Dear Love Doctor (12 page)

Daffy nodded. Without Hunter’s touch, she felt incredibly abandoned. Vulnerable, too. As Hunter straightened his clothing—an impossible task, given his arousal—she glanced at her disheveled dress, her legs spread wide, her breasts open to Hunter’s hungry gaze.

Shyness battled with satiation. She should blush, but with the languid warmth he’d released in her, she could scarcely move to cover herself.

“Don’t budge,” Hunter said in a commanding voice, kneeling beside her. “Please?”

She smiled and nodded, touched by the raw edge of desire in his entreaty. She had the mighty Hunter James eating out of her hand.

He headed toward the door, calling, “Pipe down. I’m coming.”

Daffy smiled at his word choice. Absent the pesky Aloysius, his words would be true. What an amazing lover. Daffy took in again her dress hiked above her garters, her panties pushed aside to reveal her damp and still gently throbbing inner lips. She rubbed her thighs together. No wonder he’d bragged—

Bragged
. Daffy sat up and listened to the voices drifting in from the doorway. The men appeared to be arguing, a condition natural to both of them.

The word “bragged” buzzed in her mind and Daffy frowned. He’d opened her as easily as the full afternoon sun spread the petals of her favorite pink roses. Why, she’d been ready to rip his pants off him and beg him to bury his shaft deep inside her. No holding back for Daffodil Landry tonight.

What had happened to her resolve not to become involved with another man until she’d figured out why she always sabotaged her relationships? And become involved with Hunter she knew she would. The two of them had answered needs and desires in the other in a way Daffy had never experienced. She had felt it and would bet her fortune he had, too.

“That resolve went right out the window,” she muttered, pulling her dress back over her breasts and tugging the skirt down over her thighs.

Perhaps Aloysius had done her a favor with his untimely interruption.

Rather than disappearing, Aloysius’s voice grew louder. Suddenly Daffy realized he was making his way into the suite. Thank goodness she’d rearranged her clothing! She wished she could leap under the sofa, but there was not enough room to hide.

Hunter was grabbing at his business partner’s arm. He glanced over and Daffy met his gaze. When he saw she’d redressed herself, he let go of Aloysius.

Daffy stared at the man she’d once been engaged to marry. He was as suavely dressed as always, and only the tiny skewing of his bow tie and a hint of sway in his walk revealed his inebriation. But Daffy knew better than to assume that meant Aloysius wasn’t pretty far gone. He could be functioning one moment and passed out the next. He strolled into the room and looked around. He hadn’t quite focused, for which Daffy could only be thankful.

But it wasn’t so much the tipsy Aloysius who held her attention, but the two females who accompanied him, walking behind him like backup singers in a bad stage production.

The two strolled arm in arm, dressed in matching black leather strapless mini-dresses. Knee boots with spike heels sheathed their legs. One was a redhead, the other a blonde, but those colors weren’t created by Mother Nature. Daffy stared, her mouth actually falling open. The women had to be . . . hookers.

“What’s the matter, chickie, you’ve never met a working woman before?” The redhead spoke, delivering a broad wink to Hunter as she did. Letting go of her compatriot, she sashayed over to Aloysius and rode up and down the front of his body in a move designed to titillate, and no doubt to increase her tip.

Aloysius cupped her rear and ground against her. The other woman, apparently not to be undone, advanced on Hunter.

Daffy leapt up from the sofa and placed herself between Hunter and the blonde.

“A three-way costs extra,” the blonde said somewhat apologetically, her eyes roving Daffy’s body in a way that made the back of Daffy’s neck prickle.

“Aloysius!” Hunter’s voice got through.

“Yes?”

“Get rid of them.”

“But I told you I brought you a present.” He pouted and pulled the redhead off him.

“Thanks, but I’m doing okay all on my own.”

Aloysius suddenly seemed to realize another woman stood beside Hunter. He blinked and leaned forward, and then an expression of horror hit his face. “Oh, no, you didn’t bring
her
to Las Vegas!”

“Hello, Aloysius,” Daffy said. “I gather Chrissie didn’t make the trip with you?”

“Chrissie?” Aloysius puckered his brow. The redhead put her hand on his crotch.

“Your fiancée.” Daffy smiled sweetly at the redhead as she said the word, but apparently the woman didn’t register the term or it made no difference to her.

“It’s just a job,” the blonde said in a low voice. “We get a lot of engaged guys. You know, last fling and all that.”

“No, I didn’t know.” Daffy realized she shouldn’t cast stones at Aloysius; goodness only knew she’d treated him terribly. But the image of him with two prostitutes was more than she could stand. “Aloysius, you love Chrissie.”

“Oh, yes, I love Chrissie.” Slowly, Aloysius turned his head and stared at the redhead. “But you’re not Chrissie.”

