Just Her Type (35 page)

 
Reuben
Richardson.
 
Now Lars
Washington.
 
Two of the most
successful entrepreneurs in town were members of Shangri-La.
Who
knew!
Jaimie shoved the towel
  
back
on the shelf. Maybe she wouldn’t need it.

The man nodded his greeting, before plucking a
soccer ball from a box of sports equipment.

 
“That’s
the
Lars Washington of Sole to Soul Shoe Factory?” Jaimie
whispered, watching him depart.

“In the Shangri-La brochures we could boast about
our multimillionaire members, but we chose not to. Part of Shangri-La’s appeal
is when you step behind these gates and strip down; we’re all the same. There’s
very little social class distinction. Nobody is judging you based on what
you’re wearing.
 
There’s something
so liberating about that.
 
Don’t you
think?”

“Great,” Jaimie replied on autopilot.

“It’s tour time, then!’’ Trudie jotted down a few
notes on her clipboard.
 
“Hmmm.
Let’s see, we’ll start with the camp site, then we’ll work our way back to the
rec room.”

A crowd had congregated around the pool and
fountain. Jaimie hoped Richardson had arrived.
 
“Can we start with the pool instead? I’d
love to see your new fountain.”

Trudie paused to consider the detour.
 
“I guess that’s okay.
 
We’re going to have a contest to name
it. The winner gets a free one-year supply of Mr. Richardson’s best-selling
flavor, Mega Mocha Chubby Chip!”

“Is that so? Wonderful,” Jaimie replied, though
the last thing a naturist needed was a truckload of free ice cream.

When they reached the sculpture Jaimie gaped,
blinked, and gaped again.
 
The 65-
foot-long monstrosity had been fashioned to resemble a provocatively-posed
female leg and foot, complete with painted red toenails.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Trudie gushed.

“Um, yeah.”

 
“And
it has a practical purpose, too.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a sundial. See? The limb, which acts as the
gnomon, is adjusted to our latitude. See the numbers at its base? The shadows
hit just so and voila! We get the most accurate time without wearing a
timepiece—”

“For the most unfettered naturist experience?”

“Exactly. You’re catching on. The history of
naturism is very rich.
 
Benjamin
Franklin was a naturist, you know,” Trudie prattled on. “Mr. Richardson
commissioned the sculpture, but he let us submit ideas to the artist for the
design. He hasn’t seen it yet, but we think he’ll be quite pleased with the
concept, don’t you think, Lynn?”

“Well...uh… It’s very…um…interesting.”

The brunette with the Betty Boop tattoo darted
toward the pair.
 
“Trudie!
 
You’re not going to believe this! The
ice sculpture just arrived, but instead of getting the replica of
Michelangelo’s
David
that we ordered,
they delivered this God-awful no-neck bird they’re claiming is a swan.
 
It looks like Donald Duck!
 
Obviously somebody screwed up, but the
delivery men won’t take it back, and they’re demanding the balance of the
bill!”

Trudie looked heavenward. “Is it too much to hope
I can pull this day off without a hitch?” She turned to Jaimie. “You stay right
here. Feel free to grab a bite and a drink. I’ll be back as soon as I
straighten out this mess.”

Jaimie smiled as the brunette took off with Trudie
in her wake. Shangri-La members circled long tables topped with a smorgasbord
of meats, cheeses, fruits, crudités,
 
ice cream…And other delectable sweets!
Her weakness. Two fully stocked bars flanked the buffet.

Jaimie couldn’t blend in. Her navy suit demanded
attention against the palette of flesh tones and white towels.
 
She reached for a fistful of doughnut
holes with rainbow sprinkles. Popping one inside her mouth, she caught the rear
view of a magnificent male physique near the fountain.
 
It wasn’t like her to gawk, but she
boldly catalogued his assets—long sleekly muscular legs, broad V-shaped
back, diamond-cut calves, and double-wide shoulders. A tribal tattoo—
concentric black swirls with knife point edges—sprawled on his right
deltoid and shoulder blade. His towel hugged slim hips and a taut tush, making
what she couldn’t see all the more tantalizing.
 
