Looking for You (11 page)

He
chuckled.

With a
smile that was sad at the edges, she said, "It sounds like you're close to
them."

"Yes.
They hate that I live out here, especially my dad, but they love to come
visit."

She nodded,
looking like she was thousands of miles away.

Not liking
the mental distance between them, he kissed her. Then because he liked it, he
kissed her again.

She hummed,
running her fingers in his hair. "You never said anything about my
underwear."

"That's
because I nearly swallowed my tongue." He nuzzled the edge of her jaw.
"I thought you didn't wear underwear."

"Sometimes
you have to try new things."

"There's
a new thing I'd like to try," he said as he floated them to the edge of
the pool.

Understanding
brightened her gaze and she looked around. "Here?"

"You're
the one who breaks in and goes skinny dipping." He pressed her against the
side, bracketing her with his arms.

"I
don't break in, and I always wear a swimsuit."

He arched
his brow.

"Well,
most of the time."

He thought
about her gliding through the water naked and felt himself go from interested
to fully aroused. "Take the underwear off, Gwendolyn."

Her eyes
widened. He expected her to argue, but she bit her lip and wiggled out of the
panties, tossing them over her shoulder. As she lifted the bra over her head,
her breasts popped above the surface, rosy and taut.

He reached
around her, holding her up, and sucked one into his mouth. He registered her
gasp. Good—she liked it. But he liked it too, and even if she didn't he
didn't think he'd stop. It was plump, like a raspberry, and just as sweet.

She arched
closer to him, rubbing herself against his erection. "Take yours off
too," she whispered, her voice huskier with need.

He
calculated how far away his pants (which held the condoms) were and decided it
was too far. He shook his head. "Later."

"But—"

Before she
could do anything, he turned her around and slid his fingers into her heat.

They both
gasped.

He anchored
her against him with a hand on her chest. As he teased her nipples, one by one,
he stroked her between her legs.

She moaned,
dropping her head on his shoulder. "That's good."

He had to
agree, especially the way she hummer and moaned, rocking against his touch. He
wished he had a condom at hand—he'd have given anything to take her now.

She moaned
again.

"That's
it." He hauled her out of the pool. For a moment, he contemplated taking
her on the ground, right there, but he saw the goose bumps on her skin and
tossed her clothes at her. "Get dressed."

"I'm
wet."

He grinned.
"I know."

She grinned
too. "I have a better idea."

"What?"

"Race
you home." She took off, clutching her clothes to her naked form.

"Gwendolyn!"
he called after her, but all that was left of her was the echo of her laughter.
He gathered his things and took off after her, cursing and laughing
simultaneously. She had that effect on him.

He shook
his head as he ran down the street, chasing her pale delicious ass. At least
she lived close—they'd be inside before anyone could call the cops on
them for streaking.

Camille scurried into Absinthe,
hating that she was twenty minutes late but knowing Dylan would wait patiently
for her.

He was, at the bar, nursing a glass
of wine and reading.

"Sorry," Camille said as
she hopped onto the barstool next to him. "I had to do some last minute
editing on the article I wrote on the underground
foie gras
scene since it's been outlawed."

He closed the book and turned to her.
"Cutting edge stuff."

"It is if you're a duck."

He grinned, and it lit his entire
face.

Warmth spread through her, that she'd
been able to delight him. Happy for the first time in days, she smiled as she
hung her things on the hook under the countertop. "I deal with all the
pressing issues in my job."

"And you do it
marvelously." He motioned to the bartender. "Your article on
beekeeping was captivating, as was the one on feng shui. Had I known I'd
inspire such great heights by helping you move your bed..."

She rolled her eyes. "If you
thought that was good, just wait till you read the one I'm writing on a gourd
artist."

The bartender came over and Dylan
ordered her a glass of white wine. Then he angled himself to face her. "I
never knew one could be such a thing as a gourd artist."

