Project Produce (25 page)

I giggled, feeling like a twit.

“Don’t they make a cute couple?” Bombshell asked Dylan, snuggling up to him.

“Yeah, cute.” He smirked at me as he clenched and unclenched his fists, completely ignoring Bombshell’s caresses.

The waiter showed up with our food just in time, and the aroma of steak and buttered baked potatoes filled the air. I ordered pasta and my mouth watered, already tasting the red sauce full of spices, though I hadn’t even taken a bite. Dylan cut into his steak, sawing furiously as Beefcake caressed my hand and kissed my cheek.

Bombshell looked from Dylan to me, back to Dylan, back to me, back to Dylan... back to me... and finally gasped, her mouth falling open wide.

I repeat--duhhhhhh!

She dropped her hand and ate her salad with a pathetic pout plastered across her plastic face.

Dylan jammed another bite of steak into his mouth, chewing longer than necessary. His hand halted halfway, a piece of steak dangling from his fork as he stared hard at Beefcake’s face. He narrowed his eyes, studying him closer.

God, what if Dylan recognized him? I eyed my nearly-full plate with regret, downed the rest of my Bahama Mama, and said, “Well, it’s been fun, but we should be going. We’ve got plans, don’t we, lover?”

Dylan choked.

I jumped up, knocking my chair over, and flew around the table in record time, then whacked him a good one between the shoulder blades. I lifted my hand for a second blow, but he caught my wrist mid-swing.

“Thanks,” he said, probing my eyes as he released my arm. “I’m fine now.”

I shrugged. “Anytime. Trust me, it was my pleasure.”

He smirked. “I’m sure it was.”

Lifting my chin a notch, I marched around to my side of the table and hooked my arm through Beefcake’s to pull him to his feet, since he seemed more interested in his dinner than me. I elbowed him in the side.

“R-Right, uh, lover. Where is it we’re going again?”

Rolling my eyes, I whispered in his ear.

“Yeah, that’s right, The Bump and Grind.” A leer of Cro-Magnon delight spread across Beefcake’s face. I’d chosen a hot new night club, counting on Hot Britches not letting me go it alone with good ole Bart.

“Great, we’ll join you. Won’t we, Penelope? You love to dance,” Dylan said, not disappointing me.

“But, snuggle bunny, I’m not finished,” she whined.

“Yeah, I’m not finished, either,” Beefcake seconded.

“So get a doggie bag.” Dylan grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet, then met my eyes with a challenge.

“Yeah, get a doggie bag,” I echoed to my date, my eyes never leaving Dylan’s. I grinned.

Dylan grinned back.

Ding. Ding
. Let round three begin.

***

Note to self: Never date an eggplant. They’re clueless
.

I didn’t know anything bigger than a zucchini existed, but Bart had to be an eggplant. He wasn’t cocky like a pickle, comfortable like a cucumber, or confident like a zucchini. He was a beast of a man and absolutely clueless.

I strolled along behind him through the crowded night club, trying not to have my arm yanked out of its socket. The music blared so loud, the bass boomed in my feet like the pulse of a heart. I gripped his hand and tried to swing my hips, knowing Dylan followed close on my heels. Not an easy task, since Beefcake galloped onto the dance floor through the multitude of colorful flashing lights.

“Come on. Let’s dance.” He dragged me behind him, ruining my hip swagger, then tossed me about in his attempt to dance. I half expected to be clubbed later and dragged off to his cave.

Why had I worn two-inch heels? Because I’d wanted to be on equal footing with Hot Britches, that’s why. When Beefcake came to a jarring stop, I bounced off his back. “Oomph!”

“Yeah, cool. That’s it, baby. You go, girl.” He bounced me back, knocking me into the guy behind me.

“Ugh!” I tried to catch my breath.

The spaced-out loser echoed, “Cool, man,” then bounced me in another direction.

“Who-whoo-whoo-whooooo,” I called out, feeling like Tigger in the middle of a
Winnie the Pooh
pinball game. I might not have kids, but even I knew who Tigger was. These people were insane if they called this dancing. What happened to playing “real” music and dancing like normal people, not mosh pit burnouts.

