Screwdrivered (Cocktail #3) (10 page)

Perhaps
this
was the night, the night I’d make him notice me as more than just a sneezer. I peered down the bar; he was still there. With his nuts. I could do this.

I handed her my purse, which she took with a murmured “Get it, girl.”

I sauntered down toward him, putting an extra swish and sway into my hips. Something about leading with the hips makes a girl feel a little more sexy, a little more
grrr.
One of the songs I selected came on the jukebox, Al Green’s
Can’t Get Next to You.
I walked in time with the music, catching the eye of a bartender and tossing him a flirtatious and cheeky grin. He smiled back instantly, eyes appreciative of my perky perks. And was it me, or had the lighting changed? Darker, smokier, smudgier . . .

“Grease fire is out!” was the call from the kitchen, but no matter. The smoke and the smudge gave an exotic feel to this neighborhood bar,
this watering hole, this . . . opium den.

The princess looked out across the sea of suitors, knowing that all eyes were on her. Her skin prickled, knowledge that he was in the room something that her body knew on a primordial level. Banners of silk hung low from the ceiling, fans paddled lazy air, swirling the heavy scent of myrrh and sandalwood thickly on the night breeze. And another scent, light at first but intensifying as she made her way through the men. The men, all there to woo and win her heart, but there was only one she wanted. And not just in her heart, she wanted him in her heat. Her secret female heat, the heat that only he would ever be privy to.

And then, he was there. The crowds parted, and he was revealed to her. Tall, crushingly handsome, he walked with a hunger in his eyes and power between his thighs. Dark, dangerous, and instantly assessing, he found her. And found her wanting. And panting. He found her wanting and panting and—

Blonde. Boobs. Big boobs. Tall. Blonde. Big blonde with boobs. While I was contemplating his nuts, he’d been contemplating the size-four sweater on the size-six girl who had plastered herself to his side. Bursting with enthusiasm was the kindest way to describe her.

I tried to make a course correction, not easy when you’re midsaunter, and went right into the path of—

“This is getting just plain stupid, Clark,” I said, when I ran right into his elbow patch. He lowered his to-go box and glared at me—as well as he could, with two black eyes. Purple and gray bloomed on either side of his nose, hidden by a butterfly bandage and some tape. He was dressed a little less formally tonight, a T-shirt underneath his tweed jacket. Huh. Clark Casual.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, does it hurt a lot?” I asked, reaching up to—Wait, what the hell was I reaching up to do? Luckily, he dodged my hand.

“Please don’t touch, Vivian. One trip to the clinic is enough for one day, don’t you think?” He looked around. “What are you doing here?”

“Having dinner with some friends. You?”

“Just picking up some dinner myself,” he said, shuffling his dinner in his hands so he could push his glasses up on his nose. Which must have been habit, since he wasn’t wearing them. Due to his injury? He winced when he touched it, and almost dropped his pizza box. “I gotta go,” he muttered, and started for the door.

“Look, Clark. Stay. Let me buy you a drink. It’s the least I can do for breaking your nose.”

“In point of fact, it’s not actually broken. Just incredibly bruised,” he said.

I sighed. “Does it hurt?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Then drinks are on me. Come on,” I insisted, gently taking him by the elbow and steering him toward the table. Over his shoulder I glimpsed the cowboy and the boobs about to head out the front door. She was giggling. He was cocksure. He was also looking over his shoulder at me. And when he made eye contact, he grinned. Ass. And what a fine one it was . . .

Another missed opportunity. And I so rarely wore dresses. Ah, well.

“Everyone, this is Clark. Clark, this is everyone. Except you already know Jessica,” I announced, pulling an extra chair over to the table and plunking him down while taking my purse back from her. She raised an eyebrow as if to ask if I’d made any headway with the cowboy, and I shook my head.

“Clark! What happened to you?” Jessica exclaimed, whisking his pizza box out of his hands and depositing it on a neighboring table while she fussed over him. The people at the table said thank-you and started to open it up. I nabbed it right back and set it behind me.

“It’s fine, just a little accident. No big deal,” he said, catching my glance and now my questioning eyebrow. He shrugged, shaking hands all around and meeting everyone.

“It looks terrible, does it hurt?” Jessica asked, leaning over and raising her hand. Before I could tell her stop, and that he didn’t want anyone touching it, she softly touched his cheek, then patted him on the shoulder. He didn’t flinch, he didn’t tell her not to do it, he just let her.

So it was
me
he didn’t want touching him. Well, no big surprise there. After all, I was the one who’d socked him.

