Hot Spot (7 page)

He shook his head. "That wicker won't hold me. I'll sit here." He nodded at her railing.

"I could get another chair or something." Jeez, how was that for inane?

"Nah… this'll do for now."

Versus what? No, no, don't even go there. "The fireworks should start soon—they usually start by ten—or at least they always have in the past although sometimes it can be… later…" Her voice trailed off, and she glanced at her watch as if she could see it in the dim light. "Unless it rains."

What the hell was she thinking? There wasn't a cloud in the sky. "I mean sometimes it does… rain—although—"

"Probably not tonight." He smiled. "I saw the TV weather report while I was sitting at the bar at Caesar's. I think we're good on the weather. Relax."

Oh God, could she sink into the floor and disappear? What was this—her first date in junior high? "Sorry, I'm not usually so gauche," she muttered.

"You're just nervous because you're not sure you want sex."

"I
beg
your pardon?"

"You heard what I said."

The chauvinist message on the back of his T-shirt burned through her brain. "Maybe you should go."

"Maybe you don't really mean that."

"Maybe I do."

He smiled. "You don't
have to
have sex."

"Damn right I don't."

"We can just sit here and watch the fireworks." He grinned. "If it doesn't rain."

"Arrogant bastard."

"Uh-uh. I'm just honest with myself."

"And I'm not?"

"Vegas odds? I'd say forty to one not on this one."

"So women just fall into your arms?"

"Give me a break. This isn't war. I'd just like to get to know you."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning anything you want."

"Liar."

He smiled. "Well, I have my preferences, but I'll live either way."

"With or without sex, you mean."

He nodded. "With or without."

"That's awfully big of you."

"It's up to you, that's all I'm saying. You decide. I'll be as accommodating as hell."

When he offered carte blanche like that, it went a real long way in obliterating objections large or small. It didn't help either that the phrase,
Why don't you come upstairs with me
? had been looping through her brain since she'd answered the door. Nor that he was stretched out on her railing, looking sexy as hell, his back against one of the elaborately carved posts holding up the porch roof, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his balance superb considering he was very large and her railing was not excessively wide. And bottom line, if she was honest with herself, she had to admit he was about the best thing she'd seen since Hostess Sno-balls went pink.

"Just tell me what you want," he said, the welcome mat out in the silken softness of his voice.

"I'm thinking." She took a deep breath. "Give me a minute." She must have gone too long without sex. That was why she was damned near quivering. Or maybe he'd simply appeared at some opportune time when her hormonal stars and sexual receptors were all perfectly attuned and any red-blooded male would have inspired the same acute reaction.

Yeah, right.

If that was the case, she would have looked with interest at any number of men on the yacht this afternoon.

She hadn't.

Not to mention she was damned near salivating. And struggling to concentrate on something—
anything
other than sex.

Not an easy task with Danny Rees in all his glory close enough to touch.

Where was her commitment to the separation of business and pleasure when she desperately needed it?

"We could go to the street dance afterward if you want."

"After what?" How could he be so calm when she was being literally swamped by tidal waves of horniness?

"After whatever you want." He smiled a sweet, sexy smile that made her want to throw her arms around him and kiss him with total disregard for the imminent possibility of falling into the hydrangea bushes below. And he was clearly talking about sex—not fireworks… hot sex, she was thinking—that lasted all night—maybe all week, her salacious mind nimbly ran on. Which made the word
principle
in general and her own principles in particular pretty much drop off the face of the earth.

"I'm still trying to decide."

"Take your time."

She didn't even know what to say when they asked "Paper or plastic?" at the supermarket. He maybe didn't realize that.

Or maybe he did. "Wanna flip a coin?" he said with a grin.

"Wanna land in those hydrangea bushes down there?" she said with a wave of her hand.

He laughed. "Just a suggestion."

"If you don't want to wait, feel free to leave anytime."

"No way I'm leaving," he said, grinning at her. "I love fireworks."

She exhaled softly. "I'm sorry for being so indecisive, but so many of my customers are men and—hell, I don't know… it's complicated."

"I could make it easy."

She smiled. "Look it's a no-brainer. I'm just—I don't know—"

Picking up on her nuance, or maybe just tired of waiting for her to decide, he slid off the railing, set down his glass, and held out his hand.

