Plum Girl (Romance) (3 page)

Lunther stood up and spun around, and she averted her gaze so he couldn't tell what she'd been thinking. "Well, 'night," he said quickly, and plodded heavily back to his office.

Less than a minute passed before Lonnie checked the clock again: 5:48 p.m. Twit hadn't emerged from his office in the past half hour, so she hoped she could just slip away to freshen up in the rest room before meeting Dominick downstairs. Of course, at that moment, she heard a door swing open, and within seconds caught a glimpse of her boss waddling around the corner and toward her desk.

"Leslie? Oh, good, you're still here. I know you secretaries like to cut out early whenever possible," Twit said. Well, there went the freshening-up plan. She knew that she should correct her boss when he called her by the wrong name, but she really didn't care enough. Anyway, she figured it was only a matter of time before he went through every other L name until he accidentally stumbled upon Lonnie. She was waiting for that day, and delayed gratification was perfectly fine with her.

"Did you need something?" Lonnie asked with as much eagerness as she could muster, considering her panty-inflaming-but-utterly-platonic friend was waiting downstairs, and she had yet to apply some Plum Daiquiri lipstick.

"Yes. I just want to let you know that within the next couple days I'm going to be expecting some confidential materials—faxes, actually—and I want you to keep an eye out." He altered his inflection, making his words deliberately slow, so she'd be sure to comprehend. "We really need to be discreet—that is to say,
careful
—with confidential faxes, okay?"

Her expression remained even, and she replied, "Sure, Beauregard, no problem. When any faxes come in, I'll bring them right to you."

Twit held up his hand as if to say
sloooow down now,
and interjected, "Now, wait, Leslie. I never said 'any' faxes. I mean, I don't want you to bring in materials from the Atrium." The Atrium was a cafe on the second floor that faxed a list of daily specials to every company in the building. Lonnie hardly classified that as confidential, but apparently Twit wasn't as optimistic about her reasoning skills.

Looking at him, bemused, she just answered, "I understand, really. Don't worry."

With a curt nod, Twit turned and duck-walked back around that damn corner.
Okay, five more minutes,
she thought as she scurried to the rest room. She looked at herself in the mirror and sighed. Curvy was one thing—and a description she'd heard since adolescence—but she was starting to think that if she didn't locate a treadmill and/or a craving for lentils and lettuce wraps soon, her curves would push right through to the next size. She shelved these insecurities for the moment, though, and quickly applied just enough lipstick to give her mouth a hint of wine color, before heading out the door.

She found Dominick leaning against a marble column in the lobby. Her stomach dropped, but then, she had skipped lunch (unless you counted those two Kit Kats and diet Coke she'd had at her desk, which surely you wouldn't). She held her ice-blue coat at her side and moved purposefully toward him. Her heart fluttered when Dominick's face broke into a wide grin, and his eyes gave a super-quick scan of her body in her wine-and-black paisley dress. She loved the dress; it came right below the knee, with black lace trim at the hem of the skirt and long sleeves. It hugged her body without being tight, which—she hated to admit—made her feel sexy.

Damn, why did she have to wear this dress when she was already feeling sexy just being near Dominick? Now, all she'd need was a spicy Bloody Mary to warm her blood, and she'd probably crawl right into Dominick's lap. Then again, who was she kidding? She'd never been the instant gratification type. And definitely not the uncontrollable-passion type. Not for a long time, anyway.

"Hey, you," he said, smiling.

"Hey," Lonnie said, returning his smile. She was only five-four, so even with high heels she was a good five inches shorter than he was; for a fleeting moment she had an image of herself jumping up and wrapping her legs around his waist.
Oh, God,
she thought to herself,
I need help. Of course, if I tried to jump on Terry, he might just fall backward. No, stop it.

Dominick's smooth voice broke her winding train of thought. "So, what d'ya think? Rattlesnake?" he asked, his dark eyes flickering.

"Hmm..." She angled her head slightly to the side and smiled up at him. "Sure, okay. Let's go to Rattlesnake."