The blonde had wandered over to the mini-bar. She helped herself to a bottle of champagne, working the cork free with an explosive bang just as Aloysius swayed and crumpled toward the floor.

Hunter leapt and caught him before he hit the carpet. Dragging him to the sofa opposite the one where Daffy and he had lain together, Hunter deposited him, none too gently. “Okay, girls, the party’s over.”

The blonde waved her champagne bottle. “I thought it was just getting started.”

The redhead shrugged. “He passed out before he paid. You going to cover him?”

“You think I’m some country boy who doesn’t know how things work in the big, bad city?” Hunter put an arm around the redhead and another around the blonde. “I’m sure my pal paid in advance, with his credit card. And now that you’ve got a couple hours free, you can go earn double. There’s a big convention in town, or hadn’t you heard? Bunch of computer geeks, probably can’t get a girl without paying.”

The redhead perked up. “Great. Where do you think most of them are staying?”

Daffy wasn’t sure she heard him right, but she thought Hunter said as he hustled them out the door, “Motel Six.”

Something told her there was a story behind that answer, but it was a story she’d discover another night. Aloysius began to snore and Hunter, returning to the sitting room, chucked a pillow at him.

The idea of Chrissie home alone while Aloysius partied in Vegas burned in Daffy’s mind. Add to that her ex-fiancée slumbering on the sofa and the hauntings of her own past mistakes and her fears of what she still remained capable of, and Daffy knew she was destined to sleep alone that night.

Hunter looked every inch as sexy as he had before the untimely interruption, but she knew she wasn’t up for Act Two.

“Like you told them,” Daffy said, smothering a yawn and feeling slightly guilty, considering the pleasure he’d given her, but knowing now wasn’t the right time for more intimacy, “the party’s over.”

12

T
he party’s over.

Even though her hair was still tousled and her lips deliciously puffy from their wild kisses, Daffy had edged away from him. Aloysius snored away on the sofa that stood between the two of them, and she kept her gaze carefully averted from that sight.

He didn’t blame her one bit. He moved a step or two closer to her, turning so their backs were to the occupied couch. “I wish I could have shielded you from that scene,” he said softly.

A glimmer of light returned to her eyes. “Thanks,” she said, “but I’m a big girl.”

He put an arm around her and hugged her. “Maybe, but I’m bigger and I should have slammed the door in his face.”

“Why didn’t you?” She sounded merely curious, not at all judgmental.

“Do you have any idea what terrible snoops the members of the press are?”

“I have a pretty good idea.” She grinned at him.

Hunter laughed. “Guess I walked into that one. You don’t seem like the reporters who call themselves journalists and don’t know the difference between a story fit for
The National Enquirer
and one for the Money section.”

“And if someone had discovered Aloysius drunk and with two prostitutes outside your hotel room door, it could have affected your company?”

Hunter shrugged. “It’s not something I want to risk. We’re in pretty sensitive talks right now with another business run by some fairly conservative types.”

“Then why . . .” Her voice trailed off and she blushed.

“Why invite you to Las Vegas with me?” Hunter pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head. “Temporary sanity?”

“Don’t you mean insanity?” She curled against his chest and murmured the question somewhere below his chin.

“You are a world away from my loony partner dancing around with two ladies of the night, and I hope you know it.”

“I hope I am,” she said even more softly.

Daffy was falling asleep standing up in his embrace. Small wonder. They’d been up most of the night and Hunter had to deliver a speech in less than three hours.

It took more resolve than Hunter thought he possessed, but he said, “I think it’s bedtime and I mean time for sleep.”

She tucked her face more snugly against his chest. “Whatever you say.”

He wished he had a tape recorder for that comment. Smiling, he led her to the smaller bedroom, where he’d had the limo driver have her bag delivered. The “master bedroom” of the suite was one he was saving to introduce to Daffy later—when they were both wide awake and able to appreciate its sensual amenities.

From the chaise where he’d seated her, Daffy watched Hunter move about the bedroom. The bed had been turned back earlier by the hotel staff, but he plumped the pillows and turned off all the lights but one bedside lamp.

She hadn’t intended to relax into his arms. Not after Aloysius’s arrival had so abruptly reminded her of the dangers of trusting another and the difficult task of becoming a person worthy of trust. But Hunter had been so sweet. If he’d tried to resume where they’d left off, she would have retreated into the room and slammed the door.

But Hunter was a master of strategy.

“There,” he said with a note of satisfaction in his voice, “everything’s ready. If you’d like to come with me to the convention, I’ll set the alarm.”

He looked at her with expectant eyes, almost like a little boy waiting to hear if he would really get a puppy for Christmas.

Darn it, but he was hard to resist.

