Dancing in a Hurricane (11 page)

Bree closed her eyes. Her clit stood at attention, her imagination drifted, and in her mind's eye, Sixto's beautiful, masculine face appeared between her legs, his firm, full lips kissed her there, his warm breath teased, his talented tongue began its rhythmic strokes.

Quickly she came up to a climax. "Oh, God!"

Her buttocks clenched, her hips lifted off the bed. "Yes, please, oooh, oooooooh!"

She heard a sound from the patio, took a quick peek, but no one was there. Back to it, she visualized Sixto kneeling between her thighs, his hard cock in his hand, telling her to beg him for it. "Now, yes, now, please take me." She rubbed and held her breath, felt herself spiraling up, she surprised herself when her scream tore from her lungs as she hit her peak. "Ooohhhaaaaa!"

A voice intruded. "Bree? Are you okay?"

She opened one eye.

Sixto jogged around the pool.

"Oh crap." She grabbed for a pillow from behind her head, but he was already at the patio door, which she'd forgotten she left open a few inches for air.

Chapter Eight

Bree covered her thighs and belly with the pillow, a little muzzy from being shocked out of her orgasm.

"
¡Coño!
I'm sorry. I…" Sixto lingered just a moment too long, staring at her stretched out half-nude on the bed. He turned and went back to his room and within seconds, his stereo pumped out rap music.

She sighed. Lesson learned. She no longer lived in her own little cottage on a huge, wooded lot with no neighbors in shouting distance. She should be mortified, but that would come later. The memory of her intense orgasm, the fantasy of Sixto as her lover, made her achy with need again. She slid her finger between her legs, focusing on the look on his face when he saw her V zone spread wide in the sunlight.

She rubbed and within minutes, screamed again, her mind exploding into fireworks. Her naughty, erotic vision of Sixto watching her play with herself was better than anything she ever read in a book.

***

Later that evening, Bree heard the rumble of Sixto's truck as he left for work. Thank heavens. She'd hidden in her room all afternoon and was starving. She snuck out, double-checked to make sure his truck was gone, and saw a note on the dining room table. "Bree, I'm sorry I intruded, I heard you scream. Really sorry. But let me know if you ever need help with that."

She smiled, loving his persistence. She heated leftovers and sat at the table, picking through the food and eating tiny bits. Just enough to stop her stomach from growling, but not enough to make her nauseous. She dropped her fork on her plate and slumped back in her chair. She just couldn't eat supper. Another phobia, thanks to a practical joke from her sister.

Okay, the sooner she erased all evidence of Cloe from her life, the sooner she could start working on overcoming her neuroses. And she had a lot of neurotic baggage.

The thought of bags reminded her of her sister's purse. This would be a good evening to go through it. She went to her car and pulled the bag out of the trunk but left the box of papers in there. Tackle one project at a time.

Dumping the contents of the Coach bag on the table, she looked at all the papers first, hoping to find one or more of the letters Cloe had sent her. Nothing. Both relief and regret buffeted her. This was the last place the letters could have been. While the thought of reading them scared the shit out of her, it ached to know that she'd never have the opportunity to hear what her sister wanted to tell her.

She set all the cosmetics and personal things in a pile to be tossed. Her keychain had a number of mystery keys on it and her address book listed very few names.

Curious, Bree looked up her name. Her address, home phone, cell, and work phone numbers were in there. "Huh." She'd changed her home number after her sister left to stop all the late night booty calls from Cloe's boyfriends. She bought her cell phone and started working at the hospital
after
they'd parted ways. Cloe must have kept track of her all these years. The idea stuck a tiny sliver of compassion into Bree's thick layer of resentment.

Cloe's wallet was a shock. She actually kept a condom in it. Ick, into the trash. She had a credit card, Sixto gave her the statement yesterday. She'd call tomorrow, pay it off, and cancel it. She found a few business cards, some from men, some from businesses related to photography. One advertised an online place to meet couples who had similar interests to "share."

"Similar interests." What was that a euphemism for?

Suddenly it clicked. Sharing. She sat up, her eyes wide. "What do they call that? Wife swapping?" Her sister's man friend, Greg, the very ordinary-looking photographer. Could he be into that sort of thing? It didn't seem possible. She looked closer at the bright red card. "Club Quay, Miami's hottest online and in-the-flesh couples blending."

Blending? "Swinging!" That was the word. Was her sister a swinger? She tried to imagine Cloe and Greg flirting with another couple. She could see Cloe participating, but Greg?

The card listed a website. Bree hadn't used her computer since she moved here, but Sixto said they had wireless service. She went into her bedroom, unpacked her laptop, and fired it up, but the service was locked. She needed a password. Her sister's computer was locked, too. No password. Cut off from the world, claustrophobia threatened. She was alone in the big, rambling house, her cell phone was still a Washington number, she didn't know anyone in town, and she had a manic craving for chocolate.

She smiled. "Grocery store!" She cleaned off the dining room table, stuffed the important things back into Cloe's purse, and threw away the junk. Changing into a pink tank top and white capris, she waded into the shoe pile in the closet for a pair of Cloe's sandals, fuchsia with two-inch heels. She brushed her hair, slid on a little lip-gloss, and left to see what a Friday night at the extra-friendly local grocery store could do for her.

She reached for a head of lettuce when a man bumped his cart into hers. He gawked at a leggy brunette who was dressed as if she were headed for an interview at a strip club.

He looked back at Bree. "I'm sorry, I was looking—"

"I saw." Bree raised her eyebrows. "Hard to ignore, isn't she?" She maneuvered her cart away.

He stepped in front of it. "No. She's not my type. I was walking over here to talk to you when I recognized her. I think she might be the mother of one of my kids."

