Hot Spot (6 page)

"A ton of kids came in after the parade, but everyone went home for supper now. I sold five copies of
Murky B
to some parent who'd just heard about your comic. I think you might have a new fan."

"Hey, an extra fifteen bucks a week. Way to go. Take some of those cookies home if you like. I'll close up."

As the door shut behind Amy a short time later, Stella kicked off her sandals, picked up her sketches from the newest issue of
Marky B
, and, sinking into one of her overstuffed chairs, perused the handsome new addition to Marky B's coterie of sidekicks— namely one modern-day warrior with dark eyes and darker hair like someone she knew and a half-naked body to die for.

Damn.

It was a shame real life wasn't so easily manipulated.

If it was, she could draw one Danny Rees into her life and into her bed for a day or two and then draw him out.

The beauty of comic books was their complete disregard for reality, not to mention the satisfying conceit of viewing the world through the eyes of heroes and heroines who were larger than life—cooler, smarter, stronger, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound—and who always won in the game of life.

Ah—sweet fantasy. She flipped over a clean page in her sketch pad and reached over to the box of pencils she kept at the ready for her young customers who came to the store to learn how to draw.

Two quick strokes and a pair of shoulders took form; another sweep of her hand and one side of a lean torso appeared in a graceful, supple curve. A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth as her hand moved feverishly over the page, adding arms, hands, legs, feet, face, hair. Should she put clothes on? She grinned.

Nah.

She may not be able to have her chocolate cake in person, but right now, she could have him any way she wanted.

SHE WAS IN THE KITCHEN FINISHING A LATE supper when she heard a knock on her front door. Because her friends knew enough to come around to the back of the house, she hesitated—not in the mood to deal with a customer who chose to disregard the prominently displayed store hours. She didn't want to see anyone anyway, looking like this. Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail, and she'd changed into sweats and a T-shirt to watch the fireworks from her porch.

"Hey Stella! Your lights are on!"

That voice instantly turned on a couple other things as well, and she wondered if she could do a complete makeover in thirty seconds or, better yet, have a fairy godmother transform her into an instant Cinderella. Even her bare feet were dirty like Cinderella's; she'd picked raspberries for supper out in the backyard.

But this was one of those occasions when, liabilities aside, intellect lost out big time to pure, irrepressible, pedal-to-the-metal emotion. "I'll be right down!" she shouted, grabbing the kitchen towel to wipe her feet. Seconds later, she pulled her scrunchy free, ran her fingers through her hair, straightened her less-than-pristine T-shirt sprinkled with raspberry stains, and sprinted down the stairs to the store.

Taking a deep breath at the wide-shouldered silhouette visible through the glass-paned upper half of her door, she slowly exhaled, reminded herself that men like Danny Rees were only familiar with assent, and, throwing caution to the wind, opened the door anyway.

"I know you have your rules, but after a couple drinks at Caesar's, I thought, what the hell." He lifted a sweating Cristal champagne bottle—a very expensive bottle—the kind celebrities drank, according to the
National Enquirer
and
People
magazine. "Care to watch the fireworks with me?"

This probably wasn't the time to say she had fireworks of her own going off in various and sundry portions of her body. "I don't know—I shouldn't."

"Why not? It's just fireworks."

He didn't have to sound so adult and reasonable. He didn't have to look so luscious. She tried to shut down her dancing nerve endings and assume an equally blase facade. "I guess—how can it hurt."

"I guarantee you it won't hurt."

"Cute. Are you telling me you're good?"

He grinned. "Are you asking?"

"Hell no. I'm staying on message. I don't date customers."

"Suit yourself. Do you want to watch from here or from somewhere else?"

The way he said it, or perhaps the way she interpreted the ambiguity in his question in terms of her own personal preferences for
something
else,
somewhere
else caused her to hesitate.

His grin broadened as though he could read her mind. "I meant should we watch the fireworks from your porch or down by the river."

"Because I'm not exactly dressed for company"—she shrugged—"let's do it here."

An abrupt silence fell.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

Flushing with embarrassment, she stammered, "Pull up… the chairs—I'll find… some glasses." Spinning around before she said something she'd really regret like, "Let's forget about the fireworks and get into bed," she literally ran for the stairs.

"I have an opener," he called out.

As if he needed one
, she thought, her mind so carnally focused every word he uttered shrieked sexual innuendo.

