21 Marine Salute: 21 Always a Marine Tales (11 page)

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” And it was. Ironic considering she’d turned around twice on her way to the date, both times having to consciously recite the three reasons she’d allowed her agent to sign her up for the mysterious Madame Eve’s 1Night Stand. She wanted a night with a real man, with no vested interest in how she could help his career. She wanted to explore genuine options, to descend from the glass walls of exposure where being seen was what it was all about. And, she wanted a night that was just about her and the delicious man standing in front of her.

As they shook hands, she couldn’t help the smile pulling her mouth wide. She didn’t need to pretend pleasure at meeting him or the simple delight at the emotion rippling across his expression lighting up his slate gray eyes.

“Ma’am, you have no idea.” The cultured gentleman with the air of small town charm continued to hold her hand.

“Well, perhaps you can enlighten me.” Her knees quivered and she was glad she’d chosen the pale champagne silk dress with its bodice cupping top and floor length skirt. James released her with a hint of reluctance and gestured toward the booth.

Barely managing to contain the wild butterflies rioting in her belly, she swept a smoothing hand across her hip before sitting. Fortunately pure silk didn’t wrinkle, so sitting wouldn’t leave a crinkled line across her ass.

Thank God I worked out this morning
.

He waited a beat until she’d settled before sliding in across from her. She was at once irritated and delighted by their private booth. Delighted for the intimacy of the small table and the privacy it afforded and irritated that he was far away, around the curve of the booth to sit opposite her.

Slow down. We can afford to take a moment and absorb. He hasn’t said much and the gorgeous packaging is just window dressing
. Her libido wasn’t remotely interested in the practical thoughts. She crossed one leg over the other, foot bumping his long legs under the table. A quiver of heat shivered in her belly.

“I have a confession to make.” Her first rule of dating shattered without a backward glance. She never started the conversation. After ten years of boring dates with men who only seemed to know how to talk about themselves, she’d learned the best barometer of her interest was to let her date take the lead. She could tell in five minutes or less whether dinner would make it to dessert or drinks afterward and within another ten whether they would be saying goodnight at the restaurant.

“Oh?” He shifted in the seat, the warmth of his leg stretching away from hers a fraction, allowing her crossed legs space but still close enough that she regretted insisting on a public meeting location.

“Yes.” Wrapping her fingers around the wine glass for courage, she tried to edge aside the schoolgirl jitters to meet his even look. “I’ve never decided to have sex with a man after one glance before.”

His mouth opened, a hint of shock flattening his dimples.

Way to play that subtle, Kincaid. Where did you learn your technique?
The Bachelor?

“Thank you, I think. And I’ll see your confession with one of my own. I
have
decided that I would have sex with a woman at one glance before.”

Straightforward, blunt-edged honesty without arrogance.
Where the hell has this guy been hiding?

“Oh?” She played with fire.

The waitress returned with a chilled bottle of wine in an ice bucket for her and a square, tumbled glass with ice and a splash of something clear and bubbly for him. “Would you care to hear the specials tonight?”

He glanced at Lauren, eyebrows raised in inquiry. Smile widening, she nodded a silent assent. “Please,” he told the waitress. She listed off several dishes, but Lauren barely heard her. He canted his head to the side, his expression attentive and patient throughout the full list.

“What would you like?” The smoky, sex-on-a-stick gray gaze slid toward her and she had to fight the urge to bite her lip.

“The parmesan encrusted salmon, fresh vegetables and lemon spears, white rice.” He was steak medium rare, and baked potato with butter and sour cream, and avocado bread.

He’s chocolate-drizzled cheesecake and white chocolate dipped strawberries, too. Stop drooling
.

The waitress smiled and disappeared with their order. Dabbing her mouth with the napkin, Lauren took a drink of wine to buy her composure some time. “So, how did that go?”

“How did what go, ma’am?”

“The woman you wanted to have sex with at one glance.”

“I don’t know. We just met.” It could have been a line, but the simplicity and directness coupled in his tone melted her reservations.