She popped another doughnut hole.
Too
bad
.
 
Though he looked quite tasty, a guy into
social nudity was definitely
not
her
type. When he turned to talk to the obviously enraptured female at his side,
Jaimie caught a glimpse of his profile.
 
For a closer look, she took a few steps forward, and joined a cluster of
chatting women. He had a neatly groomed moustache anchored by goatee so closely
shaven it looked like a shadow. Both gave a smoldering edge to a face almost
too pretty to be male. But that physique of his, layered with well-honed
muscle, inspired fantasies involving honey, 103 ways to savor honey to be
exact.
 
Her gaze climbed the
stairway of his deeply chiseled abs.
One
.
Two
.
Three
,
Four
,
Five
.
Six
…The man was the proud owner of the legendary, but rarely seen
eight-pack!
 
She dropped a doughnut
hole.
Awww.
The
last
cinnamon
-
sprinkled
one
,
too
. But her attention quickly returned
to him. That chest… Sculpted heaven, she marveled before trying to snatch her
attention back to the business at hand. Richardson.
Focus
. Yes, making a connection with Reuben Richardson. But instead
Jaimie strained to block out the cackling women to eavesdrop on Eight-Pack’s
conversation.

“I’m going to get a drink. Would you like
something?’’ asked the woman with the boom-boom curves standing beside him.

“Allow me,’’ he replied in a rich, deep timbre
perfect for whispering sweet-and-naughty nothings.

“No, I’ll get them.
 
I need to chat with Stan, the bartender
anyway.
 
What would you like?”
 
The question came fully loaded with the
coffee-tea-or-me option.

“Surprise me.”
 
He winked.

Jaimie nearly choked on a doughnut hole when the
handsome stranger’s gaze locked with hers.
 
Something magnetic zinged between them.
 
Her belly fluttered.
 
Her breath snagged in her throat. His
honey-colored eyes bewitched her.
 
She definitely wasn’t at Shangri-La for that!
 
Turning on her heel, Jaimie scrambled
like a skittish cat and crashed into Trudie, who broke her ricochet.
 
“Lynn, are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine!” Jaimie eased out of her grip,
adjusting her jacket and fanny pack. “Will the dedication ceremony start soon?”

“Trudie!
 
Trudie!”
 
Betty Boop accosted
the Shangri-La manager
again
.

“What now, Debbie?” Trudie heaved a sigh. “You’re
the assistant manager, you know. When are you going to start
assisting
? I can’t handle everything.”

“I know, but it’s Mr. Richardson. He’s on the
phone in your office. Line one.”

“I’d better take that. I hope he’s not
canceling.”
 
Trudie turned to
Jaimie. “Debbie here can show you around.”

“I’d like to wait if you don’t mind.”
 
Jaimie wore a meek smile. “I’m more
comfortable with you.”

“Oh, all right, I guess it’s okay if you wait here
for a few more minutes.”
 
Trudie
took off again.

“Take your time.” Jaimie hadn’t recovered from the
stranger so handsome he had to be trouble.
 
She didn’t care how long it had been since her legs felt all noodly like
they did when she first laid eyes on him.
 
Nor did she care that he had made her insides somersault. Something
nobody had done in a long, long while.
 
She was there to work, and it was high time she got to it.
 
Richardson hadn’t arrived yet, but she
doubted Shangri-La was as squeaky clean as Trudie insisted.
 
She’d repay Priscilla, a pal and
Bee
co-worker, who had passed along the
Shangri-La tip.
 
If there were any
freaky-deeky happenings at this place, Jaimie would ferret them out for
Priscilla’s
Deep
Dish
gossip column.

A few feet away on a grassy patch, the two plump
perky women who were playing table tennis earlier had moved on to a heated
badminton battle with Pops.
  
Most Shangri-La members, including those who had been working in the
office when she arrived, now cavorted on the lawn or around the pool and
fountain. Jaimie headed for the main building to do a little sleuthing.

Chapter
2

Mitch Malone scoured the
patio for the woman in the boxy suit, granny flats, and uncompromising bun…
Why
? She was not his type at all. Tall,
angular, and regal. Built, babelicious, and defiantly buck wild was more his
style. Still, he continued his search, convinced he’d seen her before though he
couldn’t recall where.

