Hot Spot (4 page)

BUDDY MET THEM AT THE GANGWAY. "WHAT A nice surprise—in this mob of people, too. What did you think of the parade?" he asked, welcoming them onboard. "It was great, wasn't it?"

Stella smiled. "Absolutely—a perfect day for a parade. This is my friend, Megan Sullivan, and her children, Ruthie and Joey. Megan, kids, Buddy Morton."

"Wow! This is one humongous boat!" Joey exclaimed.

"Joey wants a ride," Ruthie piped up. "Really, really bad."

"Sorry about that." Megan rolled her eyes. "Kids."

"Megan's running for state senate," Stella offered. "We walked along with the parade and passed out campaign literature."

"The senate? Congratulations." Buddy glanced down at Joey and winked. "And maybe we can take the boat out later."

"Wow! Did you hear that, Mom! He said
maybe
!"

"I have to see what the others onboard want to do." Buddy made a small palm's-up gesture. "Some want to see the town and street dance, some the river. But come on—have a cool drink and check out the view."

As they followed Buddy down the gleaming deck, Megan gave Stella one of those raised eyebrow looks—you know, the half question, half way-to-go look.

Stella returned a cautionary frown, warning off any potential grilling on Buddy Morton's dating qualifications. Megan was always trying to line her up when she didn't want to be lined up or even be in the running to be lined up. Whether Buddy was married, unmarried, divorced, or in a long-standing relationship had never crossed her mind, because she didn't care. It was as simple as that.

With some men there were vibes.

With others like Buddy—none at all.

Unlike the hot stud last week who had walked into her store and taken up a prominent position—front and center—in her mind. She'd dealt with the unwanted image by consigning him to her fantasy world, letting Marky B take on a new hunky cohort in her fight for right. It was the crassest displacement of course, but highly effective. And by Friday morning, when she'd sent her latest comic to the printers, her Xzodus Software man had been relegated to six pages in
The Remarkable Adventures of Marky B
, Chapter 31.

Not that her coping mechanism would bear close scrutiny.

But then she'd understood long ago that her psychological profile wasn't anywhere near the middle of the pack. Rationalize and move on. That was her motto.

With two bartenders dispensing drinks on the top deck, Megan soon had her pomegranate martini, the kids had fruit slushies, and Stella was trying to decide between a chocolate martini and a beer that would be less apt to spill on the gently rocking boat.

"One of those," she finally said, pointing to a Belgium pilsner nestled in a tub of ice along with a dozen other kinds of beer from around the world. Buddy had financial resources, no doubt about that. Bartenders on each deck, catering staff dispensing hors d'oeuvres and picking up the mess, a buffet twenty feet long manned by servers at attention. Not to mention this yacht—definitely a seven-figure baby.

When they were supplied with drinks, Buddy gave them a guided tour, introducing them to some of the beautiful, tanned, buff, perfectly coiffed people as they moved from deck to deck. When they reached the bridge, the children were absolutely thrilled when he let them sit at the wheel in the high padded captain's chair.

"Boy, am I gonna tell Tommy about this!" Joey crowed. "Look, I'm turning the wheel! Tommy never did anything this cool—not in a million years!"

When it was her turn, Ruthie sat mesmerized by the sleek panel of lights, flipping approved switches off and on with childish glee. "Just like in a rocket to the moon," she said, beaming from ear to ear.

"I bet it goes that fast, too!" Joey exclaimed. "I just know it does!"

"If there's time, we'll take her out," Buddy offered. "I'll show you the engine room next. You'll like the twin engines, Joey. They're custom made."

A crewman entered the bridge. "One of your guests fell in, boss." He shrugged. "I think. She might have dived in."

Buddy smiled at his guests. "It's probably Kirsty, who always likes to dive after a few drinks. Make yourself at home. I'll be right back."

As Buddy walked away, Megan grinned at Stella. "Race horses and a yacht?" she whispered. "This could be your future."