"Neither did I." She leaned
in conspiratorially. "I think the whole store is a front."

"For what?"

"A prostitution ring," she
said off the top of her head.

"Heavy." Amusement lit Dylan's
gaze as he leaned his chin on his palm.

"It's either that or money
laundering. The store is in Laurel Heights. How else would she afford her
rent?" Nodding thanks at the bartender, she tried the wine. Light, crisp,
and delicious. But Dylan always knew which wines would suit her palate.

"Maybe she's actually selling
gourds," Dylan suggested.

She arched her brow. "You think
there's a big market on gourds?"

He shrugged. "What was she
like?"

"Colorful. Nice.
Secretive." She pursed her lips. "She didn't really want to talk to
me."

"Did you go dressed as an
undertaker?"

Frowning, she glanced down at her
suit. "I don't dress like an undertaker."

Dylan arched his brow as he took a
sip of his wine.

"I look professional."

"I never said you didn't."
He tugged the collar of her suit coat. "I know I'd come to you if I had to
bury someone."

His hand brushed the top of her
breast, and for a second she couldn't breathe. She exhaled with a rush and
fanned herself. "Is it warm in here? I think it's warm."

"Take your coat off if you're
warm," he said as though she were mental.

"Right." She shrugged out
of her coat and hung it on the hook over her purse.

"Here." He reached out,
unbuttoning the top couple buttons of her blouse. She'd had it done up to her
neck, so it wasn't like she was indecently exposed, but the act of him
undressing her caused her to flush deeper.

"Better?" he asked softly.

His face—his lips in
particular—were so close. All she had to do was lean forward the tiniest
amount and she'd be pressed to him.

And how horrifying would that be? He
thought of her as his little project and she was getting it on with him in her
head. She swallowed thickly and managed to squeak, "Fine."

He studied her with his
all-encompassing gaze a moment longer. Then he said, "What sort of secrets
do you think she had?"

Camille blinked, discombobulated.
"What?"

"Your gourd artist. What sorts
of secrets does she keep?"

Without thinking, she said, "She
was spurned by a paperboy when she was a teenager and has been harboring a
hatred for anyone tied to journalism ever since. She was planning on killing me
and stuffing me in a gourd."

Dylan shook his head. "Your talents
are wasted. You should be writing fiction."

Just like that, she went on guard.
"I'm a journalist."

"You're a writer," he
insisted. "A good writer, and a good writer can write anything he
wants."

"If I'm good enough to write
anything, why can't it be news? Why are you always trying to get me to change
my focus?" She picked up her wine so she'd have something to do with her
hand, but she didn't try to drink any, afraid she might choke.

"Because your purpose isn't
telling people what's already happened." Impassioned, he turned to bracket
her with his legs. "It's entertaining people with your unique point of
view."

She remembered the harsh red letters
her mother had scrawled on her partial manuscript and felt something in her
wither all over again. "You're wrong."

"I'm not wrong," he said,
his voice low with intent. "I'm an author. I recognize talent."

"Can we talk about something
else?" she asked plaintively, starting to turn away.

"No, we can't." He took her
by the arms so she had to face him. "Didn't you hear yourself as you were
talking about this gourd artist? You took a nugget of reality about her and
spun it into an intriguing character."

"I just told you what I thought
about her."

"You wove her into a compelling
character I want to know more about." Dylan's gaze burned with passion.
"I want to know why she became a gourd artist and what inspires her. I
want to know how she affords the store, and why she decided to open it in
Laurel Heights. I want to know what her secrets are."

Camille blinked. "So you're
saying I should investigate her?"

Dylan sighed, clearly exasperated.
"Of course not. I'm telling you to
create
her. Make her into whoever you want her to be. Weave her into an
adventure."

She couldn't do that, but she could
find out who the real Gwendolyn Pierce was. Because Camille's usually dormant
journalistic instincts told her that there was more to Gwendolyn's story than
she let on.

It could even be her big break. She'd
joked about money laundering, but what if...?