“Of course I’m going to the convention,” Daffy said, rising from the chaise. “I may have to take a nap later, but I wouldn’t miss your speech for the world.”

“Thank you,” Hunter said. “And thanks for coming to Vegas with me.”

He paused in front of her, so close she felt more than saw his chest rise and fall. His eyes were dark and wide and he watched her like a hungry hawk. Despite his restraint, he definitely wanted to take up where they’d left off.

Daffy felt her exhaustion fade as her pulse picked up its pace. She was one second away from pulling him down to the bed with her when she noticed the dark shadows under his eyes. He must be worn out—and he had to deliver a keynote address in less than three hours.

“Thanks for asking me,” she said softly. Then she kissed him lightly on the mouth and said, “Now go get some sleep.”

He backed out of the room, his gaze never leaving her face. Daffy wondered what effort it cost him to exit the room, cross the suite, and go to sleep alone. She, after all, had found explosive release from the sexual volcano the two of them had created.

Hunter had not.

But in the immortal words of Margaret Mitchell’s Scarlett, “Tomorrow is another day.” As she slipped into bed, Daffy couldn’t help but smile as she anticipated the unfinished business that remained between her and Hunter.

Backing out of that room cost Hunter about all the self-control he possessed. He pulled shut the door blocking Daffy from him with a gentle click.

The kick he delivered to the sofa where Aloysius slumbered was anything but gentle.

And the dope didn’t even skip a beat of his raspy snoring.

“So much for the upper class,” Hunter muttered and took himself off to a bed that was far too big and empty for one person.

Morning found him much less grumpy. He jumped up in plenty of time to roust Aloysius and pack him off to his own room for a reviving shower. The bum didn’t even remember he’d blundered in with a hooker on each arm.

Hunter raced back to the suite, practically colliding with a silver-haired room-service waiter knocking on the door.

The door swung open. Daffy, dressed in a pale yellow sheath and looking fresher than her floral namesake, waved the waiter in.

Hunter clapped a hand over his stubbly chin. He was a weed next to a flower.

“Good morning,” she said, way too cheerful for someone who’d caught only twenty winks. “I ordered a light breakfast.”

“Great,” Hunter muttered. He should have thought of that himself. Before his first cup of coffee, though, his brain didn’t function on all cylinders.

The waiter busied himself at one of the tables in the sitting room.

Hunter stood rooted in the doorway.

Daffy took a step nearer. Concern in her voice, she said, “I hope you don’t mind.”

He must have been scowling without realizing it. “Of course not. You were an angel to think of it. It’s just . . .”

“Just what?”

One hand still on his chin, Hunter drank in the sight of Daffodil Landry. Her hair gleamed; her eyes were bright, with not a hint of the long night behind them, her makeup was so minimal he couldn’t say for sure she had any on, but somehow he knew she did. The dress hinted at her luscious figure without flaunting it and flowed to just above her knees. Hunter finished his appreciative inspection, down to her feet—which were, he noted with a smile—bare.

“Hunter, what is it?” Patience was definitely not in Daffy’s repertoire.

In a voice low enough to shield their conversation from the waiter, Hunter dropped his hand from his own wreck of a face and said, “Are you always this beautiful first thing in the morning?”

She blushed lightly, which charmed him. “I suppose I should say yes, but then”—Daffy winked—“you might find out otherwise.”

The idea of spending enough nights together in order to conduct a scientifically sound sampling appealed to Hunter. Too bad they were flying back to New Orleans later that evening for a meeting he had to attend first thing the next morning.

The waiter cleared his throat loudly enough to prevent Hunter from checking to see if Daffy tasted as good as she looked.

She turned around and took the room-service check to sign. Hunter watched for a long moment; then, as his mind moved from sex to money, he said, “Hey, I’ll take care of that.”

But, of course, he didn’t have any bills on him for a tip. He wore only the pair of shorts and T-shirt he’d thrown on before getting rid of Aloysius.

Daffy had the tip in hand. “That’s okay,” she said. “I’ve got it.”

The grandfatherly waiter glanced from one to the other and smiled. “You two remind me of me and the missus when we were first married. I wish you a happy life together.”

Hunter swept Daffy to his side and said, “Thank you, sir.”

The waiter left and Daffy danced out of his embrace.

“Really, Hunter!”

He was all innocence. After all, he had far too much to do with his life right now to worry about finding the woman he’d spend the rest of it with. Ask anyone who knew him and they’d tell you that Hunter trolled for women the way some men trolled for fish. Just look how that obnoxious Love Doctor had described him: Terminal Diagnosis. “He was such a sweet guy, I couldn’t bear to disillusion him.”

“Oh.” She sounded almost disappointed.

And watching her sidle toward the coffeepot, Hunter felt a certain hollowness himself. Had it actually felt good to pretend, if only for a moment, that Daffy was his bride?

