Hot Spot (27 page)

"ARE YOU STAYING ON THE BOAT TONIGHT?" HE was having trouble with his usual, "It's been nice. I'll call you." He didn't feel like leaving her.

"Uh-uh. You know me and my ball-and-chain hours with the store."

"Do you want company?"

She smiled. "That and a few others things, too."

He winked. "Sounds good. Let me make a call, and I'll drive you home."

Pulling on his shorts, he picked up his phone from the dresser and walked out of the room.

Jeez, just when she was happily adrift in her postorgasmic trance, he had to jar her sensibilities. And not in a good way. Who was he talking to that he couldn't talk to in front of her? What was he saying to whomever he was talking to in the corridor outside?

Did he have to get permission from someone to stay out all night? Was he running short on Ecstasy and needed a refill?

Easing out of bed, she tip-toed to the door and turned the latch slowly like a safe cracker in the movie
Ocean's Twelve
. She loved that movie. Sassy and smart and funny with a cast to die
for. Jesus
—
did he just say break-in
? Ohmygod. He was a drug dealer who stole from other drug dealers. This wasn't going to work out—no way. She didn't want to die in a shoot-out in some dark alley during a drug deal gone bad, 'cuz that's what always happened. One side pretended not to know the other side was cutting the dope with baking soda or something and keeping the extra cash. And then they'd pull out an AK-47 or an Uzi from the suitcase that was supposed to have the money in it. And
wham—
it was over except for the blood on the asphalt.

"Thanks, Frank, I appreciate someone keeping an eye on my place tonight."

He kept his stash at his place
? Probably in that big pole barn she'd seen with the really high-class coded lock on the door. That's why he lived in the country. Everyone knew the local sheriff spent more time at Shelley's Diner than he did in his car or at the office. And everyone also knew his wife knew. But hey, if anyone understood how sex could scramble your brains, she did.

He was coming back! She made a flying leap for the bed, and when Danny entered the room, she opened her eyes slowly like she'd been sleeping.

"My time is your time. The gardener was coming tomorrow. I changed the schedule."

Like why couldn't you say that with me around
? she wanted to ask. And she would have if there wasn't that small matter of her not being quite sure of what she wanted yet. Or more pertinently, how much she wanted mind-blowing sex with Danny Rees. She was trying to work out some ethical compromise that would allow her to enjoy the sex without freaking out about his actual life.
Aaaagh
. Not a quick and easily solved dilemma. Especially when he was standing there in only his khaki shorts, looking like some Olympian athlete who'd just won the decathlon, and she knew what was under those shorts. "Your gardener comes on Sunday?" Would Poirot have said that a little more blandly? She'd have to practice up.

"He comes whenever. Are you ready to go?"

On one level she was ready to go to the moon with him if he'd asked. On the everyday, more prosaic level, she was debating whether he carried heat and if, perhaps, her life might be in danger. Not that he could hide a handgun in his minimum clothing, she decided. She would have heard a clunk when he threw his shorts on the floor if he'd had a 9mm in his pocket.

"Hey, babe. Are you awake?"

"Ah… yup… sure am."

"Want some help dressing?" he said with a wicked grin.

"Thanks, no."

"Why don't I tell Buddy we're going while you get dressed? I'll see you on the beach." Grabbing his T-shirt, he slung it over his shoulder. "Okay with you?"

She nodded. It would give her time to reconcile all the tumult in her brain. Maybe. Or at least give her time to decide whether the hottest sex she'd ever experienced was worth the possible risk in knowing a man who could be living outside the law.

He paused at the door and looked at her. She hadn't moved. "If you're sleepy, I'll carry you to the car."

"No… I'm awake. Really." She smiled brightly. After he left, she dressed and left the stateroom, sure of one thing at least. A few more hours with Danny Rees probably wouldn't make or break her life—other than setting new standards of orgasmic bliss. And that was a real plus.

As she walked up to the main deck, she was struck with a consoling thought. Danny was good friends with Buddy Morton, who certainly was legit. Although, on second thought, how many people did she know who owned a yacht and race horses? On the other hand, Buddy'd once said something about his family owning one of the early flour mills in Minneapolis, and all those old pioneer families still had tons of money. So there. Buddy was more or less unimpeachable; ergo—so was his friend. There was probably some perfectly reasonable explanation for Danny not working. And she'd probably misunderstood his phone conversation. Gardeners could work on Sunday. It wasn't against the law.

Pleased that she'd rationalized away the little discrepancies, and more pleased that she could look forward to a night in bed with Danny Rees, she was smiling when she approached the group around the bonfire. Or she was until she saw the redhead Marisa with the jewelry from Dominic's. And it wasn't their discrepancies in incomes that was bothering her now, but the fact that the wealthy bitch was wearing a bikini so small it was questionable whether any actual fabric was involved. Furthermore, she was standing so close to Danny you couldn't have slipped a piece of paper between her substantially exposed tits and his chest.

And he wasn't backing up.

The bitch saw her coming and ran a lethal-looking fingernail up Danny's cheek and purred something in his ear. He took a small step backward then; Stella had to give him credit there. But he ruined it by apparently saying something funny because they both laughed.

There must have been something in the woman's gaze that made him turn his head. On seeing Stella, he spoke a few words and turned to meet her with a smile.

"You ready to go, babe?"