* * *

The booth was secluded, and the bar itself was lit only by small table candles and muted pink rays from streetlamps outside. Lonnie and Dominick were on their second drink, and he was telling her about his family in Connecticut. She already knew that he was the youngest of three boys in a close-knit, middle-class family. Now he was telling her about a big brother program in east Boston he'd volunteered for a year ago because he'd never experienced being an older brother. Apparently, he'd wanted to do the job better than his own older brothers, who still derisively called him "Dotcominick" because of his affinity for computers.

Lonnie told him about her work in east Boston at a battered women's shelter that had started as part of a sociology project but continued until the shelter had closed down five months ago.

They had been seated at the table and talking for about an hour already, and neither was making a move to go anywhere. Now he was telling her an amusing story about his family, and she was trying to stay focused on what he was saying rather than the way his mouth formed the words. It was hard, though, because his mouth was beautiful. His lips were wide and subtly full, his teeth were white, and his tongue was... well, she'd like to find out.

While he spoke, he absently ran his hand over his chin and occasionally shrugged his shoulders, which she couldn't help noticing were broad and strong. He looked hard and solid... but so
huggable
that Lonnie had some difficulty focusing on the conversation. Instead, her mind wandered through a lascivious maze of graphic images. The most innocent—by far—involved wrapping herself around Dominick's naked, muscled body, feeling him everywhere with her hands, her mouth, her breasts, and seeing what he would do about it.

She felt a warm flutter between her legs, but instead of that being a signal she was fantasizing too much, it was a foreshadowing. Pretty soon, the warmth turned to heat, the flutter turned to pulsing. Not to mention, she was experiencing a fierce need for him to take her right on the little square table. What had come over her lately?

"So, enough about my family. What's yours like?" he asked, and she had to restrain herself from reaching out to touch him.

"What do you want to know?" She went for an even, casual tone, and took more than a sip of her spicy Bloody Mary. The intention was to calm her nerves a little, but she forgot the other effect the drink would have on her body. More heat.

He moved the small candle over and extended his arms so that his hands were only an inch away from hers. She wondered if he was battling the same urge to make physical contact. He lightly rapped his knuckles on the table and said, "Well, let's see. So I know you live downtown with your younger sister the artist, and that your parents have a condo in Brookline. And that you all have dinner together there—what, every week?"

"Well, it depends if I have other plans." She paused and then added, "Yeah, every week."

His grin widened. "So, when you're not hanging out with your family and temping at Twit and Bell, what do you do?"

"Hmm, you mean besides sleep and eat?"

"What do you like to do for fun?"

"Um... campaign for a feminist Utopia."

Now she grinned. Their eyes locked, and her pupils were so dilated with infatuation, they appeared coal dark, rather than green-honey-brown.

Dominick cocked his head and said, "No, smartie, what do you
really
like to do for
fun?"

Lonnie's heart felt like it was going to jump out of her chest. Suddenly, Dominick's index finger was grazing the back of her hand, and it hadn't escaped her attention that his question had come out dripping with sexual suggestion. Another finger joined the first, and the two began trailing slow, sensuous circles on the back of her hand. His hands were warm and strong and gentle, just as she had thought they would be. She imagined his heated fingers circling on a much more sensitive spot and immediately flushed at the thought—which was ironic considering all the Spice channel-esque notions she'd been having a minute ago. But then they were just notions and in no danger of becoming reality.

Fluidly, his thumb slid into her hand, against her palm, and followed the same rhythm as his other fingers. They moved slowly, hypnotically, applying deliberate pressure and making her breath catch. Something so simple shouldn't be so arousing, but considering that she'd started out hot and aching for him to touch her, it was inevitable that anything could send her over the edge.

Sudden anxiety clutched her chest.

And just like that, she withdrew her hand. Awkwardly, she brought it up to her hair, and moved black, silky strands behind her ear. She looked around, then said, "What time is it anyway?"

He looked at his wristwatch efficiently, but Lonnie could tell he was a little unnerved by her abrupt withdrawal. "Uh, seven twenty-five," he said.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

She thought she should say something before one of them started whistling. "I don't usually go out after work. What about you?" She toyed with the wedge of lime on the edge of her glass.