"Or yours. He's not my type."

"How would you know? You don't let anyone close enough."

"I've done my share of dating. It's just not a good time for me now. I'm really busy."

"Is this great or what?" Joey cried, his nose pressed against the window. "We're practically higher than the trees. Hey, I can see tons of sandwiches on the table below!"

"And there's chocolate cake, too," Ruthie noted with a touch of longing in her voice. "Really
good
chocolate cake." She turned in the captain's chair. "And tiny little hot dogs. Can I have some more of those, too, Mom?
Please
?"

"Go on—get the kids some," Stella offered. "I'll enjoy the view out there on the back of the boat."

"The stern," Joey corrected with six-year-old expertise, thanks to his age-appropriate
Titanic
ship-in-a-bottle kit he got for his birthday.

"Right. The stern of the boat. There's a good breeze, and I'm still sweating."

"If you don't mind, I
am
starved," Megan murmured. "I didn't want to look like a pig and take one of everything when we walked by the buffet."

"No one's looking now. Go for it. Take your time. I'll try out one of those lounge chairs."

"Deck chairs," Joey said.

"Right again. Thanks, Joey."

The kids raced away, Megan following in their wake, and a few moments later Stella was stretched out on a cushioned chaise, her sandals kicked off, a breeze ruffling her hair, her last "everything" cookie in hand. Perfect. Peace and quiet. Life was good.

With luck, Buddy would be occupied for some time with the "woman overboard" and she could enjoy the river and the superfine day without having to brace herself against Buddy making a move. Her no-dating-the-customers rule had always been a matter of real diplomacy with him. The fact that he was one of her best customers made it even more dicey to say no without hurting his feelings.

"It was an awesome day for a parade, wasn't it?"

She didn't have to turn around to know the possible rule-breaker of all time was standing behind her. And if he was wearing a swimsuit like everyone else on this boat, she was going to hyperventilate big time. Count to ten, no, there's no time, turn, don't turn, could she pretend she didn't hear him? Probably not with her face turning red. Say something.
For God's sake, say something before you look like a complete idiot
! Turning, she tried not to look at you-know-what that was at eye level as he stood there in surfer swim trunks and
nothing else
! "It's perfect—I mean… the day—and parade—was perfect—couldn't be better." Now if she could just melt into the cushion and disappear so she didn't have to see that knowing smile, or maybe it was a seductive smile, or maybe everything about him was seductive, considering the whole package was pretty much on
full frontal display—
tropical print swim trunks notwithstanding.

"That looks good." He dipped his head and flashed his smile again as he sat down on the end of an adjacent chaise.

What looked good? What did he mean? How should she respond? A smile, a nod, something bland and all purpose?

"I saw those cookies in your store."

She felt the heat of that perfect white smile again and also felt a tiny ripple in a place she hadn't felt a ripple for a very long time. Or maybe it was the way he'd said "in your store," in a deep, silken tone that suggested something possibly
in
somewhere else. Or more likely she was hallucinating with that lean, taut body close enough to touch. "It's a family recipe," she said, her voice breathy when there wasn't a reason in the world why it should be breathy, when her grandma's "everything" cookies had never generated anything but a sigh of contentment in the past.

"Care to share?"

"Share?" Could he speak more definitively so she didn't have to feel as though she was trying to interpret a foreign language?

"The cookie," he said. The flush on her cheeks was a real turn on. "It looks good."

"Oh." Tamping down various possibilities racing through her brain—many having a sexual connotation—she thrust the cookie at him.

He reached for it.

She let go—a fraction of a second too early.

And the cookie hit the deck and shattered.

"Jeez, sorry." She blew out a breath.

"Not a problem." Leaning over, he began to pick up the pieces. "The deck's clean enough to eat off anyway." Looking up from under his unbelievably long, dark lashes, he winked. "Buddy's into antiseptic. Not that that's all bad, I suppose."

