Fast & Loose (12 page)

So what was the difference, he wondered? The two bars were both popular, active nightspots. They were both filled with people. The clientele here was a little younger than the other bar, but that should have lent itself to more autograph-seekers, not fewer. The only difference was that, at the Ambassador, Cole had been alone when he entered, something that, he supposed, made him fair game. Here, he’d entered with someone else. Two someone elses, actually, but it would have been safe for any observer to conclude that at least one of the women was a date. People were polite enough to make allowances for a man when he was out socially with a guest, more so than they were when he was out alone.

So it stood to reason that if Cole started going out in public with a guest, people would be more likely to leave him alone. Certainly there wouldn’t be any more offers of sexual encounters that might send a lesser man right to the nearest hotel—and, later, to the nearest clinic for a penicillin shot. If Cole could avoid any more of those offers—hell, if he could just avoid more requests for autographs and interviews—he’d be a very happy man. Not only were the sexual overtures even more annoying than the demands for signatures and photographs, but when it came to sexual encounters,
he
wanted to be the one to decide the who, what, when, where, and why. Okay, and also the how. So he was old-fashioned that way. Except for some of the hows, in which case, all modesty aside, he could be pretty damned inventive. So sue him.

He’d also be a more
focused
man if he could avoid those things. He’d be less stressed out about the race. He’d be able to concentrate on what he needed to be doing between now and Derby Day.

Obviously, what he needed to ward off the Trainer Hangers and preserve his peace of mind for the next week and a half was a buffer zone. To create a buffer zone, he’d need a buffer. Someone of the feminine persuasion who would look to the casual observer like a romantic interest and inhibit the casual observer’s approach. Someone who wouldn’t compromise Cole’s focus on Silk Purse or distract him from his single-minded pursuit of winning the Derby. Someone who wouldn’t distract him by being sexually attractive to him, but whose company he would still enjoy. Someone who knew little—and cared less—about King Cole and wouldn’t be sexually attracted to him, either.

Someone like Hortense Waddy.

She was pretty enough that no one would question his reason for wanting to be with her. If you went for the wholesome, decent, down-to-Earth-shoes type. Which Cole, of course, did not. And although he could see now why some guys might go for her in a girl-next-door type of way, Cole, of course, never would. And although maybe there was something to be said for a woman who wasn’t overly concerned with something like going to great extremes to enhance her physical appearance, no way would Cole be the guy to say it. Simply put, Hortense wasn’t his type. So obviously Hortense was the perfect candidate for buffer material. There was just one problem.

He had no idea how to contact her.

But he knew her name, and he knew where her friend worked. There couldn’t possibly be more than one Hortense Waddy in the phone book. And if there wasn’t one at all, then he’d just make sure he dropped into the Ambassador Bar again when Bree was working. One way or another, he’d see Hortense again. Starting by checking the phone book as soon as he got home.

Home, he repeated to himself, thinking about the little house he’d been trying to escape tonight when he went out in search of dinner, because if he banged his head on the bedroom ceiling one more time, he was going to have to be treated for brain damage. Funny, though, how it wasn’t the ceiling he thought about just then. And funny how, in spite of wanting to escape the place, he couldn’t wait to get home.

Back,
he immediately corrected himself. He couldn’t wait to get
back.
Back to the flurry of Post-it notes he was still encountering daily, like the one he’d discovered that afternoon on a big bag of M&M’s in the pantry.
“You may eat my M&M’s,”
it said.
“But only if you are in the throes of extreme chocolate withdrawal, a condition I fully understand and with which I totally relate. But if you
do
eat my M&M’s, you’d better pay me back. Twice the amount. Or else I’ll hunt you down like a dog and call you Rover.”

And back, too, he thought fondly, to the daily journal he’d accidentally, really, opened again after inadvertently, really, switching on her computer when he’d unintentionally, really, set his briefcase on the desk too close to the On button. Which, okay, was on the back of the computer, so he’d had to set down his briefcase unintentionally, really, too close to the button four times before it got pushed, but that was beside the point. The point was, he hadn’t consciously, really, meant to read the journal again. It had just…happened. Once. A day. Maybe twice when he was especially clumsy with his briefcase.