She would have been happier to leave five minutes ago before she'd seen that smug look on the bikini lady. Or seen so much of her really fabulous body. Silicone or not, the rest of that bod required dedicated hours in the gym; just looking at it made her feel inadequate. "I'm ready any time," she said, trying to sound as casual as he.

"Come on Stella, sit down!" Buddy called out. "We're doing songs from the '80s!"

"Come on, Danny!" Kirsty cried. "You can't leave this early!"

"We'll sing 'Rio' by Duran Duran if you want!" Megan exclaimed, lifting her wineglass in salute. "Your favorite!"

Stella looked at Danny, not sure whether to blow off her jealousy or say something about how there was no way she was staying if those bitches were here.

"We're going to call it a night," he said. "If it's okay with you," he politely added, sliding his arm around Stella's shoulder and pulling her close.

His reply was greeted with whistles and boos and shouts of "Party pooper!" from those around the fire who were well lubricated with alcohol.

Maybe it didn't matter if she wasn't wearing enough jewelry to finance a college education or didn't have double-D boobs. Maybe she'd taken this round in the "Who's Sleeping with the

Bachelor" stakes. Maybe she could afford to be magnanimous in victory. "I'd like that," she said, polite as can be.

Taking Stella's hand, Danny waved to the crowd and moved toward the tree line bordering the beach. "You didn't really want to sing around the bonfire, did you?"

"I'd have to be drunker than I am right now."

"No kidding. I've never understood the appeal."

"It's not in my gene pool, either."

He smiled at her.

And she smiled back, feeling a serious rapport, feeling as though the night had closed around them and they were walking on the sand in some other universe.

"Do you want a drink?" he murmured.

She hadn't had one all day. "Why start now?"

"That's what I was thinking." He was stone sober. He couldn't remember when he'd been with a woman without drinking at least a glass of wine or two. This was some kind of record. In more ways than one, he thought with a smile.

They moved up the beach in a companionable silence, holding hands, the stars overhead more brilliant than usual. Or so they appeared to two people who were feeling the magic.

"Nice night," he said.

"Perfect," she said.

And then they reached his car and Stella almost had a heart attack. She dropped his hand. "Is this yours?" she said, beating down the scream in the back of her throat.

"It's not new," he said, as though her stifled query required some explanation.

"It looks new. What is it?" A shiny, silver, low-slung race car that looked like it could go a thousand miles an hour gleamed in the moonlight.

"A Ferrari."

"Really." A shocked whisper.

Now he wished he'd said a Mitsubishi or something. She might not have known, and apparently the word
Ferrari
was freaking her out. "I won't drive fast if that's a problem."

What she was worried about was being shot to death in a back alley by drug dealers who wore shiny suits or baggy clothes or T-shirts that said DRUGS KILL. Shit.

He looked at her funny. She must have sworn out loud.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

He bent his head enough to look in her eyes. "Tell me. I'll fix it."

Oh, jeez. That didn't sound good—that "fix it" part. He probably fixed all kinds of stuff she didn't want to hear about. Okay, she'd just blurt it out and take her chances. "Do you really design video games?"

Crap. Just when he'd forgotten all that bullshit. His gaze went shuttered. "Why do you want to know?"

She waved at the car. "I want to know how you can afford this."

This was probably where he should tell her to go to hell. But if she was working for his competitors, she would know how he could afford this car. On the other hand, she might be playing stupid for a reason. "I design video games. I can afford this." It was her serve.

"Why didn't you say that before?" She really wanted to believe him for more reasons than not wanting to die in an alley.

"Does it matter?" He watched her closely.

Why was she feeling like a cobra was looking at her ready to strike. "I thought you were unemployed, and well… I didn't know how you could afford your house and everything. You don't sell drugs, do you?" Her voice trailed off and she half smiled.

He had to give her credit. She did that innocent pose to a T. But they were going to her house tonight, not his; his was being guarded by a top-notch crew, and he was going to screw her all night. His smile was warm and boyish for a very good reason. "Christ, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were worried. Buddy will vouch for me," he murmured. "Are we good now?" It was amazing what you'd do for a phenomenal piece of ass.

She nodded. "I guess I'm more of a small-town girl than I thought."

Either that or a real life cyber-thief. "Not a problem," he said, holding out his hand. "Let me help you in. The seats are low."

She was quiet as they pulled out of the parking place, and he switched on the stereo. "Anything special you'd like to hear?"

The stereo looked like the dash on a space ship, all flashing lights and words scrolling across the screen and about ten different knobs that all must be there for a reason. "How about The White Stripes. If you have it."

"This unit holds ten thousand songs. I've got it."

And a brief moment later, the music came out of so many speakers she felt as though she were sitting in the front row at the concert. "Good sound," she said, trying not to think about the amount of money this car cost. Or the stereo, for that matter. She had a boom box from Target that played one CD at a time.

Really, maybe she was getting in too deep.

She wasn't used to luxury and the possibly illegitimate funds behind it.

He touched her hand lightly, and she turned.

"Care to give that pink rabbit some game time tonight?" he murmured.

On the other hand, he could very well be a hard-working computer person who happened to make a very good living. When faced with his offer of the pink rabbit in his very capable hands, it didn't take her more than a fraction of a second to decide.

She'd give him the benefit of the doubt.