Hot Spot (20 page)

JUST AS STELLA WAS LOCKING THE FRONT DOOR, her parents drove up. Had she forgotten they were com-ing? Had her brain turned to mush after two nights of nonstop sex? She'd tutored math for three hours today, so probably "no" on that one. But still, they didn't drop by much. Her mother had a busy social life, and when her father wasn't at work, he was holed up in the greenhouse he'd built out of old storm windows, propagating his roses and Siberian irises.

Oh, fuck. Her mother was carrying a casserole dish that was wafting steam as she walked from the car. And her father was similarly ladened. Damn, when she was looking forward to leftover pizza from last night. (Danny had expressed interest in Canadian bacon and pineapple; she'd ordered a large and then one thing led to another and most of the pizza had gone uneaten.)

On the plus side, the leftover pizza wouldn't mold in one night. Nor was the night yet over.

And knowing her mother's recipes, she'd be shocked if she could actually eat that casserole moving up the stairs toward her.

"Hi, darling! It's a beautiful day, isn't it!" Virginia Scott was perennially cheerful; at times it was unnerving. "I should have called," she said, walking into the store, "but I didn't want this delicious artichoke casserole to cool. And your father's bringing your favorite, apple crumble."

Perfect. Dessert with her pizza. Even her mother couldn't screw up apple crumble.

"We added some sweet little plums to the apples."

Okay. She could deal with that.

"And pine nuts."

What the hell was she thinking? Italian apple crumble? Since when? Jeez, pine nuts were even too small to pick out.

"And your father ran in to get a pint of Cowlick's homemade vanilla ice cream when we drove through town."

There was a God. "Perfect timing, Mom. Hi, Dad. Nice shirt." It warned: GLOBAL WARMING IS DETRIMENTAL TO YOUR HEALTH. "Come on upstairs, and I'll set the table."

"You're going to adore this artichoke casserole. Your father thinks it's better than the sweet potato succotash. Don't you, dear?"

"Much better," he said with a wink over his wife's head. Jerry Scott ate most of his meals at the diner downtown—good home-cooking, open six to ten, take out. Fortunately, he had the metabolism of a longshoreman, so eating another meal at home wasn't a problem at supper time. "You'll like the sun-dried tomatoes."

The only place she'd like sun-dried tomatoes was on her grocer's shelf. But she and her dad had maintained a conspiracy of silence over the years rather than hurt her mom's feeling. Her mother subscribed to every health food magazine in THe country. It was amazing the vile combinations of ingredients that could be found in the recipes printed therein.

Luckily, Stella entered the kitchen first and had time to snatch up the Silver Bullet vibrator from the counter and shove it in the towel drawer before her parents walked in. Somehow she'd missed it. It was small though and easy enough to overlook. Easier than it was to forget the way it felt when operated by Danny Rees and his golden touch. Isn't that the way it goes. The stuff you want you can't have, and the stuff you don't want—like artichoke and sun-dried tomato casserole—is sitting right smack dab in the middle of your kitchen table.

She managed to gag down a few forkfuls of casserole—if you put the food way back on your tongue you couldn't taste it much… a secret she'd learned early on as a child. She hid a couple more mouthfuls in her paper napkin when her mom wasn't looking and all in all managed to get through another experimental meal of her mother's without ruffling any feathers.

"Doesn't it make you feel heathy eating like this?" Ginny Scott beamed at her family. "The casserole's chock full of nutrition. Another serving anyone?" she brightly inquired, a spoon poised above the casserole dish.

"It's pretty filling, Mom. Thanks, though."

Stella's father put his hand over his plate and shook his head. "Delicious, but I want to save some room for dessert."

"Everything's organic in the apple crumble. Even the pine nuts. I know you want a big serving, darling," she said, smiling at her daughter. "Apple crumble has been your favorite for years."

Regular apple crumble
, Stella grudgingly thought. "Not too much, Mom. I ate a bunch of cookies this afternoon."

"All that sugar isn't good for you, darling."

"When I'm frustrated, I need comfort food."

"What in the world do you have to be frustrated about? You have your own business and that nice comic you do and this darling house Marty left you. Heavens, most girls your age would be thrilled to be in your shoes. Have you thought about meditation? It might calm you, dear. You always were a little high strung."

It must run in the family
, Stella thought. Her mother's idea of relaxation was a nice jog around the park or rearranging her frog collection for the umpteenth time. "I'll try it, Mom—really."

"You're just pacifying me, I know, but someday you'll see how soothing it is."

"No, I promise, I'll give it a try." Right after she figured out how to forget about Danny Rees, who was the one making her frustrated in the first place.

"I brought some coconut ice cream, too," her dad said, stepping in to change the subject. "A scoop of each?" he asked, rising from his chair and moving toward the fridge.

