All Shook Up (12 page)

“Great metaphor. A little pessimistic, perhaps, but very visual.”

“Yeah?” Dru looked Char straight in the eye. “I freely acknowledge I’m terrified to risk my emotional welfare by pursuing a relationship with J.D. But at least I don’t deny there’s something there to
be
pursued.”

That effectively ended the conversation, since Char wasn’t willing to do the same. Still, Dru gave it extensive thought later, when she was alone.

Was
she the worst sort of coward to not even try? Maybe J.D. did have the depths she was beginning to suspect he had. Tate sure was crazy about him, and Aunt Sophie seemed to like him a lot as well.

Of course, Tate was crazy about snakes, too; and Aunt Soph was a victim of her hormones these days, and therefore not the most reliable judge in the world.

For several moments she dreamily considered the seductive vision of J.D. in that carpenter’s belt, repairing all the things around here that had long needed repairs. Then she pulled herself up short.

That was no reason to get involved with a guy who had trouble written all over him. There were plenty of fix-it guys right here in Star Lake whom she could hire…even if they weren’t particularly reliable. Besides, J.D. was about a hundred and ninety pounds of heartache on the hoof.

So the smart thing would be to give him a wide berth until this fascination for him passed.

And she was nothing if not a smart woman.

D
ru did a fairly decent job of avoiding J.D. for the next few days. She saw him working with the ground crew a couple of times, but fortunately those glimpses were few and far between, since she generally worked afternoons in the lodge and had left by the time his split shift started in the restaurant.

She heard about him, of course; it was too much to hope otherwise. Tate went to see him Monday morning to regale him with his adventures with Billy, and J.D. had let him stick around to help sand the canoe.

They discussed the boat’s myriad details while they worked. Turned out it was constructed of edge-glued cedar strips that hadn’t been properly cared for. J.D. talked sheer lines and keel lines to Tate, explained the finer points of bow stems, gunwales, thwarts, and the like. The two of them also carried on an ongoing debate as to whether the finished boat would look best
painted red, black, or dark green. J.D. leaned toward red; Tate’s vote went for the always macho black.

Dru knew all this because Tate related every blessed word, boundlessly and in faithful detail. If she heard that canoe’s praises sung one more time, she just might scream.

Tonight, though, she was getting a break. Sophie and Ben had invited Tate to spend the evening with them, so it was their turn to pretend an interest in the never-ending “J.D. and the Canoe” stories. Perhaps that wasn’t fair—Sophie most likely would listen with genuine interest. But Dru looked forward to a few hours’ rest from having to hear about the man and his boat.

It was cause to celebrate, and she couldn’t decide if that called for a trip to the Red Bull Saloon in town for a beer and a swirl around the dance floor, or for a nice stretch-out on the couch with a good book. She almost called Char to see if she had any plans for the evening, but she’d been surrounded by people all week. In the end she decided to make a bowl of popcorn and start that Janet Evanovich novel she’d had the gift shop order for her.

She was immersed in the story at eight o’clock when the phone rang. Laughing to herself over Stephanie’s and Lula’s antics, she stuck her finger in the book to mark her place and reached for the receiver. “Hello.”

“Darling, it’s me,” Aunt Sophie said. “I’m sorry to break into your time alone, but we’ve got trouble over at the restaurant.”

Dru swung her feet around and sat up, setting her book aside. “What kind of trouble?”

“Apparently the sous-chef’s been hitting the sauce the entire shift, and is now quite drunk. Carlos is threatening to quit, and guess who’s conveniently on hand to smooth things over?”

Oh, hell, J.D. was working at the restaurant. “I’m on my way.”

Dru looked down at her tank top, jeans, and bare feet. There was no time to change, not as long as J.D. was their only hope of preventing Carlos from leaving. That, she knew from experience, called for diplomacy, flattery, and a little judicious flirting, none of which were exactly Mr. Charm’s long suit. She slid her feet into a pair of sandals, pulled a denim shirt over her pink tank top to disguise her braless state, and hauled her loose hair out from beneath the collar, flipping it behind her to hang down her back.

As she ran down the three flights of stairs, she consoled herself with the knowledge that J.D.’s current stint was in the restaurant itself with the manager, not in the kitchen. The two divisions were run separately, each with its own hierarchy. So, really, how much damage could he do? By rights, he shouldn’t even be involved.

She didn’t see him in the restaurant when she arrived, though, and keeping her voice low, she asked the manager where he was.

“I’m sorry, Dru,” he said. “When things starting flipping out of control in there, I tried to tell him we don’t have any authority over the kitchen. But he said as part owner of this lodge, he damn well did.”

