AFTERGLOW (3 page)

"You're right, George," Chelsea said, appearing much struck. She added thoughtfully, smiling impishly, "I think I'll try my fluffy, feminine, helpless stripes for the rest of the evening. Maybe it'll loosen up our three-piece-suited preppie doctor from Boston. It's probably exactly what he's used to from women."

"Don't go overboard," George warned as they made their way back downstairs. "He's not stupid."

They heard the men laughing in the living room. David, having added Irish coffee to his three glasses of wine, was feeling no pain. He was stretched out on the floor in front of the fireplace, laughing at one of Elliot's stories.

It took him a good ten minutes to realize that Chelsea Lattimer had ceased her obnoxious comments. Had she indeed been obnoxious? He wasn't so sure now. Indeed, she was laughing enthusiastically at every story and joke he told.

Over more Irish coffee Chelsea, at George's encouragement, waxed eloquent on her ill-fated experience with an interior decorator whose dearest love was to place Dresden shepherdesses on every available surface. Women, David thought, but without rancor this time. All they're interested in is spending money. But she was cute, a bit giddy after all that wine, but that just seemed to add to her burgeoning charm. He watched her dark blue eyes sparkle at a bout of repartee between George and Elliot and decided that this bit of female fluff would be quite nice in bed. Lord knew it had been a long time.

Elliot pulled out Trivial Pursuit and matched himself up with Chelsea. Chelsea, quite aware that Dr. David Winter was nearly as mellow as she, decided to continue her role as the cute lamebrain. She felt sorry for Elliot. They were trounced thoroughly. But no one really cared. Too much wine had passed down all their respective throats, except George, who had had only a wine spritzer.

"Lord, look at the time," Chelsea said, blinking owlishly down at her watch. "It's nearly one in the morning!"

As they'd all been lounging on the floor during the game, David had gotten quite a good look at Chelsea's legs. Very nice. Very nice, indeed.

"Yes, it is late," he agreed. "I think I'd like to follow you home, Chelsea, if that's okay with you."

He'd taken off his tie and coat, and Chelsea was looking fondly at his muscled forearms. "All right," she said. If he wanted to play masterful protector, it was just fine with her. Maybe he wasn't such a stuffed shirt after all.

They reached her condo some thirty minutes later. Chelsea was sober as a judge. George accused her of having a hollow leg, and she supposed it was true when it came to white wine. She wondered, looking at David as he came toward her from his car, if the same could be said about him. His very nice hazel eyes were a bit glazed.

He stopped about three inches from her and gave her what could only be called a scorching look. "Come here," he said, and drew her into his arms.

Merciful heavens, she thought, one of my heroes couldn't do it any better.

Chapter 2

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H
is mouth was hard and aggressive, and his hands were quickly stroking down her back to curve around her hips.

Her heroes wouldn't do that! Oh, yes, they would, she amended to herself. Most of them were arrogant, conceited, masterful, out and out rakes, she supposed.

Well, this wasn't the eighteenth century!

His mouth suddenly gentled, and for an instant, but just an instant, she responded.

"You're such a sweet little thing," he said against her lips, and pulled her closer.

"Sweet little what?" Dear heavens, was that sterling bit of endearment his introduction to bed?

David raised his head, feeling a bit dazed. She squirmed away from him, and he reluctantly dropped his hands from her very nice bottom.

"I don't know," he said truthfully. "I guess I got a bit carried away."

"Do all preppie doctors from Boston act like they're God's gift to women?"

David's wits returned with some rapidity. He stared down at her. She was sounding like the woman he'd first met. He felt frustrated and a bit angry. "I don't think I'm mistaken, Miss Lattimer. You rather liked what I was doing until—" He broke off in amazement. "You're a tease," he said. "A damned tease. You led me on—"

"I'm not a tease! You're a conceited idiot. If you will remember, Dr. Winter, I didn't know you existed before five hours ago! Well, maybe it was six hours. And just because I was nice to you and listened to your stupid jokes, you believe I want to hop in the sack!"

"What I think is that you're weird," David gritted between clenched teeth. "I would think by the time a woman reached your age, she was through with game playing."

Had Chelsea been sitting in front of her computer, her fingers would have been drumming a wild tattoo on the keys. "You might look like a hero," she said, "but your character leaves a great deal to be desired. Now why don't you go to your precious hospital and fondle a patient!"

"Fondle a patient! Of all the ridiculous—"

"Good night, Dr. Winter." She slammed her key into the lock and was thankful when it turned on the first try. "Don't forget to fasten your seat belt!"

David stared a moment at the slammed door. Damn you, Elliot, he thought. How could you set me up with a nut case? And a probable schizophrenic. From obnoxious to fluff-head to tease.

"He's a no-conversation lecher!"

George looked thoughtfully at Chelsea, who was pacing ferociously about the Mallorys' living room the following Tuesday afternoon.

"I think David is rather amusing," George said. "Lord knows he's very nice to look at."

"What do you know about it?" Chelsea said in a nasty voice. "The only person you hear or see is your damned husband. How could you set me up with that—"

"That what, Chels? Talk about changing your stripes! You made the man feel like he was the most marvelous male specimen in the universe. What did you expect him to do? Kiss your hand at the front door and sweep you a courtly bow?"