"Two scoops each."

Her mother did one of those so-much-sugar-isn't-good-for-you frowns, but was interrupted from lapsing into her "sugar blues" lecture by the ringing of the phone.

For a fraction of a second, Stella hoped it might be Danny— the wish immediately overcome by apprehension that it might be and she'd have to talk to him in front of her parents. Scary thought with the gist of their rapport having to do with the intimacies of sex.

It was Megan calling—which was good and bad. Embarrassment was averted, but Megan wasn't Danny Rees, either. Trying to cope with the letdown, Stella explained that her folks were over for dinner and she'd not had time to work on the sign. But she would ASAP this evening, she added before hanging up.

"What sign?" her mother asked, scooping out apple crumble on three plates.

"Deloitte's out doing some of his dirty work, and Megan wants her campaign signs to challenge his smears and lies." Sitting down, Stella took the plate her mother handed her, gratified to see very few pine nuts visible to the naked eye. Out of sight, out of mind, she decided, her brain very accommodating when it came to apple crumble.

"That political family's been running this district long enough," her mother emphatically pronounced, turning to her husband. "Haven't they, Jerry?" Before he had time to answer, she went on, "Your father went to high school with Kyle Deloitte, who everyone knew was dumb as a post. But if you have money, apparently, it doesn't matter if you can't add two and two."

Her father set two ice cream containers on the table. "Megan's up against some pros with the Deloitte's, Kyle's mental acuity notwithstanding. He can buy all the brains he needs with his fortune." Sticking serving spoons into the ice cream, he sat down and inquired, "How's Megan's campaign doing?"

"Until yesterday, when Deloitte came out with the nasty lies, she's been steadily climbing in the polls. Motive no doubt for Deloitte's actions." Stella piled coconut ice cream on top of her apple crumble.

Her father gave her a sympathetic look. "Politics isn't for sissies."

"I know. I told her she had to fight back. I'll start on her sign this evening. I've got a great graphic design program on my computer."

"We won't stay long, dear, so you can get to work. And that thunder sounds like a storm is on its way. We should get home and let the cat in. As for the Deloittes, I for one wouldn't mind if they were retired from politics. It's been way too long."

Stella's father smiled. "My
dad
used to grumble about the De-loitte's stranglehold on local politics."

"Isn't it nice that our daughter's doing her part to unseat that uncharitable family?"

"Unseated remains to be seen, Mom."

"Well, I think it's commendable that Megan is taking it upon herself to play a role in our city and district. Especially after her husband—well, you know, some women would have been devastated. Your father heard his little affair is over already. The young lady found greener pastures. Isn't that right, Jerry?"

He nodded. When her father had vanilla ice cream handy, conversation took second place.

"How
is
Megan doing?" her mother asked with a commiserating sigh for Megan's marital problems.

"She's keeping busy. The kids are home in the summer, so she's on the go."

"Keeping active is excellent. Not that Megan hasn't always been involved in any number of clubs and community events. Politics is the natural progression for her, isn't it?"

"She wanted to make a difference. The breakup of a marriage makes you think I suppose—about broader issues than home and family."

"What a wonderful way to meet the challenge of her divorce. Not that relationships are ever easy, but nowadays young people seem to be looking for—I'm not sure what they're looking for."

Stella didn't think it would be useful to mention that "hot sex" was high on her list. Her mother wouldn't approve. "Everyone's looking for different things. Companionship. Friendship. A big house and a yacht," she teased.

"Hmpf. As if those will bring you happiness."

The kind of happiness she'd settle for right now was pretty basic and orgasmic. Was she shallow or what? "Right now, I'm happy with this coconut ice cream," Stella said in lieu of the truth. She could think of some places she might like to put the coconut ice cream that would make her happier still.

Like get in line for
that
fantasy, with the boat bunnies and the Kirsty's of the world already at the head of the pack. Life could be so unfair.

As if on cue; as if in answer to her orgasmic prayers, the phone rang again.

Maybe, maybe,
maybe
, she found herself thinking as she walked to the phone on the kitchen wall. But the ringing stopped just as she reached it.

Shit. So much for fantasies. She checked the caller ID just in case. Unknown caller, unknown number. A telemarketer. Just her luck.

* * *

DANNY STOOD IN the hallway of the golf club, his cell phone still in his hand. He was drunk, but not too drunk to know how close he'd come to making a blunder. Blame the hours they'd been sitting in the clubhouse bar. Blame too many martinis. Blame torrid memory and a lack of willpower.

Not that any of that mattered. Stella wasn't home anyway.

Maybe she was out with some other guy.

Which shouldn't have been a problem.

In the rational part of his brain it wasn't.

As for the other part—the one propelled by rash impulse and libido—he would have preferred being the guy she was fucking tonight.