She had to calm down, she told
herself. It was no good getting worked up for nothing. Most stories turned out
to be duds.

"Aren't you going to say
anything?" he asked.

She looked up at Dylan, surprised to
find his face so close to hers, with his hand cupping her cheek. His thumb caressed
the edge of her mouth.

Her gaze dropped to his lips. She'd
always wondered what it'd be like to kiss him. She'd never been able to decide
if he'd be hot and enthusiastic or slow and deliberate. If she tipped
forward—just a little—she could find out.

And possibly ruin their easy
friendship, making everything awkward between them.

So she leaned back. "Didn't you
promise me food?"

"Not until you answer me."

She nodded. "I'll work on
it."

His eyes narrowed. "You
promise?"

"Yes." Just not a fictional
one, she added silently.

"Good," he said.
"Promise me one other thing."

"What?" She took a sip of
wine.

"Go out with me again."

"For dinner?"

He smiled ruefully. "And more.
If you want."

"Like for dessert?" Then
she gasped as she saw the expression on his face. "Surely not
dessert
."

"Yes," he said with an
amused smile. "
Dessert
.
Eventually, at least. First I just want a real date."

"
With me
?"

"Of course, you." Frowning,
he touched her cheek. "It's time, Camille."

Her heart beat a mile a minute. This
was a bad idea. She didn't have anything to offer him. She was a loser at work.
She was so much younger and wasn't interesting like the women he usually dated.
She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt. She should tell him no, because it'd
only mess up their friendship.

But he was
so close
, and she felt his breath on her skin, and it made her
wonder. So she said, "Okay."

"Good."

Was he going to kiss her? She leaned
forward, curious. Ready.

Wanting it.

But then the bartender returned,
asking if they wanted to order dinner. She didn't know whether to be relieved
or irritated.

She did know she needed to prove
herself worthy of him, though—now more than ever. She had his attention,
but how would she hold it if she didn't measure up to the women he was used to?

She'd go back to ask Gwendolyn Pierce
more questions. If there was a compelling story to the mysterious gourd
artist—and Camille believed there was—she'd be the one to break it.

The phone
rang as Gwen was cleaning a batch of hard-skinned gourds she'd just received
from her supplier. Gourd still in hand, she wiped her free one on her pants and
reached to answer it. "Outta My Gourd."

There was
the predictable chuckle on the other end, and then a woman said, "I'd like
to speak to Gwendolyn Pierce."

"Speaking."
She placed the phone in the crook of her neck so she could continue as she
talked.

"I'm
Jennifer Brady, the curator at the de Young Museum. We spoke a few months ago
regarding the past and present exhibit. I wanted to let you know your pieces
were one of the artworks selected to remain in our permanent exhibit."

Gwen
dropped the gourd, screaming in a way that would have made her Gallic ancestors
cringe.

Jennifer
laughed. "I seem to get that reaction from everyone."

"You're
the Grim Reaper in opposite." Laughing, Gwen picked up the gourd and did a
little dance with it on the spot. Wait until Rick heard. She thought about
their bet and laughed. It was going to be so sweet when he handed over that
hundred dollars. "This is amazing."

"I
have some paperwork for you to fill out, the usual contracts." There was a
rustle over the line. "A release that gives your work to the museum as
well as the publicity release, plus a couple other formalities. We'll courier
the paperwork to you."

The pit of
her stomach dropped. "Publicity release?"

"Yes,
to use your name and photos. You're going to be all over, if I have anything to
say about it. You're going to be the most renowned gourd artist ever. Your face
and name will be splashed all over the national papers."

"No
splashing!" she exclaimed. "I don't want to be splashed."

But
Jennifer was so focused on her plans she didn't note Gwen's panic. "But
we'll start with local news, of course, like the
San Francisco Daily
. They're doing another article on the show. I
believe they've already contacted you. It's a full spread with photos of you
and your artwork."