Hot Spot (25 page)

Shoving his plastic drink cup into the sand, he shouted to Megan, "I'll race you to the end of the sandbar," and waded into the water.

DANNY HAD LOOKED IN EVERY STATEROOM, interrupting couples in two rooms who didn't appreciate being interrupted, and coming up empty in the other two. The remaining door below deck led to the galley. Hardly a likely place to find someone, but his options were down to zero.

He shoved open the door.

Startled, Stella said through a mouthful of chocolate cake, "I thought you weren't coming."

"What are you doing in here?"

She didn't need that tone, nor his scowl. "Minding my own business. What are you doing in here?"

"Looking for you."

She debated another forkful of cake, the taste out of this world. And it wasn't as though he'd come in here to apologize. What the hell. She filled her mouth with dense, fudgy chocolate.

"Do you mind?" He gestured toward the cake, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

She waved her fork over the chocolate torte and pretended she didn't know what he'd meant. "You want some?"

"I don't want any."

That was curt. "Then what the hell
do
you want?" She didn't require violins and roses, but neanderthal man she could do without.

"Could we go somewhere else? There's no place to sit."

She was seated on a kitchen stool and another was shoved under the counter, so she pulled the other stool out with her foot. "Problem solved."

Steam wasn't actually coming out of his ears, but she could visualize a comic book frame with him standing there like that, barely under control. And she'd definitely put in the steam. Swirling around his head, white, red, maybe a little cerulean. In her moment of creativity, she missed the two strides that brought him towering over her until he grabbed the fork in her hand, wrenched it away, and tossed it in the sink.

"Hey! I'm not done eating!"

"You're done."

She looked up what seemed a very long distance and met his hot gaze with an icy green stare. "I believe you've mistaken me for one of the other women you fuck," she said, her voice chill as the grave. "I don't respond to orders."

"Yeah, that's right. You like to give 'em."

"As long as we understand each other," she murmured in her best get-out-of-my-face tone. "Now I was enjoying my cake and reading this book. I'm sure you'll find plenty of women on deck to do whatever you want them to do."

"You're a fucking piece of work," he breathed, a tic fluttering across his cheekbone.

"But not
your
fucking piece of work. Is that clear?"

"It depends," he whispered.

"On what?" she snapped.

"On whether I want it to be clear or not."

"This conversation is over. I don't deal with chauvinist pigs."

"Maybe I can change your mind."

"And maybe I can knee you in the balls and end this useless discussion."

"I wouldn't recommend it."

She inhaled slowly, exhaled, and told herself to act like an adult instead of a petulant child. And then, ignoring reasonableness, said, "Fuck your recommendation."

He stiffened. "We can do it here or on a bed. Take your pick."

She whipped up her hand. "Whoa, baby. Was that some kind of an invitation I just heard?"

"I wasn't asking," he growled.

"Get the hell out of here," she said, her voice taut as a bow string. "Now. Or I'll scream so loudly they'll hear me clear to Nebraska."

He laughed. It started as a soft chuckle that rolled into a wave of chortles and before long turned into a series of full-bodied, bending over, laughing his head off, tears-rolling-down-his-cheeks guffaws.

"I fail to see the humor in—"

Waving his hands and shaking his head, he tried to speak. "Nevermind… Foghorn Leghorn—can't—explain…"And then he went off on another round of laughter.

"I'm pleased I amuse you," she said, pissy-like.

"Sorry," he choked out, lifting his head slightly, trying to suppress his grin. "You just looked so 'I'm a chicken hawk' small and feisty—" Overcome by his lunatic sense of humor, he went off in another fit of laughter.

She had no idea what he was talking about, but what she did know was that—very much against her better judgment— shamefully wanton little warm fuzzies were beginning to subvert her sense of outrage. Perhaps the aphrodisiac qualities of the chocolate—a known scientific fact—were stimulating her carnal senses, or perhaps Danny Rees in close proximity or the scent of his cologne were more potent cause. Maybe it was his broad shoulders that looked broader in the narrow confines of the galley and his muscles flexing under his thin cotton knit T-shirt as he laughed that tempted her desires. Maybe it was his sheer, raw maleness and that fine line between passion and anger that had suddenly blurred and confused her. But she was definitely feeling those first small tremors of arousal. And whether to give in to those delectable ripples or resist had suddenly become an issue.