"You say it like you aren't."

"Probably not." He set the cookie pieces on the chaise. "With the exception of my car maybe."

"Your truck."

"Yeah—truck. And someone comes in and cleans my place a couple times a month. That's about it. I'm pretty middle-of-the-road. No fetishes."

She was really tempted to reply—the word
fetishes
conjuring up a wild array of pleasurable little vignettes when looking at a man like him. But then he popped a piece of cookie into his mouth, and those TV ads with all the crawly germs displaced more pleasant thoughts. "Are you sure that's wise—eating that cookie? There's a buffet to die for downstairs."

"The cookie's good. Really, the deck's clean."

"If you say so." But she wasn't going to eat any of that cookie. "How do you know Buddy?" she asked, steering the conversation onto safer ground than fetish speculation.

"We met golfing in Florida. When I found out he was a comic collector—you know how that goes. Instant rapport. By the way,
Murky B
is a real winner. I read those new issues I bought." He'd also checked out her story about not dating customers with Buddy. It was for real. But then rules were made to be broken.

"Thanks."

"You're self-published?"

"It's easy with the Internet. An international audience at your fingertips. What do you do?" If he was playing golf where Buddy Morton was playing, he must have a good job.

"Not much."

"You must do something."

"I have a small farm on the other side of the river. It keeps me busy."

Was he a drug dealer? A lottery winner? "What do you farm?" Maybe he raised Kobe beef or something really high priced.

"Mostly pumpkins. I give them away to the school kids at Halloween."

She wasn't getting much here, and short of asking to see his checkbook, she might as well drop the subject. If he didn't want to say, he didn't want to say. Then again, maybe he had a wife and kids on that farm in Wisconsin. Not that it mattered to her. She had no intention of dating him. "Are you married?" she heard herself ask, as though her self-restraint had taken the tourist train to Osceola.

"What if I said I was?" he replied with a grin.

"Then I'd figure you probably were pretty darned busy."

"I'm
not
though, and I don't have a wife—never have. How's that for full disclosure?"

"It really doesn't matter." More aptly, it shouldn't. But she wouldn't have had to write him into Marky B's adventures if she'd been able to simply dismiss him from her mind.

"Speaking of full disclosure," he murmured.

Here it came—the sordid truth. A man who looked like he did and knew people like Buddy—the Minnesota equivalent of jet-setters—probably had a scandal or two in his closet. Not that she cared; he was outside her dating pool anyway, for any number of reasons.

"We haven't actually been introduced. I'm Danny Rees."

"Stella Scott." Was it possible this man who appeared to do nothing was scandal free?

"Buddy told me."

"He didn't tell me about you."

"There's not much to tell. I've lived across the river a couple years." He smiled. "And had I known about your shop, or more aptly, its owner, I would have been in earlier."

"It's new—eleven months in business." She smiled. "I love it—not a single complaint."

"I've one." His smile was sweet and boyish, without a hint of jet-set glitterati. "I'd like you to reconsider your no-dating-the-customers policy. Although, I could stop buying comics from you if it would help—or maybe we could just not call it a date. We could call it something else."

The phrase "something else," hovered in the balmy summer air.

His meaning plain.

And damnably tempting.

She should refuse him—unequivocally. She should stick to her principles. And if he wasn't mostly nude and really buff like he worked out ten hours a day… not to mention one of
the
sexiest men she'd ever seen—she might have answered more quickly.

But she didn't.

He noticed. "Look," he said, very, very softly. "We could just give it a try. And if you don't like it—" He shrugged faintly, his pecs and biceps rippling so she was hard-pressed not to lean over and run her fingers over his sleek body. "You could say no—anytime… before—after—I'll understand. You won't lose a customer. I'm not that unselfish. Not when you have the best comic book collection in the Midwest." He touched her ankle with a brushing fingertip. "I'd really like to—"