“Well, you will definitely have to let me know how that turns out.” She raised her wine glass.

“You will be the first to know.” He clinked his tumbler to her glass and grinned.

“So what do you do, James with no last name?”

He set down his drink and frowned. “I apologize. James Westwood, ma’am.”

“It’s a pleasure, James Westwood, and please, call me Lauren, not ma’am.”

“Yes, ma—Lauren.”

They both laughed, the artificial tension melting like the ice in his glass.

“I’m a psychologist, boring on the surface, I suppose. But a field I enjoy.”

“It doesn’t sound boring, I played a psychologist once.”
Lame, Lauren. Lame. “Look you do something
real
for a living, but I played one on TV
.” She swallowed another mouthful of wine to cover her discomfort.

“You were charming. I loved watching you trying to ferret out the murderer.” He turned his glass in an easy circle on its napkin.

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t have sent patients to me. I barely understood the issue the profilers were describing or why my character was so defensive.”
And can we stop talking about my career…isn’t that what bores the hell out of me when every other date I’ve had does it?

“I don’t know. You disagreed on the underlying cause, and as it turns out you were right. The triggers were not psychosexual and indirect, but directly related to his immature understanding of social interactions due to a lifetime of bullying. The man literally couldn’t comprehend kindness, which was why the perp kept coming back to see your character week in and week out. You were the first one to accept him for who he was and why, when he experienced the break, he didn’t hurt her and she was able to talk him down.”

“Well, when you put it that way…I was brilliant.”

He laughed, a kind, cheerful sound devoid of any condescension or judgment and she grinned.

“Half of my job is listening, hearing what a patient says. Too often we don’t really listen to the people around us. We talk to them, we listen to them talk, but we don’t hear them. We judge people whether it’s a social situation or business relationship, we categorize the worth and value of their words before they even open their mouth. In some cases, we label them and box them up as people and never allow them to step beyond those parameters because we don’t want to hear it.”

The waitress returned with a pair of walnut apple salads sprinkled with feta cheese, then quickly and efficiently left them to their privacy.

“How can we not want to hear the people we care about?” Lauren picked up her fork and speared an apple slice. “Doesn’t the act of conversation suggest that we want to hear what someone else is saying?”

“Yes and no. When we talk, we want the person we are speaking to, to hear us and share our emotions with regard to the topic of conversation. Case in point, you wanted to relate to my profession so you mentioned what you played on television. It’s not the same thing and you were a bit embarrassed about it, but….” He waved his fork at her when she opened her mouth, the already mentioned embarrassment creeping up to warm her cheeks. “But it also demonstrated that you were trying to empathize with me. You did hear me and you wanted to create a common space for our conversation.”

“And here I thought it a little vain and pretentious by asking you to pay attention to my career, and I hate bringing up my career.”
Thank God for dim lighting. I must be beet red at this point
.

“But you’re an actress—it’s what you do. Why would it be vain or pretentious to bring up your body of work?”

She crunched the apple thoughtfully, considering her answer. “Because…it’s lame? I have people who come up to me all the time, acting like they really know me or really love me because they saw me in some movie or some program and it gives them the right to this intimate acquaintance with me. I deal with actors and their egos all the time….”

Why is it always so hard to put my thoughts into actual words? Do I really need a script for this?

“At the risk of sounding clinical, you have every right to refer to your career and your experiences for the purposes of conversation and worry about the awkwardness that I might be interested in you only for those experiences.” He chewed a mouthful of salad, gaze never wavering. “For the record, you stole my breath away in
Once Smitten, Twice Shy
, but any intimacy I want to experience, I want to do so with the woman across the table from me, not the lady on the screen.”

“You’re direct.”

“Best way to avoid miscommunication is to say what you mean. Mean what you say.” The wry hint of self-deprecation didn’t escape her.

“You didn’t sound clinical…okay, maybe a little…but I like that you seem to understand my babble.”

“It’s not babble. It’s conversation. We can talk about your work. We can
not
talk about your work. You can finish that salad and dance with me. Or we can talk about the Cowboys….”