“I’m back. Did you miss me?”
 
Desiree, the woman who had been
shamelessly flirting with him, returned carrying two bright crimson drinks with
little umbrellas sprouting from them.

Mitch accepted the offered drink with one hand and
adjusted the jumbo safety pins securing his towel with the other. He couldn’t
believe he’d been reduced to wearing the damn thing, but he wasn’t about to
blow an opportunity to get to Reuben Richardson simply because he refused to
part with his pants, something he’d eagerly done for captivating females on too
many occasions to count.
 

Landing this interview was his ticket to a
full-time staff position at
the
Corrinth Examiner
and a little professional respect.
 
Freelancing alien abduction and
three-headed baby stories for
the
International Inquisitor
and
the
Weekly Tale Tattler
was losing its appeal.
 
He hadn’t expected his first foray into
legitimate journalism to land him in the middle of Shangri-La.
 
But here he was at a festive gathering with
nothing but a scratchy towel between him and complete humiliation.
 
And all because that
Examiner
editor had made it clear that landing the Richardson profile was the only way
he’d overlook Mitch’s tabloid background.

Once Mitch accomplished what many others had tried
and failed, that editor and all the rest who had looked down their noses at him
would have to admit they’d been wrong. That strengthened his resolve as he
sipped what must have been wild cherry Kool-Aid spiked with rubbing alcohol
blazed a path down his throat.

“Too strong?’’ Desiree reached for his cup. “Can I
get you something else?”

Mitch wheezed and swallowed an unmanly cough.
 
“Nah…I’m good.”

Not one to bypass an opportunity to add an entry
to his little black book cell phone app, he couldn’t help noticing Desiree
wasn’t half bad to look at. Not bad at all. A nice full figure eight. Thick.
Like a woman should be.
  
Tone
and firm, but she hadn’t aerobicized all of her feminine softness away. Rarely
did he get to perform such a thorough appraisal of the goods before the wining
and dining. That towel of hers was so short one hiccup would expose all her
secrets.
 
But he would not go for
her phone number.
 
While he’d
admired the centerfolds in
Playboy
from
time to time, the thought
of other men ogling
his
date’s private parts would drive him crazy. Call
him a hypocrite. But besides that, he couldn’t resist lush bee-stung lips;
Desiree’s all but vanished when they stretched into a smile.
 
Now the woman in the navy blue suit… She
had quite a kisser on her. A real cushy pair that could inspire a marathon of
heated fantasies. She obviously knew that mouth was her most striking feature
because it was painted a sassy shade of red while she’d used a lighter hand
with everything else.

“Thanks for the drink,” Mitch said. “Hey, did you
happen to see where the woman in the blue suit went?”

Desiree pointed. “In the main compound over
there.”

“Excuse me.” Mitch pivoted in that direction.
“I’ll be right back.”

***

Jaimie slipped inside the
recreation room relieved that she’d eluded Trudie, still ensconced in her
office on the phone.

 
Snooping was next to impossible so Jaimie
kept out of sight as she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a mirror on the
wall.
 
Her lipstick could’ve used a
touch up, but she wouldn’t bother.
 
She usually saved cosmetics for special occasions. That day she had worn
Brazen Berry lipstick, blush, and nail polish samples only because Granny Mac
had insisted.
 
Her grandmother had
grinned impishly as she presented a plastic bag bulging with miniature
containers pilfered from Tricia, Jaimie’s close friend, neighbor, and Mary Kay
representative.
 

After Jaimie heard Trudie’s flip-flops heading for
the front door, she tiptoed from the rec room to find the lobby clear. Two
doors led to opposite hallways. She went left and ended up in a Tex-Mex-style
kitchen. Nothing out of the ordinary there—except the broken-down juke
box and the pop-bottle-cap-studded Frigidaire. An old smashed-penny clock loomed
over a velvet portrait of Vegas Elvis. Studded white jumpsuit. Pork chop
sideburns. A scratching sound drew Jaimie’s attention to another door. After
turning the knob and peeking through a slit of an opening, she found a pantry
chock-full of dry and canned goods packaged in the party-sized containers.

