing need.

“Please,” Mitch said, his lips again at her ear, nibbling, coaxing. “Please, baby, please.”

“Is this favor number two?” Molly asked.

“Yes.” Now his breathing was shallow, his teeth raking her earlobe.

“Then in that case, you may kiss the bride.”

“Can I take off the blindfold?”

“No.”

His lips descended to devour hers in a slow, consuming caress that was a pantomime of lovemaking.

Mitch began tearing off his clothes with Molly as his eager helper. Their passion was an unstoppable force, an avalanche, a river flooding its banks, a volcano erupting. Nothing in the world could stop their desperate need.

They had to have, must have, each other.

Nothing could stop them—except the ringing telephone.

“Don't even think about answering it,” Mitch warned, standing and hopping on one foot as he tried to peel off his biker shorts.

“I have to answer it, Mitch.”

“No, you don't. Ouch!” He rubbed the shin he'd banged on the sofa.

“Yes, I do. It could be Peter calling.”

“More the reason not to answer.”

Unable both to argue with a gorgeous, naked, blindfolded man and ignore the ringing, Molly answered the phone.

Mitch was gesticulating madly, shaking his head. He was clearly wild with disbelief. His hands were making choking motions to show her how frustrated he was. Not that she couldn't draw that conclusion from the sight of the other evidence.

“Hello, Peter.”

Mitch groaned and sank onto the sofa beside her.

“No, you're not interrupting anything.”

It was the wrong thing to say; Mitch clearly took her words as a challenge.

He raised his hands to undo the silk
scarf that covered his eyes—a gesture meant to distract and unnerve Molly; a deliberate attempt to get her off the phone.

It only half worked. It did distract and unnerve her. She tried to dissuade Mitch, shaking her head while she continued her conversation with Peter. When Mitch paid her no heed, she held her hand over the receiver and mouthed the words,
No, wait!

Mitch's fingers toyed with the scarf, lingering on the knot; he was milking the suspense with the finesse of a practiced stripper.

“Hang up the phone,” Mitch urged.

“Don't,” she said out loud. “No, I didn't say anything, Peter. Great, you found the Forster contract. Where was it?”

“Hang up the phone,” Mitch repeated.

Molly held up her hand, begging for five minutes, then realized Mitch couldn't see it. “Did their meeting with the new director go okay?” she asked Peter as he filled her in.

“Three …” Mitch began.

“Just a minute,” Molly said.

“Two …” Mitch continued, his fingers loosening the knot.

She shook her head and went on listening to Peter.

“One,” Mitch said on a note of dramatic finality.

Unknotting the blindfold, he slid the silk covering from his eyes—an act that also unveiled Molly's voluptuous, naked body.

She felt a warm, rosy flush spread over her skin at his voracious appraisal and appreciative smile.

When she looked into his eyes, she knew she was in trouble. There, in the dancing, blue depths, was a determined look of mischief, fueled by unleashed desire.

Mitch Marlow was about to be more trouble than she could handle. She had to get a grip on things. But that was hard to do when you were both naked and very distracted.

“Hello. Are you still there?” Peter asked.

“Yes, Peter, I'm still here.” Trapped in a real-life and very warped version of
Peter and the Wolf,
she thought as Mitch maneuvered her sideways.

“I decided to live dangerously and get a personal trainer,” Peter informed her.

“No! I don't believe it for a moment!” Molly said, squealing in disbelief.

“What?” Mitch whispered, taking her sock-clad feet into his hands.

“You really got a personal trainer?” she asked Peter, trying to ignore the fact that Mitch was removing her socks—with his teeth.

She began to squirm and had to suppress a giggle when Mitch telegraphed his intention to do his level best to get her off the phone.

“No, stop! Will you quit!”

Mitch ignored her shocked pleas and continued to lick the arch of her foot, snaking his facile tongue between her toes.

“No, not you, Peter,” she explained, trying all the while to slap away Mitch's hand and mouth. But he was too agile; her efforts were to no avail. Instead he intensified the assault by nudging her knees apart.

“Is Marlow behaving himself?” Peter wanted to know.

“Yes, Mitch is behaving,” she lied, nearly choking.

Mitch began kissing the insides of her knees with slow, tongue-enhanced kisses.

“You can't …” Molly said, almost swallowing her words with a gurgle.

“What did you say?” Peter asked.

“Nothing. I didn't say anything, Peter. Yes, I think it's great that the Forster are going to pl-pl-play …” Mitch had begun to trail kisses up the insides of her thighs. “ … in the Celebrity tennis event.”

“Is it still raining?” Peter inquired.