Oh, hell, so he’d kept reading his hostess’s journal. It wasn’t like she ever wrote about anything of great importance or of an especially personal nature. She wrote about food. Or books. Or movies. Walks through the park. A neighbor’s peonies. A particularly beautiful sunset. Somehow, though, she always managed to make every entry sound like some kind of sensual, sexual pleasure that always left Cole feeling like he needed a cigarette. Or a cold shower. Or both.

Now
there
was a woman he could be attracted to. A woman who had color in her house, and sass in her personality, and hedonism in her soul. A woman who clearly enjoyed everything life had to offer. A woman, he thought as he swallowed the last of his beer and rose to make his way out the door, he’d never need a buffer to avoid.

He thought about her all the way home, trying to get a visual on her without the benefit of the photograph to aid him. The long blond hair and lush curves were easy, and, even though all the photos were from a distance, he’d decided at some point that she had brown eyes, because he’d always had a weakness for brown-eyed blondes. She was taller than the other women in the picture, which would probably bring her to about his nose—his forehead, if she was wearing sexy spike heels which, it went without saying, she did. All the time. Even to bed.

What else would she wear to bed? he wondered. Well, hell, that was easy. Nothing. Spike heels and long blond hair. A woman didn’t need to wear any more than that to bed.

By the time he got home, Cole’s image of the blonde—whom he’d decided was named Delilah—was pretty complete. Delilah was twenty-six years old and worked as a legal secretary. She liked the novels of Thomas Pynchon, the music of Itzhak Perlman, men who wore glasses, snowy mornings in bed, and kittens.

Oh, no, wait. That had been Miss February, he remembered. Delilah liked yachting, single malt Scotch, the music of John Coltrane, and Formula One racing. Yeah, that’s it. Okay, and snowy mornings in bed and kittens. Whatever.

After pouring himself a brandy, climbing the stairs to the bedroom, bumping his head on the ceiling—again—and changing into his pajamas, Cole had Delilah completely figured out, right down to the black silk bra and panties that he knew—he just knew—were her favorite choice of underwear. Inescapably, the thought made him drop his gaze to the dresser drawer he was certain contained her lingerie. The small one on top, on the left-hand side. And, just like that, his devil and angel selves appeared on his shoulders again.

This time, though, the angel only muttered a halfhearted, half-heard,
You are
such
a dirtbag.

And the devil rubbed his hands together with glee and said,
Let’s do it
.

Cole supposed he should credit himself with the fact that his fingers hovered over the drawer pull for a few seconds before actually grasping it. And, too, he thought it said something in his favor that, even after his fingers curled lightly around the little glass knob, he hesitated. But what truly spoke volumes about his character was that, even after the hesitations, he began to slowly, slowly—oh, so slowly—tug the drawer open.

Just a peek, he told himself. It would only be for a few seconds.

Of course, that was what he’d told himself about the journal, too.

But he’d seen the stuff about
wonderfully erotic
then, he reminded himself. No man could be expected to turn back after reading something like that. Lingerie drawers were way more impersonal than a journal. It was just a lot of fabric without words or thoughts or feelings. He
would
just take a peek with this. It
would
only be for a few seconds.

And it would have been, too. If it hadn’t been for the fact that what he saw there on top was
not
black silk. What he saw there on top was instead lavender lace.

Lavender lace. He never would have guessed. Delilah just didn’t seem the type. Lavender lace was so…demure. So…unsullied. So…sweet. Lavender lace really was snowy mornings in bed and kittens. And, strangely, he thought, the novels of Thomas Pynchon and the music of Itzhak Perlman. But unlike Miss February, the wearer of lavender lace would actually know who Thomas Pynchon and Itzhak Perlman were.