 
“Go
for it, little fella,” Jaimie said to the rodent who had burrowed its way
inside a giant box of Cheez-Its. Those Twinkies tucked away on the top shelf
called her name. Light-headed with glee over her discovery, Jaimie paused and
drew in a deep breath.
Resist
temptation
. At breakfast, she’d stuffed
herself with enough Pop-Tarts to fell a moose. And what about those doughnut
holes she’d just eaten? She’d pushed past her sugar allotment for the day. Did
her sweet tooth rule her? She would rule her sweet tooth.

Tomorrow.

Jaimie peered up at the box of Twinkies and gauged
whether she needed a chair to reach them. The shelf’s warped, fraying wood, and
loose joints were much too rickety to disturb, but the craving got the best of
her as she latched on to its edge anyway. Dust rained down and stung her eyes.
The shelf creaked in protest, announcing its instability.
Careful
. She had to peek inside the big box of spongy delights. If
there were lots of them, no one would miss the one she planned to swipe.
Hoisting herself up on tiptoe, she gingerly tilted the box.

“Need some help?”
 
A deep voice came from behind.

Jaimie reeled back and lost her grip on the box. A
shower of individually wrapped snack cakes pelted her head. She whirled around
and recognized Eight-Pack from the pool area. Then the Twinkies box and rotting
shelf plummeted toward her. Eight-Pack shoved her toward the box of Cheez-Its.
The frightened mouse skittered between her feet. In a flash, Eight-Pack avoided
flattening the rodent, dodged a Costco-sized can of stewed tomatoes, and caught
the wayward plank before it bashed their brains out—all with that towel
of his securely in place.

“Are you all right?” she shrieked, grasping the
sturdy doorjamb. “I’m so sorry!”

“I’m good.” He pitched the plank to the floor and
wiped bits of wood and chipped paint from his towel wrap.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Just took me by surprise, that’s all. You
all right?”

“Yes, thanks.” Jaimie’s hand flew to her chest,
where it felt as if her heart would hammer through. “Goodness, you scared the
bejeezus out of me. You should never sneak up on a person like that.”

“Especially when that person is snooping, right?”

She’d been busted, but she took a stab at shifting
the focus. “You’re hurt.” She pointed to the clusters of inch-long splinters
piercing his palms.

Eight-Pack looked down as if he’d just noticed
them. “I think I’ll live.” He plucked away the longest ones.

“I’m sure more tiny pieces are imbedded in there.
They need to come out—now.” Jaimie grabbed his arm and dragged him toward
the picnic-style wooden table. “Sit.” She pointed to the matching bench.
Stunned into submission by her take-charge manner, he complied. “Splinters can
cause infection if they’re not removed quickly and properly.”

“Is that so?”

“You don’t have to be macho about it. The smallest
injuries—paper cuts, hang nails, splinters—can hurt like heck,” she
told him in the gust of a single breath. Her hands fluttered about her fanny
pack and removed a slim vinyl case containing a deluxe Swiss Army knife. She
flicked past the mini corkscrew remover, magnifying glass, pliers, can opener,
toothpick, file, and cigar cutter until she came to the shiny tweezers.

Eight-Pack eyed the Swiss Army knife. “Does that
thing come with a Batman decoder ring, too?”

“I feel really bad about this.” Still flustered,
Jaimie turned his palms upward for closer inspection. She plunked down on the
bench next to him and tried to extract bits of wood.
Block out the awe-inspiring ridges of his bare torso and lean blocks of
chest flesh.
Instead
,
her fingers
trembled and she fumbled the tweezers.

When he leaned forward to get them for her, the
slit in his white towel wrap widened a bit–exposing just enough of his
hard, etched thigh to send her pulse rate racing.

With his honey-colored eyes on her, Eight-Pack
licked very kissable-looking lips just before flashing a rascally smile,
gleaming and white. “Here you go.”
 