She silently cursed. “How long ago?”

“Just a couple of minutes. After I called to alert Sophie to the situation.”

“Okay.” She blew out her breath. “You did the correct thing. So what about Greg? Is he as tanked as Sophie made it sound?”

“’Fraid so.”

“Great. Call Melinda and see if she can come in to take up the slack. Let me know immediately if that’s going to be a problem.” Then she strode with suppressed urgency toward the kitchen.

The moment she rounded the order station, the noise level escalated dramatically. Servers appeared in response to the buzzers attached to their belts, to pick up the round trays that contained their filled orders; others stopped to drop new orders off. Oven doors slammed, cooks yelled out their needs, and plates clattered as the kitchen crew pulled them off the rack beneath the heating lamp, to be decorated with the sauces and arranged on serving trays before being passed along to the chef to present his specialties. The pastry chef called for more melted chocolate for the paper cone he used to embellish a plate of assorted delicacies over at his table in the corner, and helpers squeezed between the appliances and the work stations as they ran to fill the various requests.

Conspicuously lacking in the cacophony were the chef’s and sous-chef’s voices. Ordinarily, they would be shouting out what they needed if an item wasn’t conveniently at hand. Dru couldn’t see Greg, but she spotted Carlos at the end of the stubby hallway by the screened back door, across the room.

And J.D., curse his hide, was headed straight for him.

Swell. Given J.D.’s steamroller people-management skills, she’d better do something pretty darn fast or she
was going to be shy one highly creative, temperamental chef.

She shucked off her shirt as she threaded her way between the workers, and hooked it over an empty stool pushed up against the wall. Reaching into the low scoop of her tank top, she slid her fingers around to the outer curve of first one breast, then the other, and hauled everything front and center to maximize her cleavage. As she stuffed the hem into her waistband to keep the tank’s neckline low, she heard Carlos speak.

“What you want?” he demanded with his customary arrogance, though his faint Spanish accent gave the words a musical flavor. “You don’t belong here and I don’t want to deal with you.”

“That’s tough,” J.D. said, “because look around you, pal—I’m who’s available.”

Carlos drew himself up to his full height. “I am not your pal, señor, and this”—a wave of his hand indicated the activity around them—“is unacceptable. I cannot and will not work like this. How am I supposed to maintain creativity when my sous-chef is stinking drunk?”

“By doing the best you can in a bad situation.”

“No. The conditions, they are impossible, and I don’t put up with them. I am Carlos. I can get a job anywhere in the world just—like—that!” He snapped his fingers.

J.D. took a step forward, getting right in the other man’s face. The chef was actually a little taller, Dru noticed, but that didn’t stop J.D. from stating with flat menace, “I can break every bone in your body just like
that, too—and don’t think I’ll hesitate to do so if you don’t haul your high-strung ass back to work.”

No, no, no, no, NO! Dru hurriedly propelled herself forward again. You had to stroke Carlos’ ego; threats only made him dig in and defend his position.

Carlos thrust his head forward like an enraged bull until the two men literally stood nose to nose. Aggression rolled off them in waves. “You can certainly try, señor.” He regarded J.D. with haughty disdain. “I welcome you to do so. Then, after I knock you on your scrawny gringo buttocks, I’ll sue you for assault and battery. That is the American way, and I”—he slapped his chest—“am a naturalized citizen. I will enjoy owning a part of this lodge, knowing it was once yours.”

The look on J.D.’s face was priceless. Dru would have loved a moment to savor it, but they’d all be better served if she stepped in before the two men’s egos swelled any further. She could practically smell the testosterone from here.

Dru took a deep breath and strode up to squeeze between them. Both men immediately took a step back to make room for her. Ignoring J.D. at her back, she leaned into the chef. “Oh, Carlos, I was so
sorry
to hear about Greg,” she said. “What on earth set him off?”

He looked at her down the length of his aquiline nose. “Who knows with that one? His girlfriend—how you say it?—discharged him.”

“Dumped, you moron,” J.D. said. “The term is ‘dumped.’”

Dru stepped backward, bringing her foot down hard on his instep as she reached out to pat Carlos’ white-
jacket-clad arm. “That must have played
hell
with your creativity!”

“It was impossible,” Carlos said, but his voice lacked the heat it held when he’d said the same thing to J.D., for his attention had gotten snagged by Dru’s cleavage. Dragging his gaze away, he said a bit more forcefully, “I cannot work like this!”