Chelsea groused under her breath, finally admitting, "Well, maybe I did go just a bit overboard with the fluffy, air-head feminine act, but—"

"But what? I think you're being unfair. David may be just a bit reserved, but according to Elliot, he's an excellent doctor, has a good sense of humor and deals well with the emergency room staff, which I imagine, can't be a barrel of roses."

"Apples," Chelsea said. "Bed of roses. He called me a tease, the jerk!"

"He's a good kisser, huh?"

"I didn't hang around long enough to really check him out. Well, maybe just a little bit, to punish him for being such a nerd." That really hadn't been the case at all, but Chelsea wasn't about to change now. She was on a roll.

George burst into laughter. "Oh, Chels, I wish you could hear yourself! It's too much! Please, get yourself a glass of white wine. I can't bear all this useless energy."

Two glasses of white wine later, Chelsea was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, looking thoughtfully at George. "You really think he deserves another chance?"

"I most certainly do," George said. "Why don't we try again, say this Friday night? And, Chels, why don't you wear your own stripes. You know, the natural, fun, loving ones, and no changing in the middle of the river."

"Stream," Chelsea said. "And it's horses, not stripes." She added, her voice glum, "Dr. Winter probably doesn't care for natural, fun, or loving."

"Just give it a shot."

"Look, David, it was all a mistake. George told me Chelsea had the flu. That's probably why you found her behavior a little weird. She was taking antihistamines and drinking, which isn't too bright, admittedly. That would make anyone odd. You did think she was okay, didn't you?"

"Look, Elliot, she's a conceited little rich girl, just like—well, just like some women I've known. She's probably never done an ounce of work in her life, and she's got the nicest bot—" He broke off as a resident approached. After a quick discussion the resident left.

"I've got to go, Elliot. A traffic accident."

"About Friday night?"

"All right. Seven o'clock."

Chelsea, lost in San Francisco in the year 1854, didn't hear the telephone until the fifth ring. Sarah Butler, her part-time housekeeper, companion, phone answerer and good friend, was across the street at the grocery store, buying radishes for some unlikely concoction that would have only ninety-five calories in it.

It was George. "Hi, Chels. Hope I didn't interrupt you, but everything is go for Friday."

"I can't believe David Winter ever wants to see me again."

"Well, he does, and he'll be here with bells on."

"More likely another three-piece charcoal gray suit with a pearl-colored silk tie and a starchy white shirt."

"My, what a memory you have for a man you didn't particularly like."

"All writers have excellent memories," Chelsea said with great, but instant, untruth.

"Sure, and all cats eat Alpo."

"Now that's bizarre, George."

"I know. Get back to the novel. I'll see you soon."

"Chelsea," David said stiffly as he trailed behind Elliot into the Mallorys' living room.

"Hello, David," Chelsea said, looking up from the sofa with a show of mild interest. Oddly enough, she felt a bit nervous, a very unusual state for her, and her voice sounded clipped as she said, "How have you been this past week?"

"Busy. Very busy."

"How interesting."

Yeah, you sound fascinated, David thought, but said nothing. "You feeling okay, George?" he asked, turning to his hostess.

George's back was throbbing more than usual, but she gave David her flawless smile. "Just fine, David."

"Are you over your flu, Chelsea?" he asked.

Chelsea looked at him blankly. George said in a very carrying voice, "Elliot! Where are you? We've got starving folk in here!"

"Ah," Elliot said, emerging with a tray of goodies from the kitchen, "a man's work is never done. At least I'm not barefoot or looking like a spider."

"Jerk," George said with high good humor. "Why," she asked, examining the tray, "is this cheese spread on crackers?"

"Wash out your mouth, woman!" Elliot added to David, "She does know the difference, I think. It's my special homemade cheese ragomontade, artfully set on gourmet wheat—"

George giggled. "Stop that, you're making it up. There's no such thing as ragomontade!"

"Delicious," Chelsea said, "whatever it is. Do you cook, Dr. Winter?"

He arched a brow at her. "Sorry, it's a skill I never acquired."

"Ah, you found a wife to drudge for you, huh?" As soon as the words were out of her mouth she cursed herself silently. Why did she react to him with instant sarcasm?

"Elliot," George sang out, "could you pour Chelsea some white wine?"

"Yes, I did find a wife," David said, "but she didn't cook, either." Take that, you lovely-bottomed, smart-mouthed woman! My God, he thought, looking at her closely, she was blushing!

Despite the reddened cheeks, David had to admit that Chelsea Lattimer looked quite lovely. He was sure he'd think so even if he weren't so horny. She was wearing a yellow silk dress with black doodles on it, and high-heeled black shoes. She'd probably come up to his Adam's apple, he thought. It occurred to him that she must want to make amends. She was certainly dressed to impress.

He discounted his own impeccable appearance.

Elliot shot his wife an "I'm going to get you for this" look, but George just smiled sweetly at him. How could he have fallen for that flu bit? "Chelsea was just telling us her latest plot when you arrived, David."

That drew a startled look. "Plot?" he asked, giving her his full attention. "I don't understand. You're a writer?"

"Yes."

"You're published?"

He didn't have to sound so bloody incredulous, Chelsea thought. "Why, yes." She added modestly, "I was very lucky. In the right place at the right time with the right manuscript, and all that."

"Oh, bosh, Chels," George said. "She never got even one rejection slip, David. The very first publishing house she went to signed her up immediately."