As he passed the tweezers back his thumb brushed over hers. The small
gesture, charged with sensual promise, sent a current bolting through her body.
Instantly moist in the desert between her legs and so intensely sensitized
everywhere else, she felt dizzy with awareness. His gorgeous body was so close
to hers. Her nipples hardened against her lace bra, driving her batty in a
wanton sort of way.
 
Reigning in
uncharacteristically dirty thoughts, she gulped and went back to work on the
needle-like bits of wood sprouting from his palm.

“This is really sweet of you.” His gaze, fringed
with satiny jet lashes, bored into her.
 

“Seeing as how I almost got the stew knocked out
of you, helping with these splinters is the least I can do.”

“The ste-
ew
?
You’re too cute. Do I detect a Southern accent?” Eight-Pack shifted as she
plucked and his towel parted a tad more.

“Born and reared in Corrinth, Ohio but my folks
are originally from Alabama, so I might have acquired a slight twang. And
certain idioms might present themselves every now and then.”

He nodded and shifted some more.

C’mon!
C’mon! Open Sesame!
Jaimie’s reinvigorated libido willed his towel to fall.
But her better sense intervened.
Divert
.
Divert
.
Divert
.

Idle chatter about her family’s roots, the
weather, the stock market, or even simple introductions would not suffice.
 
Besides, tagging this ultimate female
fantasy with a name might somehow detract from the titillating surrealism of
the encounter. Her best friends, GinaMarie and Tricia, were going to flip when
they got wind of this!

Jaimie sneaked a peek at the muscle definition
around his knees, a sure sign that he also possessed a rock-hard butt.
 
The mental image made her tingle. His
knees parted a bit more, almost in invitation, or so she hoped. Jaimie
guesstimated that seven splinters later that towel of his would split wider
than a Broadway stage curtain on opening night. She plucked faster! So fast she
fumbled the tweezers again. This time they landed between Eight-Pack’s bare
feet.

 
“I’m
such a klutz !”

“Is that right?” He bit his lip, eyes glittering
with mischief. He gazed at her as if he could see right through her tank top
and blazer. She crouched to the floor as lady-like as a skirt would allow.
That’s when it hit her. She kneeled before a body that would make any woman say
adios
to her morals and good home training.
 
Oh,
my!
Realizing how ridiculously suggestive this all looked, she lunged to
retrieve the tweezers so she could pop back to her spot on the bench. But with
two left feet, she lost her balance
again.
Forced to brace herself, she used his knees to break her fall. Her face landed
way
too close to his danger zone for
someone who refused to French kiss until the fifth date. The room spun around
them. Then their gazes locked until…

A wail of disapproval ripped out of nowhere.
Trudie stood in the doorway, hands clutched to her chest, mouth stretched in a
giant O. “Why, I never!”

Jaimie, stunned to a freeze frame, crouched at
this towel-clad stranger’s crotch. Her lips wiggled into a nervous smile and
her voice went quivery and high pitched. “Um, hi Trudie! I swear; it’s not as
bad as it looks.”

***

Minutes later, Mitch and
the woman in the ill-fitting blue suit sat in Trudie’s office like juvenile
delinquents in detention. He checked the safety pins on his towel.
 
In the kitchen earlier, modesty had been
the last thing on Mitch’s mind, but he took some satisfaction in the fact that
Trudie didn’t get a gander at the goods. Now the woman in the blue suit…He had
to admit, he’d entertained thoughts of flashing her something to talk about.

“I knew something wasn’t right about you two.” Trudie
lips contracted as if pulled tighter and tighter by some invisible drawstring.
She bounced from one to the other, scolding them and pacing the length of her
small office. She whirled toward Jaimie and pinned her with a look of disgust.
“And you, with all your highfalutin talk about feeling the soft breeze and the
warm sun on your skin.
 
That’s
obviously not all you wanted to feel,” she harrumphed, zooming in on Mitch’s
groin.

Straightening his towel wrap, Mitch crossed his
legs. Unrepentant, he tried to get comfortable on the cool molded vinyl
chair.
 
He refused to give Trudie
the satisfaction of pleading his case when he knew no matter what he offered as
an explanation, he’d get the big boot.