He shook his head, warding off such a thought. “I’d better grab a shower,” he said.

“Sure. Want a cup of coffee to take in with you?”

That brightened him up. He’d half expected Daffy to want them to sit properly at the table, but Hunter rarely sat down to his breakfast. She poured a cup. “You take cream and sugar, right?”

“You remembered.”

She gave him a surprisingly shy smile and nodded.

He was touched but best not to dwell on it. He wondered instead if she was in the Junior League, or a member of that fancy club on St. Charles Avenue where the ladies had to wear white gloves. She looked the role as she presided over the table, and Hunter realized it was just as well he wasn’t dreaming of Daffy as his ever-after. They were worlds apart.

He moved to take the cup from her. “Thank you.”

Their fingers brushed as the cup moved from her hand to his. She didn’t look nearly as cheerful as when he’d first walked back in. But the clock was ticking and Hunter had to arrive at the convention on time. “Don’t think too hard,” he said softly, and was glad when she smiled in response.

Daffy was impressed with the speedy way Hunter got ready for his appearance at the convention—and with the results. With his dark good looks, height, and magnetic smile, he stood out in any room of people; the Orphan’s Club fund-raiser was a testimonial to that fact. Standing next to her in the elevator, close enough to make her think of nothing but how he’d made her feel last night, Hunter was enough to stop Daffy’s breath.

And when they arrived at the Convention Center, pennants flying from the limousine, and a bevy of dark-suited men and women flocked to Hunter’s side, Daffy realized that by far she was not the only person susceptible to his charms.

But she was the only woman stepping from the car and standing by his side. Curious eyes surveyed her; envious ones, too. Some of the men ogled.

Shielding her with an arm held lightly against the middle of her back, Hunter guided her through the throng, introducing her to Melanie, a round, brown woman who appeared to be in charge of details, as “his friend from New Orleans.”

The woman nodded, shook her hand, and kept them moving at a brisk pace into a large hall. She hustled Hunter backstage, then guided Daffy to a seat in the press section in the front of the hall and told her Hunter would collect her there after his speech. Before leaving her side, Melanie said, “I’m very pleased to meet a woman Hunter introduces as his friend.”

“Why, thank you,” Daffy said, actually relieved Hunter hadn’t put a more romantic slant to her presence. She might be a social columnist, but she didn’t want to find herself linked in the press with a man she knew in her heart was only playing a game of “Can the cat catch the mouse?” with her.

Melanie regarded her in silence, then said just loud enough for Daffy to hear her over the noisy rumble of the crowd, “I guess you don’t know that he’s never done that before.”

What did he usually do? Squire prostitutes, à la Aloysius, around computer conventions? Introduce his babes as his bedmates? Daffy smiled, somewhat perfunctorily.

Melanie sighed and patted her arm. “It’s good to see Hunter bite the dust,” she said. Then, before Daffy could react, she disappeared into the throng.

The man in the next seat turned to her. “New in the press box?”

She shook her head. She wasn’t about to tell this guy she was in Vegas having a fling with the keynote speaker. “I’m with
The Crescent
.”

He regarded her with cynical eyes. “Brewster.
TechTown Times
. You just don’t look like one of the regulars.”

Daffy glanced down the several rows reserved for the press. Those who covered technology appeared to be a breed of their own. No wonder her editor had sent someone else to interview Hunter James in New Orleans. Her custom-made linen dress and jacket—in a color her cousin, one of New Orleans’s own couturier designers, called lemon glacé—had nothing in common with the khakis and sport shirts the mostly male corps wore. The few women present had more in common with the guys’ wardrobe than with Daffy’s attire.

Daffy opened her Dior purse and pulled out a pen and the small spiral-bound notebook she carried out of habit. “I make it a practice not to look—or write—like the crowd,” she said sweetly.

He turned to the man on his other side, but not before he had muttered under his breath what sounded a lot like “witch.” Daffy kept her smile on her face. The guy was a lousy reporter or he would have sniffed out the sure story staring him in the face.

Because she didn’t look or act like a journalist. And sitting there in the sea of people waiting for the man knocking on the microphone to settle the crowd and introduce Hunter James, Daffy couldn’t help but ask herself why she had settled for dabbling at her profession.

Social columnist defined dabbling. Oh, she enjoyed knowing just about anybody who was anybody in her beloved city. And the Dear Love Doctor column—what was that but an attempt to avoid the issues of her own life by concentrating her energies on helping other people solve their problems?

She stared at the blank page of the notebook lying open in her palm. What had happened to her loftier ambitions? What had happened to her dreams of writing for magazines? What had happened to that neglected novel that consisted of half a chapter and a drawer full of scribbled notes?