When I could no longer take boinking, bonking, and be-bopping around the dance floor, I squeezed my way through the crowd to the D.J.’s booth and made a request. The D.J. stared at me as though I were the one on drugs, then shrugged and complied with my request.

As I reached the center of the dance floor, the music came to a screeching stop, and a hush fell over the crowd. When salsa music poured through the speakers, the crowd cleared the floor like someone had let a skunk loose amongst them.

Great
. I hated being the center of attention. I began to perspire, but I looked more ridiculous just standing there, so I started tapping my foot to the rhythm, then shaking my insecurity to the beat.

Those who’d started to turn away, jerked back to stare as if I were from Mars. Clapping my hands, moving my hips, wiggling my fanny, and stomping my feet, I twisted and turned, having no idea what I was doing. I let the music fill my soul, closed my eyes, and let my body take over.

Now
this
was dancing.

An arm snaked around my waist, and my eyes popped open. I gasped. Dylan stared down at me with an angry expression and a hard smile on his handsome face.

“If you’re going to make a display out of yourself, at least be smart about it. Choose a partner first. You nearly caused a riot over there.”

The music changed to another song with a livelier Latin beat, and he moved me in a series of expert steps. I blinked. Hot Britches knew how to salsa? My breathing quickened, but then his words registered. I skimmed over the crowd. Where was Bart? All I saw were several angry men, chomping at the bit to dance with me.

Me!

First I felt surprised, then flattered, then embarrassed, and finally confused. I’d only meant to have a little fun. Make Dylan sweat a little. At the time, it had seemed like a better idea than getting bruised in the Tigger Bounce. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

Focusing on Dylan, I realized he didn’t just know how to salsa, he was amazing at it. Suddenly, nothing else mattered as I stared into the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. His lashes lowered, and that crooked grin of his hooked the corner of his full lips. He pulled me in close, hip to hip, his leg between mine, doing a series of sexy steps, then dipping me low.

“Wh-What are we doing?” I wheezed.

“The Dirty Salsa,” he said in a throaty whisper next to my ear.

“You’re very, um, good at Dirty.”

He chuckled, and his hard, sinewy muscles relaxed against mine. “Thanks. You’re not too bad yourself at whatever all that hip-gyrating, fanny-wiggling dancing you were doing earlier was called.”

I smiled back, realizing how much I’d missed this rapport between us. “Thanks. It’s called the Closet Salsa.”

“You amaze me, Mac.”

“Ditto,” I said breathlessly, then cleared my throat. “Hey, it beat the Tigger Boink, Bonk, Be-bop.”

We both laughed.

Lord, it felt good to be in his arms again. The music changed to a slow song, and he pulled me closer, moving me in ways I hadn’t known were possible. My lips parted, and his breathing became as heavy as mine. He looked down at me with smoldering eyes. Oh, mama, this was much better than my teenage fantasy of dirty dancing with Patrick Swayze.

Licking his lips, Dylan leaned in, and my stomach bucked. I closed my eyes and puckered my lips, waiting. Wanting. Wilting.

“What the?” Dylan yelled.

I opened my eyes and watched a giant of a man yank him back. “My turn.”

Khaki Man was supposed to set up another phony crony to hit on me, one final episode so I could show Dylan once and for all that I could take care of myself. But, darn it, I wasn’t ready for the crony to interfere just yet.

I only had myself to blame, but I was so over the payback episodes and ready to move on. I was about to say so when Hot Britches turned into Super Cop once again.

“Give it up, pal. The Lady isn’t doing anything with you.” Dylan took a step in my direction.

“The lady will do whatever I tell her to do.” The giant took a swing at Dylan, but Dylan ducked just in time, then rammed his shoulder into the giant’s gut.

Oh, Khaki Man, this goes beyond getting even with me
. Time to get this over with. “The lady can speak for herself.” I flew into action, pushing Dylan out of the way, then whipping off my spiked heel and circling the giant, briefly wondering what produce he could possibly be. Summer squash?

“Mac, what the hell are you doing? Get out of there.” Dylan tried to intervene again, but the crowd blocked his path.

The giant tipped his head back and roared, while the crowd cheered us on wildly. Dylan tried to push his way back in, but they held him back, probably wanting to see what the crazy-dancing woman in the painted-on red dress would do.