Mitch's lips trailed kisses around the triangle of red curls, then moved up, over her abdomen. “Yes, Peter. It's still rain-rain-raining!” Mitch's mouth had closed possessively over one nipple.

Molly's hand flew out to tug at his long locks, trying desperately to pull his head away. It was no use, and she didn't really want him to stop.

“You know, Ms. Hill, maybe it would be a good idea to get Mitch a personal trainer. A regular workout might improve his mood.”

“I don't think … I … I …” Mitch's mouth was sliding south again.

“What did you say? I can't understand what you're saying.”

“I … ah … I said, Mitch's mood is … is …” His mouth closed over her sex, and he thrust his tongue inside. “Mitch!”

“What? Is something wrong?” Peter bellowed into the phone.

“No!” Molly gasped.

“Are you sure? Are you all right, Molly?” he pressed.

“Yes, I'm … I'm … I'm a little out of breath from … ah … working out.”

Mitch's hand slid beneath her buttocks, raising her to him.

“What is Mitch doing?” Peter asked.

“Mitch is … he's … ah …” Molly couldn't think and closed her eyes.

Mitch's mouth grew more insistent and her breathing grew shallow.

“Are you sure you're all right?” Peter asked. “You aren't overdoing your workout, are you?”

“I'm … I'm fine,” Molly assured him, her eyes flying open when she felt Mitch lever himself over her.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“I'm having a whirlpool for my aching muscles.” Peter answered the question she'd asked Mitch.

“No, not now!” Molly cried out. “You … It's … Shh … ”

Mitch ignored her protest and proceeded to bury his satiny, hard sex deep inside her.

“What do you mean?” Peter asked puzzled by her words.

“Not you, Peter. I mean … I … ah … oh!” She saw Mitch's eyes glitter; he began to tease her speechless with a series of slow, sensuous thrusts.

“Molly … Molly?” Peter asked again.

Mitch took the phone from her hand. As his thrusts grew more urgent, he said, “Molly will have to call you back, Peter.
Her
personal trainer is here. Goodbye.”

T
HE RAIN
finally stopped. The powerful storm had scattered small branches and debris, but the day dawned with bird song. They hopped between the puddles, looking for worms, while shafts of sun-light streamed between the patches of gray cloud.

It was still too muddy to begin shooting, but during the day the sun did its job, and the ground dried out. Production could start again tomorrow. Everyone in the crew was in an upbeat mood, though they knew they'd be working straight through several weekends to bring the production back on schedule.

Mitch and Molly's lovemaking had surprised them with its Valentine sweetness. Today the trailer they shared seemed to confine them even more than usual—supplying fresh tinder for new encounters.

So when Mitch suggested the crew drive into Saint Louis for a night of fun and relaxation, everyone thought it was a good idea.

Everyone except Molly.

As far as she was concerned, it was hard enough to keep an eye on Mitch when he was on the movie set. Saint Louis offered just too many temptations.

Most of the crew, along with Angie and the key grip, were avid to try the Screaming Eagle and the Ninja roller coaster rides at Six Flags amusement park. The director had his heart set on checking out one of the legendary Italian restaurants located on the Hill, and Heather was meeting her husband, Sonny, who was on the wrestling card at the Superstars of Wrestling match at the Arena. They agreed to meet, late in the evening at South Forty, a country and western dance bar.

Mitch kept telling Molly she was a worrywart. Telling her that he'd changed. She knew he hadn't, but finally gave in and agreed to drive into the city. She knew if she stayed in the trailer alone with him for much longer, she'd be lost.

She was certain that once they left the isolation of the movie set, Mitch would come to his senses and see her for the ordinary person she was. Not that she minded being ordinary. She liked who she was and planned to change for no one, give or take the last five of the ten pounds she was fating to lose.

No, once they were out in the real world Mitch would come to see they didn't have a future together. He'd admit to himself that what had happened between the two of them was nothing more than … circumstance.

The trip proved uneventful. On the one-hour drive they talked about the industry and the people in it. Mitch even revealed to her his dream of one day directing films, suggesting the two of them would make a great team. He could direct and she could produce.

Molly knew Mitch could do whatever he wanted, if he wanted it badly enough. He had talent in spades.

But she also knew if he didn't soon stabilize, he was going to be one of those shooting stars that burned out—the kind that have only one bright, shining moment and then are gone forever.

She couldn't stand by and watch that happen. Not after her brother, Joey. Loving someone was not enough to save them.

“I thought you were planning to join the others at the amusement park,” Molly said, looking over her shoulder at the giant Ferris wheel partly visible above the treetops. They'd just sped past the entrance to Six Flags. “Don't you want to ride the Screaming Eagle roller coaster?”