He stood upright as she was debating her options, wiped the wetness from his cheeks with his knuckles, and blew out a breath. "I'm sorry." He took a deep breath. "You drive me nuts, and that's a fact."

She knew what he meant—the "I want you, don't want you" insanity causing a traffic jam in her brain as well. But not sensible enough to accept his j'accuse-type apology for what it was worth, she had to ask, "What was so funny?"

"I don't want to get you mad again."

"What makes you think I'm not still mad?"

He looked at her, raised one brow, and smiled faintly. "Just a feeling."

"I'm not sure I like that know-it-all tone."

"Tell me what you do like," he murmured. "Then, I'll tell you and we can compare notes."

She didn't know if she was ready to forgive him completely, although her body was voting big time for amnesty. "Probably what every other woman likes about you," she muttered.

He suppressed his smile. "Would you like me to apologize again?"

"Okay."

He didn't expect that answer, but he wasn't stupid. "I'm sorry for being a jerk. I wasn't going to come today," he added, in a rare moment of introspective honesty, "but I had to if you know what I mean. And I suppose it pissed me off."

"That's an apology?" But she liked that he'd come despite himself. She knew the feeling.

"It's an explanation at least. My sister's not in town. I just told Buddy that to get out of coming here."

"And I wouldn't have come if I'd known you were here."

"So we're both childish and immature."

She smiled. "About some things." She wasn't going to give him the whole nine yards on that one after his accusations outside Dominic's.

"We do have a lot in common, though."

"Don't say sex."

"No way." He knew better than to answer in the affirmative with her looking at him like that. And at base, what was rocking his world was that he and Stella might have
more
in common than sex. For one thing, he was here because he couldn't stay away. He couldn't pretend to be disinterested. He might as well face it. "Look, for starters, we both like comics. That subculture in itself gives us a certain comfort level, world view—whatever you want to call it. And we're both small-town people— introverts maybe, not to mention we both like Swedish rugs," he said with a grin that widened when he added, "And I wouldn't discount sex entirely."

She couldn't fault him on his brief litany, sex included. And she'd been missing him like crazy if she were honest with herself. Right or wrong, good or bad, there it was. "Do you like chocolate cake?"

"Not really."

She grinned. "What the hell—we can't like all the same things."

He softly exhaled. "Are we good then?"

"Probably. Whatever that means," she said with a sigh of her own. "I've been trying to tell myself you're not my type."

"And I've been trying to stay away," he murmured, with a faint grimace. "You're taking over my brain, babe. I'm freaking out."

"Wanna freak out together?"

"Oh, yeah." His dark brows flickered. "There's not much room in here, but I'm willing to give it a try."

"What if I said that's not what I meant?"

He dragged in air through his teeth. "That's a tough one. You've been on my mind for days."

"Should we compromise?"

He laughed. "You're asking me?"

"Okay, so we know your answer."

He shifted as though to move forward, and she leaned back on the wooden stool. "Not so fast. Give me a minute."

No, he wanted to say. Not after a week of wanting you. "One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three—"

So maybe her feelings might get hurt somewhere down the line. In the meantime, the pleasure of his company would more than offset possible future unhappiness. And since when had she stopped going for the brass ring? Shutting her book, she picked it up and slipped off the stool to her feet. "Find me a bed."

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured, stepping aside to give her room to pass, reaching out to open the door. "First door on your left."

She shot him a look as she eased past him. "There better not be a bottle of wine in there."

"Wouldn't think of it, ma'am."

She grinned. "I didn't know you could be so well mannered."

"It's been a long week," he said, softly.

And in truth, she did know how well mannered he could be. He never said no to anything. He always said yes. And he did it with a smile.

Preceding him out of the galley, she moved the short distance to the next room and waited for him to open the door. She didn't want to appear anxious for some ungodly reason. Probably because he was too familiar with eager women. Or maybe she wasn't in the mood to give orders today. Maybe she was in a different mood.

As he shut the door behind them and turned the key in the lock, he nodded at the book she still held in her hand and asked, "What are you reading?"

"Do you really care?"

He shrugged. "In a way."

"In what way?" She was asking one of those compulsively female questions—wanting to know what a man was thinking when he was probably only thinking about screwing.

"You seemed interested in it when I walked in."

"It's Gorky. I reread him a lot."