"Uh, no. Not that often. My staff goes out for happy hour a lot, but I'm not really into that scene." He shrugged with an irresistible mix of confidence and self-deprecation. God, he was sexy. She had to keep reminding herself that that was not enough of a reason to bust up her relationship with Terry.

She and Terry weren't officially exclusive. In truth, they weren't officially anything, and she liked it that way. The superficial, simple connection they shared was about all she could emotionally handle right now. And she definitely couldn't be involved with two men at once. It would be too confusing—too
un
her. She was Catholic, after all. (Well, most days.)

Oh, God. Why did Dominick have such a maddening effect on her?

"I should probably go soon," Lonnie said. "There are some things I've got to do at home." Damn it, why was she lying? But she couldn't stop herself. And Dominick didn't protest at all.

"Oh, okay, yeah. I should probably head home, too. I'm supposed to test some software tonight, anyway." He left a twenty on the table and waited for Lonnie to go out ahead of him. Her gut was knotted the whole walk to the subway station. When they parted, she got on the T, flushed with lust and sick to her stomach.

Chapter 3

"So I want to hear more about this little rendezvous," Peach called from the bathroom. She'd just taken a shower, after a long day of personally assisting Iris Mew and her overly dependent, thirty-five-year-old daughter, Cheryl. Fifteen minutes earlier, Lonnie had arrived home and started describing her evening, when Peach abruptly stopped her: "Hold that thought. Do you mind if I jump in the shower real quick? Smelling like cat shit is breaking my concentration."

Now she emerged from the bathroom, snuggly wrapped in her appropriately peach-colored terry-cloth robe, with her gold and bronze hair swept into a wet bun and her glittery eyes sparkling. She chimed, "So how was it? Wait, how come you're home so early?" Lonnie glanced at the clock that hung on the wall opposite Peach's mural: 8:05 p.m. So it wasn't the longest evening she'd ever spent with a man... certainly not as long as she'd wanted to spend... What was her sister's point?

"Well, we were just going for a quick drink."

Peach's eyebrows angled toward each other skeptically, demanding elaboration. For a moment, Lonnie considered lying about how abruptly the evening had ended, but she knew it would be a futile effort. "And, anyway, I told him I had some important things to take care of at home." She avoided her sister's eyes, and moved past her into the bathroom.

"Important things to take care of at home," Peach echoed flatly. "What's at home? Just me. Let me guess: you were anxious to find out how it went with the claw mutilator today, right? Well, just so you know, I think I was even more traumatized than Mr. Whiskers."

"Oh, Iris's cat was declawed?" Lonnie said sympathetically, in between splashes of water, as she washed her face. "But doesn't a vet do that?"

"I refuse to call him that after what I witnessed today. Vets are supposed to love animals," Peach said forcefully.

Lonnie patted her face dry and came back out, meeting Peach's disapproving gaze. "Okay, so what did you have to do here that was so important?" There was sarcasm in her tone, but it was diluted by what Lonnie knew was genuine caring.

"Who knows? Who knows why the hell I do half the things I do? Let's drop it."

"Did you fool around with him?"

"No."

"Did you kiss at all?"

"No.
Hello, does anyone here remember that I'm involved with someone already? Someone who's coming to visit me in less than a week?"

Peach rolled her pale blue eyes. "Please, you guys aren't exclusive. Wait, you're
not,
are you?" Lonnie could swear she heard panic in her sister's voice. Was Terry really that bad? He couldn't be; he was just a harmless, preppy class-clown type, who was content with their monthly visits that consisted of making out and sharing a few laughs. At least, he was content for the moment.

"Admit it, you just don't like Terry because you still blame him for breaking up you and What's-His-Name."

"Hey," Peach protested, "What's-His-Name was possibly the best relationship I've ever been in."

"You had four dates. How could that be your best relationship?"

"Only four dates, that's how," she answered glibly. "And, contrary to what you may think, I don't blame Terry for that little incident; I blame
you.
Is that better?" Lonnie knew perfectly well what her sister was referring to—the night they first met Terry.