The giant lunged for me, but I ducked low and jammed my spike into his knee, sending him howling to the floor. Rolling to his feet, he glared at me, no longer amused, but angry as the devil, with pure evil blazing from his eyes. I had to give Khaki Man credit. He’d picked a good actor tonight. If I didn’t know better, I’d be scared senseless. I kept a steady eye on his face, gauging his character and guessing at his next move.

“Good job, Callie. Watch his eyes,” Dylan hollered from the sidelines, the sweetie. Figured. No sign of Beefcake.

I snapped my gaze to Dylan’s and smiled, then quickly focused my attention back on the giant. I could see Dylan’s blinding white teeth from the corner of my eye. The giant was big, all right, but he was also slow. He could probably crush me with one good shot, but I was smart, agile, and completely at ease. After all, he was a phony. I faked left, and when the giant fell for it, I surged to the right with a hard knee to the groin and a karate chop to the windpipe. Gotta love country karate boxing.

The giant fell to the floor, clutching his balls and gasping for breath. A man was a man, no matter how big. They still had the same parts, after all. And this guy was only acting. When he lay still, I shook my head. Man, he was good. Wiping my hands, I bowed at the waist to the stunned crowd, then strolled over to Dylan like I hadn’t a care in the world.

“Come on, let’s get out of here before the crowd decides to line up other contestants to face the crazy-dancing small-town girl with the deadly set of knees.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me after him.

“But what about Bombshell and Beefcake?” I scanned the crowd. So much for my protection. Good thing I had the giant as backup.

“You mean Penelope and Bart? They left an hour ago. A match made in heaven, I’m sure.” Dylan didn’t stop until he reached his car, then unlocked the doors, giving me five seconds flat to slide in and buckle up before he screeched away from the parking lot.

Tension filled the air. He didn’t speak, just drove, and wouldn’t even look at me.

Something was wrong.

***

The silence in the car became a deafening hum, and the tension thickened. I wrinkled my nose and then chewed my lip, wondering what was going on in Dylan’s head. I hadn’t thought this far ahead and certainly hadn’t figured on him giving me a ride home on Valentine’s Day, of all days.

“What were you trying to prove in there?” he finally asked, staring straight ahead at the road.

“What do you mean?” I tried not to sound too guilty.

“I get the picture. You can take care of yourself just fine, but did you have to pick the biggest guy in the joint to prove your point?” The muscles in his jaw bulged.

“I didn’t pick him, he picked me,” I huffed, then admitted grudgingly, “but I was never in any
real
danger.”

“Are you kidding? Did you see the size of his fists? If even one of his blows had landed, you’d never be the same again.” He shook his head, working his jaw.

“That bozo was just another one of Nick’s...”
Whoops
.

“Another one of Nick’s what? Who’s Nick?”

“Nick is just a guy I know from work, and this is a friend of his.”

“You’ve never mentioned a Nick before, and if that guy was a friend, why the hell would he want to fight me?” He glanced at me.

“Um, because... because he was interested in me. That’s right, he was jealous.” I smiled, feeling triumphant.

“Something doesn’t add up.” Dylan’s eyes narrowed, and after a lengthy pause, his mouth fell open. “Why didn’t I see it? I should have seen it. I knew I recognized your date. Bart. Benny Bartholemule, better known as the Bartman. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection until now.”

“Excuse me?” I turned my full attention on him.

“I just figured out who he is. Former hit man for the mob.” He shook his head. “And Nick is not a guy you know from work. You meant my cousin, Nick Cabrizzi. Bart is now one of Nick’s sources. So tell me, Mac. When did you figure it out?”

He wasn’t going to make me feel guilty over turning the tables on his own game. I stiffened. “Last weekend when Gloria called you in the diner,” I said with pride.

“So you’ve been playing me for a fool the whole week,” he said quietly, as though putting it all together.

“No more than you played me for a fool the week before,” I snapped back.

“Touché. But for the record, all I ever wanted was for you to be safe. Can’t anyone be concerned about you or want to help without you getting all bent out of shape? Not everyone has an ulterior motive.”