“That’s a sports team, right?” She hid a smile behind another bite of salad, the sweet tart of the apple enhanced by the smooth, smoky feta and lemony lettuce.

“I know. You’re a Raiders girl.”

“Actually, I’m more of a Lakers girl. I look fabulous on those big screens sitting courtside.” She grinned when he laughed again. She loved the deep, throaty quality of his laugh without any hint of nasal distraction or worse, the polite tee hee of humoring the blonde.

“Been to any games recently? A lot of the guys recorded them. I can check it out for myself.”

“During the playoffs. My agent wanted me to make nice with the lead in the movie I auditioned for—you know, see and be seen, get some buzz on TMZ—and see if the casting director went for it.” The tabloids loved her ringside positioning next to the Hollywood bad boy with his oversexed reputation and permanent bachelor status.

She hated that part of her job. The auditions were professional, but all the ‘play for the press’ made her look like an exhibitionist. Lately, a desperate exhibitionist trying to cling to her youth.

“Did you get the part?” A guarded look came over his expression.

“Nope. I’m actually kind of glad because the man didn’t seem to understand the need for Tic Tacs before you whisper in someone’s face. He smelled like hot dogs and bad coffee.”

The waitress reappeared, stealing away their salads and setting their meals in front of them.

“Good. Well, not good,” He frowned dropping his gaze to his plate. Her heart bounced like a puppy scrabbling for attention. “Sorry, would you like more wine?”

“Yes, please. And why are you sorry?” She slid her wine glass toward him, and he refilled it carefully.

“Being happy you didn’t get a job doesn’t seem like the right thing.”

“It depends on why you were happy. Because if you knew about the production, then you might be happy that I’m not somewhere in Indiana filming right now. Or you could be happy because the lead has a lecherous reputation and has slept with every woman he’s ever shared screen time with. Or you could simply be happy that I didn’t want to kiss him….” She lifted the wine glass to her lips, daring him with a playful look.

“Fine. I’m not sorry at all that you didn’t get the part because I’m extremely happy you’re not in Indiana, nor being pawed by a letch whose arms would need to be broken, and that you didn’t want to kiss him.”

Her sex clenched. “I’m glad I didn’t get the part, too.”

“Are you glad because you didn’t want to kiss him? Because you didn’t want to sleep with him? Or because you wouldn’t be at dinner with me?”

An hour ago, she wanted to be anywhere but the Sybarite Club waiting for some stranger with expectations of sex no matter how libidinous her needs were. An hour ago she’d argued with her agent on the phone about the latest offer to play mom to Aqua Williams, Hollywood’s latest
It
girl in a role that she herself would have been offered ten years before.

An hour ago, she hadn’t met James Westwood and decided that kissing him would be better than cheesecake dipped in melted chocolate or that lead in the next action film would be poor recompense for the laughter-tinged desire humming through her system.

“Lauren?”

“Hmm?” She covered her mouth mid-chew and swallowed the salmon with a choked chuckle. “Sorry, I think that I was happy I didn’t get the part because I wouldn’t have known what I missed, meeting you. I really thought this whole thing was a bad idea….”

“Which segues beautifully into the question I wanted to ask, but didn’t want to offend you.” He set his knife down and captured her hand. Her insides somersaulted. His calloused thumb stroked her palm.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” She shattered her second rule of dating. Although hardly
fait accompli
, she didn’t care if he’d signed up because he just wanted to get laid. She hadn’t had so much fun in a long time.

He slid out of the booth, still holding her hand. “Dance with me.”

She let him tug her out of the booth. “I can’t dance.”

“Fine. Step on my toes with me.”

Curiosity trumped nerves and she nodded, following him onto the dance floor and gliding into his arms, barely aware of the drifting melody of sobbing saxophone and nerve-thumping guitar. Up close, cradled against the warmth of his chest, enjoying the beat of his heart against his ribs beneath her palm, she found her four-inch heels gave her no advantage to his height. The cage of his body wrapped around hers, pulling her into a gentle to and fro sway far sexier and simpler than any choreographed number she’d had to practice.