Before Cole realized what he was doing, he’d dropped his hand into the drawer and carefully lifted the lavender lace from where it lay. Not to fondle it, he immediately told himself, but to see what lay underneath. And what lay underneath the lavender lace was peach lace. And then butter yellow lace. And then pale blue silk. And then pink silk. And then, on the very bottom of the assortment, he hit pay dirt.

Black silk.

Oh, yeah.
“Delilah, you little vixen,” he said aloud.

Then he chuckled at himself for being so…He hastily but carefully arranged all the lingerie back exactly the way he’d found it. Weird, he finally finished his own sentence. That was what he was being. Weird. No way did he normally behave the way he’d been behaving since taking up residence in this house.

He closed the drawer and picked up his brandy, lifting it to his lips for a generous taste. The spirit felt good going down, smooth, warm, and mellow. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of himself. As usual, he was too wound up to sleep, and his little foray into Delilah’s underthings hadn’t helped. He turned and saw her computer sitting on the desk on the other side of the room. He smiled. Maybe a little bedtime reading was in order.

He’d read Delilah’s journal often enough by now that the angel didn’t even bother to show up anymore. The devil one did from time to time, whenever a passage was particularly steamy. But mostly, Cole was on his own now when it came to the violation of his hostess’s privacy.

He rationalized his behavior by reminding himself that she really didn’t write about anything all that personal. And she
was
a very good writer. Her descriptive passages on food alone could easily see print in some of the country’s leading publications. Like
Playboy
or
Penthouse.
Easily.

He’d gradually been working his way backward through her entries, until he’d read through all of April and March. Now he was into February. The twenty-first, to be exact.

Woke up to snow this morning,
the passage began.
Six inches that no one predicted, a total surprise. I’m sitting on the sofa as I write, looking out the window at a winter wonderland. It’s gorgeous. Needless to say, I’m blowing off work and giving myself a gift. The gift of a day. To read, or watch a movie, or sketch, or do whatever takes my fancy.

Cole lifted his brandy for another sip. This was different. All the passages he’d read before this had been about specific experiences or observations. She’d never written about herself in a Dear Diary kind of way. This was nice. A little glimpse into the person herself.

Though it’s days like this
, she continued,
when I wish I wasn’t alone. When I wish there was someone here to turn the cold outside into warmth inside. Someone who would spike his hot chocolate with rum, too. Someone who would sit at the other end of the sofa and play footsie with me under the afghan. Someone who would read aloud to me books filled with grand adventure and epic romance.

Cole grinned, liking the fact that his hostess had been a single woman as recently as two months ago way more than he probably should.

Someone who would join me in the tub later, for a steaming bath redolent of patchouli,
he read on. Then he began to think that maybe he should stop right there. He thought that even more when the next line said,
I can feel him now, in the water behind me, the air around us foggy from the mingling heat of the bath and our glistening bodies.
And then he knew for sure he absolutely had to stop reading when the line after that said,
His hands slide up under the water, over my thighs and hips, along my slick torso, to cover my wet breasts.

So, of course, he kept on reading.

At first, he only holds my breasts in his hands, gently kneading them, dragging his thumbs over their tops, then tracing the bottom curves. When he rolls my nipples with his fingers, I feel heat explode in my belly. He dips his head to my neck and brushes his lips along my shoulder, then one hand leaves a breast to move between my legs. I open them wider so that he can touch me there, and he strokes my damp flesh with his long middle finger. I spread my legs more, and he covers me with his hand, caressing me, stroking me, fingering me until I shatter inside.

Cole reached blindly for his brandy—for some reason, he
really
needed a drink—and nearly knocked it off the desk before snagging it with shaky fingers. Damn. His hostess sure knew how to warm up a snowy winter day. He told himself he really should stop reading and go to bed. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen. Not yet, anyway. He wanted to see how this turned out.

How it turned out was that she spent another page and a half describing how her lover washed every inch of her body, then another page on how he dried her off—and that guy did things with the loofah and towel in the process that Cole was pretty sure loofahs and towels had never been designed to do. Not that he didn’t give the invisible lover points for inventiveness. Eventually, though, the action moved into the bedroom, where things really started heating up.