Bree's eyebrows couldn't go any higher. "Okay. Well…" She pulled her cart back a foot. "Good luck with that."

"No, wait." He laughed, waving his hands in front of him as if to erase what he just said. "I'm a teacher. I think she's the mother of one of my students."

Bree huffed a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God. I was about to call security and tazer you."

He smiled. "That would have been an interesting first date."

Date? She looked at him a little more closely. Nice smile. Blond hair cut short, blue eyes, just about her height and thin, the body of a runner, possibly.

"What grade do you teach?"

"Fifth. They're just starting to become people, but haven't found an attitude yet." He stepped closer. "What do you do?"

"I just moved here. I'm a physical therapist, but I'm not working right now."

"Awesome. Independently wealthy. I think I like you."

She laughed. "You're here in the produce aisle looking for a sugar momma?"

"Absolutely. On a teacher's salary, I need to find a rich girl."

"You found her." She waited, not sure if he was interested in her, or just making conversation until someone better came along. Old insecurities that always surfaced in this type of situation.

"I'm Tim." He held out his hand.

"Bree." She shook his, relieved that there wasn't a jolt of awareness, like her first handshake with Sixto.

"Bree. Pretty name. Would you consider having dinner with me some night?" His voice came across as unsure, as if he'd been shot down a few too many times.

"I'd like that." She opened her cell. "I still have a Seattle phone number, but I'm getting it changed tomorrow. Can I call you?"

He smiled. "Awesome…Bree."

The way he said her name sounded like a commercial for thick, rich chocolate and it made her feel special. He gave her his number and said goodbye, she finished her shopping and drove home, planning what to say when she called him the next day.

She pulled into the garage, singing along with the radio. A successful outing. She had a grocery bag full of exotic fruits and vegetables, three chocolate bars, and the phone number of a really cute guy.

***

Sixto worked at the bar until four the next morning, came home, and looked in the fridge. A manic variety of produce filled the clear crisper drawers. "Bree's getting adventurous." He sliced a starfruit, made a
media noche
sandwich with slices of ham, pork, cheese, pickles, mustard, and mayonnaise on egg bread. He grabbed a beer and brought the feast to his room.

There was a note on his door. "Would you please write down the password for the internet? Thanks, your eternally grateful roommate."

He wrote the code on the paper and slid it under her bedroom door. As he straightened, he reached to try the handle to see if she was still locking it.
¡Coño!
What was he doing? He yanked his hand back. He turned quickly and walked away. If it was unlocked, could he trust himself to stay out?

For twelve hours, the only thing in his brain had been the mental snapshot of Bree, stretched out on her bed, her legs spread wide, sunshine highlighting her curly, blonde bush and the moisture glistening on her sweet, pink labia. "Shit." He was hard again, for the fiftieth time in half a day. Again, for the fiftieth time, he had to think of something else. "Clean the garbage disposal. Call the exterminator. Replace the pool filter."

He closed his bedroom door, collapsed in his chair, and turned on the television, flipping to an old war movie. Focus on anything…but Bree.

He scrubbed his face with his palms. Goddamnit, he was becoming obsessed. Would a quick fling with her be enough? He could just imagine himself following after her, a lost puppy starving for attention.

She'd tried to pin him down when they were walking. She wanted to know what he looked for in a woman. The crazy thing is, all he could think of were the qualities she embodied. Honesty, caring, integrity, focus, and a dozen more, with new ones popping up every day. When had she become more than just a woman he wanted in his bed?

***

Waking early, Bree did a load of laundry, quietly cleaned the kitchen and common areas, letting Sixto sleep. She showered, dressed, and left the house to run her errands.

When she got her cell phone number changed, she found a coffee shop with outdoor seating and called her friends in Seattle to catch up and give them her new number.

After the last call, it took her fifteen minutes to battle back her nervousness and call Tim. Their conversation went unexpectedly smoothly and he invited her to meet for dinner that night at Tony Chan's on Biscayne Bay. With a couple hours to kill, she strolled down Flagler Street and did some shopping.

Dinner was nice, the food was excellent, and she enjoyed listening to Tim's stories about his students.

He lived a mile from her house, rented with three roommates. She told him about her home, how she inherited it, and he offered his condolences. He walked her out to her car holding her hand. The night hung warm and muggy, the moon over the ocean set a romantic backdrop as he moved in, held her arms, and pressed his lips to hers.

He deepened the kiss, put his hand on her back, and touched his tongue to hers. It was a tender first kiss, tentative then relaxed. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, closed her eyes…and thought of Sixto. Damn it!

She eased out of the kiss, smiled at Tim, and said goodnight, totally pissed at herself for letting Sixto ruin a perfectly good moment. She slid into the Miata.

He leaned on the door. "Can I call you tomorrow?"

She touched his hand. "Please do. And thank you for a wonderful dinner."

"I enjoyed it, too." He lifted her hand and kissed it. "I'll call you."

***

Sixto sat on the couch updating the east warehouse website. Bree was out, her Miata wasn't in the garage. When the sun was close to setting, he'd started to worry. She didn't seem like the incautious type, but anything could happen. She was not in Port Angeles any more. You had to know where you were in Miami. Lots of safe places, and just as many unsafe. At nine, he called her cell number but it was disconnected. Now he added pacing to his worry. A half hour later he heard the garage door open and her car pull in.

He crossed his arms over his chest, working himself up to give her a lecture, the way his father lectured his sisters. Women out alone at night, etcetera.

She strolled into the house, shopping bags in one hand, her cell phone at her ear. "He's kind of cute. He has a nice smile." She waved at Sixto and went into her room, closing the door behind her.

"Huh." Evidently, he wasn't the cute one with the smile. He uncrossed his arms. Protective or possessive? What was going on with him?