“Nope. I prefer being with you.”

Molly didn't know what to say to that, so she said nothing.

“I thought we'd find our own amusement,” Mitch said. Glancing at her, he added, “However, if your thing is wild, screaming rides … I think I just might be able to accommodate you.”

Ignoring his claim, she asked, “What exactly do you have planned, Mitch? Or should I be afraid to ask?”

“Pretty tame stuff, actually,” he told her. “My brother Matthew had a girlfriend from Saint Louis once. He visited the city with her, and according to him, there were three places not to be missed. Of course, you've got to realize Matthew had this penchant for two things.”

“What were they?”

“What else is there? Food and sex.”

“I know I'll regret asking, but what are the three places?”

“Let's see. As I recall they were White Castle, Ted Drew's and … ah … Oh, I know. Moral Courts.”

“Are you sure those aren't rap groups?” Molly asked doubtfully. She was pleased that Mitch could now talk about his brother, casually and with genuine fondness. Was he finally getting past the denial, anger and grief? She hoped so.

Mitch pointed. “That's a White Castle up ahead on the right.” He pulled onto the parking lot of a burger joint shaped like a miniature castle and drove up to the drive-through speaker.

Turning to Molly before ordering he asked, “Burger, fries and Coke soft drink okay with you?”

“Mitch, I'm on a diet.”

“Not tonight. Tonight all bets are off. It's cheap thrills all the way.”

“Okay,” Molly agreed with a sigh. Blowing her diet was probably the least damaging thing she could do tonight.

“Two dozen burgers, two fries and two large Coke drinks,” Mitch ordered.

“Two dozen!”

“They're bite size. The locals call them sliders, ‘cause they go down so easily. Unless you eat them at three in the morning, in which case they become belly bombers.”

“At three in the morning everything becomes a belly bomber,” Molly said dryly. “Not to worry. At three in the morning we're going to be safely tucked in, back at the movie location.”

The delicious, oniony smell of the burgers permeated the car as they pulled out and into the traffic.

“Aren't we going to eat them now?” Molly asked. The aroma was making her mouth water.

“First we're going to pick up some concretes at Ted Drew's.”

“Concretes?”

“Yeah, Ted Drew's is a frozen custard stand, specializing in frozen custard in a cup. Custard so thick you can turn it upside down and it won't fall out … hence the term ‘concrete.'”

“And we're going to eat all this?”

“Sure, why not?”

“I hope one of those foil packets in your wallet is Alka-Seltzer.”

Mitch just shot her a look and pulled onto Ted Drew's parking lot. “Where are we going to eat?” Molly asked as Mitch bought the local treat.

“Moral Courts. I hope they have a vibrating bed,” Mitch answered, wiggling his eyebrows and handing her the custards to hold while he drove.

“What?”

“Don't look so innocent, Red. You're the one who wanted to go on an amusement ride.”

“Moral Courts isn't a restaurant, then?” Molly swallowed dryly.

“According to Matthew it's this deliriously shady motel that has a wicked reputation for being a meeting place for lovers.”

Lovers. She was helpless to resist. If she could control her emotions and just take what Mitch was offering, she would be able to walk away when the movie was over. Walk away whole instead of broken. Walk away with sweet memories.

And walk away with a secure future as an agent, because she'd saved Mitch Marlow from himself.

She couldn't fall in love with him. But try telling that to her heart!

Mitch pulled up their car in front of the motel office and parked right under the sign that said Vacancy and listed the hourly rate. Turning off the engine, he sort of slid down in the seat.

“What are you doing?” Molly asked, watching him in amazement.

“I'll wait here while you go inside and get us a key to the room. Okay?”

“You'll what? There's no way
I'm—”

“You have to, Red.” Reaching into the White Castle bag, he pulled out one of the tiny burgers and popped it into his mouth. “Think about it. I can't be the one to go inside and register us.”

“Why not?”

Mitch took a drink of soda and swallowed. “What would your boss say, if my signature turned up on the register of Moral Courts while I was in your care? You're supposed to be baby-sitting me, keeping me out of trouble, remember? Not getting me into it.”

“So don't sign your real name,” Molly said, unconvinced.

“I'll still run the risk of being recognized. If that happens, there's a chance we'll find tabloid reporters camped outside our door when we try to leave. I think Peter would be even less thrilled with that.”

“You've got so many good answers, you should be on ‘Jeopardy,'” Molly grumbled.

“Now, Red, don't get testy,” Mitch teased, reaching over and affectionately tugging a freewheeling, red curl. “I would have thought you, of all people, would be in favor of equal rights for women. After all, where is it written that the man is the one responsible for getting the room?”