“Of course you can’t,” she agreed. “Genius like yours calls for a sous-chef who’ll help, not
add
to your already considerable stress.”

A snort sounded behind her and she dug her heel more forcefully into J.D.’s instep. He wrapped his hands around her hips and moved her off his foot. His palms continued to cup her, and she pried at his fingers with one hand while stroking Carlos’ forearm with the other. The chef began to scowl at J.D., and Dru swiftly raised both arms and languidly twisted her hair up, holding it anchored atop her head. J.D.’s hands dropped away, and Carlos’ attention swung back to her.

“I can’t bear to see your brilliance disrupted like this, so I’ve called in Melinda,” she said and let her hair fall, smoothing her hands down its length. “She’s an excellent sous-chef, and she’ll give you the help you deserve.”

“Perhaps.” He eyed her with male appreciation, but his priorities were, as always, firmly entrenched in his career and sense of self, and he added haughtily, “But don’t expect me to lift a finger until she arrives.”

“Of course not. We’ll just have one of the cooks prepare the orders that are already up.” She looked at him hopefully. “Perhaps the customers won’t notice?”

He stiffened with outrage. “The
line
cooks? I’ll not have those cretins touching my dishes—the customers came to eat a Carlos Santiago creation!” He stormed back to his station, roaring directions to his crew.

“
Yes
!” Dru did a little victory wiggle, her hands pumping the air overhead. She felt great, absolutely great. She loved averting crises—it was so satisfying to figure out what a situation needed, and to do all she could to supply it.

Hard-skinned hands suddenly hauled her out through the screened back door and swung her around. She shook off the hair that had fallen over her eye, braced her hands against the lodge’s exterior fieldstone wall at her back, and grinned up at J.D. “Smooth as ever, I see.”

He slapped his hands on either side of her shoulders and scowled. “You’re pretty damn pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.” She nodded, feeling high and full of herself. “Very pleased. I circumvented what could have been a big-time mess.
I
did that. Not you,
me
.”

“Yeah, by shaking your tits in his face. That was professional.”

“As opposed to threatening to break his bones, you mean?” She laughed in his face. “Admit it, Carver. You’re just jealous.”

To her surprise, his face flushed. “I’m not jealous. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you want to shake—”

She poked him in the sternum. “You are
such
a liar. You’re absolutely
green
knowing that my method worked, while yours blew up in your face.” She laughed again, feeling excited and reckless. With a
boldness she hadn’t felt in years, she slid her hands up the front of his polo shirt, appreciating the hard heat of his chest beneath the soft material. “But don’t worry,” she assured him huskily, “because I have a consolation prize for you.”

And, raising up on her toes, she kissed him.

She felt gutsy and in charge—which lasted all of thirty seconds while she pressed her lips to J.D.’s. She eased her tongue across the slick inner curve of his lower lip, and coasted it over the hard edges of his teeth.

Then he made a sound deep in his throat and his hands came up to twine in her hair. And suddenly she was held fast as his mouth devoured hers and his tongue took charge, leading hers in a dance of uninhibited, primal rhythms.

He tasted of man and heat and hunger, and she knotted her fingers in the material on either side of his shirt’s button placket and held on tight, kissing him back. She wanted to wrest the lead back from his control, but she was too breathless and aroused to make the effort. So she simply poured her heart and soul into kissing him the best she knew how.

It was apparently enough, for when he suddenly tore his mouth away he was breathing hard. “
God
,” he panted. “You drive me crazy. I want to take you every way there is, strip you down and—” Licking his lower lip, he gathered her hair in both hands and piled it atop her head, holding it there while he lowered his head. Dru leaned back against the wall as she felt his open mouth, hot against the underside of her jaw. She shivered as he slowly dragged his lips down her neck, then
again when his tongue lapped against the pulse that hammered in the hollow at the base of her throat.

Then everything went dark as he released her hair and it slid over her face, blinding her. She brought both hands up to push it out of her eyes, and out of habit twisted it up and held it anchored atop her head.

“Yes,” J.D. rumbled in approval. “Like you did inside. I wanted to do this then.” He curved his hands around her breasts.

His palms were hot and his fingers hard-skinned as they pressed her breasts together, lifted them, then tightened around them until her nipples poked like missiles against the fabric of her tank top. He bent his head and caught one between his lips, sucking it to a fuller extension.

“Omigod!” Blistering sensation zinged from her nipple to that hot, achy core between her thighs, and her arms dropped to her sides. Wrapping her hands around the back of J.D.’s head, she arched her back, pushing the tip of her breast deeper into his mouth.