He wasn't thinking innuendo so much as consummation. Drawing forward a wicker chair for a better view of the river, he pulled up a small table and set down the bottle. They'd have some champagne, watch the fireworks, and go from there.

And he knew exactly where he wanted to go.

WHEN STELLA RETURNED with two flutes, she immediately sat down to keep from hurling herself into his arms and watched

"Maybe I do."

He smiled. "You don't
have
to have sex."

"Damn right I don't."

"We can just sit here and watch the fireworks." He grinned. "If it doesn't rain."

"Arrogant bastard."

"Uh-uh. I'm just honest with myself."

"And I'm not?"

"Vegas odds? I'd say forty to one not on this one."

"So women just fall into your arms?"

"Give me a break. This isn't war. I'd just like to get to know you."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning anything you want."

"Liar."

He smiled. "Well, I have my preferences, but I'll live either way."

"With or without sex, you mean."

He nodded. "With or without."

"That's awfully big of you."

"It's up to you, that's all I'm saying. You decide. I'll be as accommodating as hell."

When he offered carte blanche like that, it went a real long way in obliterating objections large or small. It didn't help either that the phrase,
Why don't you come upstairs with me
? had been looping through her brain since she'd answered the door. Nor that he was stretched out on her railing, looking sexy as hell, his back against one of the elaborately carved posts holding up the porch roof, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his balance superb considering he was very large and her railing was not excessively wide. And bottom line, if she was honest with herself, she had to admit he was about the best thing she'd seen since Hostess Sno-balls went pink.

"Just tell me what you want," he said, the welcome mat out in the silken softness of his voice.

"I'm thinking." She took a deep breath. "Give me a minute." She must have gone too long without sex. That was why she was damned near quivering. Or maybe he'd simply appeared at some opportune time when her hormonal stars and sexual receptors were all perfectly attuned and any red-blooded male would have inspired the same acute reaction.

Yeah, right.

If that was the case, she would have looked with interest at any number of men on the yacht this afternoon.

She hadn't.

Not to mention she was damned near salivating. And struggling to concentrate on something—
anything
other than sex.

Not an easy task with Danny Rees in all his glory close enough to touch.

Where was her commitment to the separation of business and pleasure when she desperately needed it?

"We could go to the street dance afterward if you want."

"After what?" How could he be so calm when she was being literally swamped by tidal waves of horniness?

"After whatever you want." He smiled a sweet, sexy smile that made her want to throw her arms around him and kiss him with total disregard for the imminent possibility of falling into the hydrangea bushes below. And he was clearly talking about sex—not fireworks… hot sex, she was thinking—that lasted all him deftly open the bottle. His motions were swift and sure, foil and cage taken off, the cork pulled out with a couple turns, and that small, almost nonexistent pop. A true professional. Her mind sprinted ahead to the obvious comparison of professional skills in other areas; she was apparently without censuring mechanisms in her frontal lobes tonight. In an attempt to derail the ready-for-sex-right-now locomotion racing through her senses, she silently screamed,
Stop
! According to a self-help book she'd skimmed once, that sort of internal vigilance was supposed to short-circuit one's thought process—and allow more reasonable thoughts to surface.

It did.

For a full two seconds.

And then the throbbing between her legs overwhelmed reason in a tidal wave of ungovernable impulse that took no notice whatsoever of self-help book advice. Shifting in her chair, she tried to dismiss the steady, hard rhythm centered in the core of her body. It was hot out tonight. That was it. No,
he
was hot, a little voice inside her head pointed out. And
available
, the treacherous voice went on as though she needed further encouragement when she was practically in attack mode already.

"Hey," he whispered. "Earth to Stella."

She looked up to find him smiling and holding out a champagne flute.

"I was thinking about Megan—her campaign… and stuff," she lied, wondering how long he'd been standing there waiting for her to return to reality. "I have to design a new poster for her debate in the fall. You know how stuff like that rolls around your head."

"I can imagine," he said, leaning against the railing.

Was that sarcasm or empathy? Did she really care when he was blocking out the moon with those really wide shoulders and lean, taut body, his dark, ruffled hair limned by silvery light? "Sit down," she said, trying to sound like a mature adult.
Stay a while
, she thought.
A couple weeks if you want
, the highly excitable, super susceptible adult entertainment zone of her body proposed.