“Cosmo,”
Molly answered blithely.

Holding out her hand, palm up, she added, “It's also written there that the man is the one who's responsible for paying for the room.”

“Oh, I get it. You believe in equal rights for women only when it's convenient for women.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Aren't you ashamed of yourself, quibbling over money, when I've splurged on this delicious, gourmet repast for the two of us?”

“Okay, but what is Peter going to think when he sees this particular entry on my expense report?”

Mitch winced and reached for his wallet. “I should have known you'd win the round of Final Jeopardy,'” he said, handing her a stack of bills.

Molly returned a few minutes later with a key.

“See, now that wasn't so bad, was it?” Mitch said as he drove the car around to the side and parked it again.

“Actually, I have to admit that signing the motel register was quite a lot of fun,” Molly told him, picking up the frozen custards while Mitch grabbed the sacks of burgers.

He was laughing as he balanced the food in one arm and unlocked the door to their motel room. “What did you do? Sign the register as Mr. and Mrs. John Smith?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Jesse Jerkface.”

“You didn't!”

Molly nodded and collapsed onto the bed in giggles. Gaining control, she helped herself to a burger and cheese fry. “These are great, but they're going to add an inch to my hips,” she moaned.

“Don't worry, Red,” Mitch said, munching on a cheese fry. “I know of a way to burn up the calories and then some.”

Molly glanced from him to the headboard. She was disappointed to see there wasn't a slot for quarters. So much for a vibrating bed.

“So do I,” she countered, sampling the frozen custard and closing her eyes while it melted on her tongue.

“Okay, I'll bite,” Mitch said, starting to work on his frozen custard, as well. His method was more voracious; he attacked his dessert, while Molly simply licked at hers. “So tell me. What do you want to do to burn up these calories we've just inhaled?”

“Go dancing.”

“Dancing?”

Molly nodded.

“Now?” Mitch asked, his tone incredulous.

“No, later,” she said mysteriously.

“Oh, good,” he said, exhaling with relief.

“Now I want to go shopping.”

“Shopping? You want to go shopping? Now?”

Molly put her empty custard cup aside and stood to stretch. “I think it would be fun to get together with everyone at South Forty, and I want to buy something fun to wear. Not that I ever need an excuse to go shopping,”

“But we can't leave right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because we've only been here ten minutes. I have a certain reputation to uphold.”

“Yeah, but Jesse Jerk face doesn't,” she reminded him.

“One condition.” Mitch was hedging.

“What's that?”

“If we go shopping, I get to pick out the outfit.”

“You pick it, you buy it,” she told him.

“You're on.”

Clearing the trash from their impromptu meal off the bed, they left the key on the dresser by the door. Mitch shook his head at the sight of the crumpled bed, then they headed for the car. Opening the trunk, Mitch took out the white Stetson that was part of his costume in
Jesse.

“My disguise,” he explained, setting the Stetson low on his forehead and adding a pair of mirrored, aviator glasses. Fame could be a burden as well as a blessing, Molly realized abruptly. And anyone involved with Mitch Marlow would also have to pay the price of fame: lack of privacy.

Settling into the car, they headed south on one of the main arteries in search of a mall.

They found one within ten minutes. It was huge, sprawling over several acres.

In the first store they went into Molly tried on a short denim skirt and a red- and white-checked shirt.

Mitch shook his head.

Humoring him, she tried on a pair of jeans, a white blouse and a white leather vest.

“We'll take the vest,” Mitch said, paying for it when she'd changed.

“I hope you know what you're doing,” Molly commented. They looked for a shoe store. In the third one he found the pair of cowboy boots he wanted to buy for her.

They were bright red. They were exquisite, but they were bright red.

Red was not her color.

She quietly tried explaining that to Mitch, but to no avail. He pooh-poohed her argument that redheads did not wear the color red. Ever.

“These cowboy boots are three hundred dollars,” she said, fating another tack.

Mitch just shrugged. “So I have good taste. Sue me.”

“Expense and good taste are not necessarily the same thing,” Molly retorted.

“She'll wear them,” Mitch finally told the befuddled clerk.

“Mitch!”

“Humor me,” he said over his shoulder as he paid for the boots.

Mitch took her arm possessively when they left the store, and Molly began to feel that people in the crowded mall were staring. She wasn't sure whether they were looking at the two of them or her red, cowboy boots.
Silly goose,
she told herself. They're looking at Mitch, of course.

No one in the crowd recognized him, though he looked drop-dead gorgeous in his faded, sleeveless, chambray shirt, jeans and black, silver-trimmed belt above the hard, flat belly. The white Stetson and mirrored sunglasses only added to his allure of mystery.