Crunch time. This was where she could say no. Or she could ask for more champagne or talk about comics, or golf, or baseball and he'd answer because he wasn't the pushy type. No me-Tarzan, you-Jane stuff with Danny Rees. If she said no, he'd back off because he knew some other woman would accommodate him. A man with his looks didn't go long without sex.

So did she want sex or not?

Did she want sex with Danny Rees?

Time elapsed in final self-counsel and deliberation—ten seconds.

He hadn't moved. As if he understood. Or maybe he just understood women always said yes.

She leaned forward, placed her flute on the small table, came to her feet, and placed her hand in his. "I've decided to bend the rules tonight."

His hand closed over hers, and he grinned. "I'm grateful."

"It's purely selfish."

"Sex usually is."

She lifted her brows. "Not too selfish, I hope."

He laughed. "Just tell me what you want."

"Such confidence."

"I'm amenable—that's all."

"So I can give orders?"

His gaze narrowed infinitesimally. "It depends."

"On?"

He smiled. "Your tone of voice."

"So as long as I don't offend you, you mean."

"Something like that."

"Like that shirt you wore the other day—the one that said

FREE MUSTACHE RIDES?"

"Nah. I only wore it 'cuz nothing else was clean. Did that piss you off?"

"I wrote you out of my life on the spot."

"I'm glad you changed your mind, and if it helps, I didn't buy the shirt. Some joker I know gave it to me."

"I'll bet he doesn't get laid much."

"I should probably burn it," he said with a grin.

"I'd recommend it."

"Yes ma'am."

"Cute." And he really was, in an oddly boyish way for a man who didn't have a boyish bone in his body.

"If you noticed, I'm dressed inoffensively tonight." He swept a hand downward, indicating his khaki shorts and black T-shirt. "Am I forgiven?"

"Oh,yeah-definitely."

He heard the small impatience in her voice, the horny wistful-ness, too, and pulling her close, he brushed her mouth with his. "How much do you want to see the fireworks?"

"We could watch them from my bedroom." There. She'd been wanting to say that for a very long time.

Her breath was warm on his mouth, the length of her body pressed into his, her breasts softly cushioned against his chest. "Awesome."

His erection was instant and gloriously large, and if ever she might have had misgivings, they were all summarily dismissed. She wanted to feel that—it… his awesomeness inside her— because size really
did
matter unless you were five feet tall and ninety pounds. And now that she'd come in contact with his impressive erection, she suspected he was adored for more than his handsome good looks. "Follow me," she said—on track, in full pursuit—feeling tingly and wet and more ready for sex than she'd felt for a very long time. She really should thank her lucky stars that Danny Rees was a comic book collector.

Some people believed in destiny.

She believed in gypsy fate.

It was a family thing.

And tonight she was definitely grooving with Fate.

"I'm really glad you had a comic book store, or I might never have met you," he said as they walked from the porch into her store.

See. There. Gypsy fate smack dab in your face. "I know," she calmly said as though she wasn't remembering all those nights her grandma shuffled the cards and played solitaire to see what tomorrow would bring. As though reading tea leaves was an everyday occurrence in Stillwater. "I'm glad, too."

THEY HELD HANDS ALL THE WAY UP THE STAIRS, and their handclasp seemed natural—not awkward or clumsy. Like they knew each other forever instead of only a week… or only a few hours, if anyone was actually counting.

Although she certainly wasn't.

The hallway ran north and south from the top of the stairs. It was carpeted in blue-and-white rag rugs because her favorite house was the Swedish painter Carl Larson's house, even though she'd only seen it in books and he'd died about a hundred years ago.

And as if she wasn't already feeling this incredible compatibility, Danny said, "Nice rugs. Have you ever been to Sweden?"

She practically came right there, because as everyone knew, sex was sex for men, but for women sex was about some otherworldly, perhaps unexplainable
connection
!

She stopped in her tracks. Inhaled. Told herself not to blow it by coming precipitously in the hallway and then said in a breathless voice, "How did you know?"

"I've been there," he prosaically replied, like men did without a thought for mystical ramifications or female sexuality. "Your rugs remind me of Sweden."

This wasn't the time—on such short acquaintance—to explain her theory apropos male and female sexual compatibility. Or expose her slightly bizarre family, who had this tendency to give gypsy fate a great deal of relevance when no one in their right mind did. "I see," she said, tamping down all the outre thoughts in the forefront of her mind, trying to sound normal. "They're not actually from Sweden," she added, as though either of them cared.