“It hurts some, but I’ve got some painkillers, so I’m all set,” he replied.

“Well, if you’ve got painkillers then let’s get you something soft to drink. I bet you drink Perrier, right, Clark?” I teased, waving over our waitress.

He rolled his eyes. “I live three blocks away, I think I’ll make it home okay.” Instead of Perrier he ordered, “Scotch. Water. Neat.”

My eyes widened. That was my drink. When the waitress asked if anyone else wanted another round, I told her I’d have the exact same thing. Clark shrugged out of his jacket and I got another glance of tanned arms. Not popping out of his T-shirt like a meathead, but muscular nonetheless. And speaking of his T-shirt, it was covered in letters and numbers. As I peered closer, I realized it was the—

“Drake equation! Nice to see a fellow math nerd,” Ryan exclaimed, reaching over for a fist bump. Looking cautious but pleased to be doing it, Clark fist bumped back. A tentative smile on his face, he appeared to relax a bit. As relaxed as someone with a butterfly bandage could be.

“What’s the Drake equation?” Caroline asked.

I said, “It’s an algebraic equation that calculates the possibility of not only the existence of alien life, but also postulates their ability to be radio-communicative.” I took a bite of my pizza. “Mmmm.”

I realized it was quiet at the table when I heard Clark let out a very small but still audible whimper. His nose must be hurting. I looked at the rest of the table, and saw all the girls smiling at me, while Ryan and Simon just looked impressed.

“What?” I asked. “I hate it when everyone assumes that because I have tits, I can’t recognize something as simple as the Drake equation.”

Did I enjoy changing people’s perceptions of me? Me, with the piercings and the tattoos? Yup. Did I hate that people made assumptions about me? Yup.

Just as I was about to share this little nugget of Viv insight with the table, Caroline jostled Clark while reaching for her purse just enough that he bumped into me, his face turning toward mine in apology.

His eyes met mine and I noticed that what I’d mistakenly thought were the same boring brown eyes as Tom, Dick, and Harry were instead the exact color of rich dark chocolate, flecked with gold and a hint of green. I’d never noticed them before, what with the dusty glasses and the lecturing me about the house.

Dark chocolate was supposed to be good for you, right?

But I didn’t want good for you. I wanted
bad
for you—a passionate tryst, feelings and desires and things that were dirty and naughty and taboo. I mean, except for that one thing that seemed to be so popular these days. No one, not even the cowboy, was getting anywhere near my—

“Back door?” Clark asked.

“Excuse me?” I spluttered, choking on my Scotch. How did he, wait, did I say—

“I left you a note on your back door, about coming by tomorrow. Are you all right?” he asked, as I continued to choke a bit. “You really shouldn’t order Scotch if you can’t handle it—but most people can’t drink it straight like this. Shall I get you some soda?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Just went down the wrong pipe, that’s all.” I grimaced, gulping down some water. “You left me a note?”

“Yes, Vivian. I was able to dig up some of the original plans for the house. I can bring them by tomorrow if you like. I thought you might need them if you insist on proceeding with your
changes
.”

“Wait. Whoa. You want to bring me something that could actually help me?” I asked, a wry smile on my face.

“As opposed to what? Hurt you?” he asked, a hint of a grin on his lips. He pointed to his nose.

“Touché.”

I clinked his glass, and he downed his drink. Damn.

“I should get going, my pizza’s going to get cold. Lovely to meet you all. Vivian, I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Call me Viv and you got it,” I replied. He gave me a puzzled look, then said his good-nights to the table. A moment after he left, Mimi and Caroline leaned in.

“Tomorrow? You just got to town and you already have a date? Nice work,” Caroline said, Mimi nodding her head excitedly.

“With Clark? Oh no, you got it all wrong. He’s the librarian.”

“He’s the
librarian
?” they said in unison, and I shushed them immediately. He hadn’t even made it to the door, for pity’s sake.

“They don’t make librarians like that where I come from,” Mimi said.

“Me either,” piped up Caroline.

“They don’t make them like that anywhere. That’s just part of why our little town is so fantastic,” Jessica added, and we all leaned out of our chairs just enough to watch him walking out of the bar, elbow patches glowing in the moonlight.

“He’s cute,” I allowed, sipping my Scotch. “But you’ll see the other side. You’ll see it tomorrow, when he picks a fight with me about some corner piece or whozit that he thinks
must
be restored and
never
thrown away, or the
entire history of the world will be threatened
by this one
teeny tiny
scrolly looking piece of bullshit I am trying to throw away in order to clean up my house and put it somewhat in order, but
nooooo
. No. Clark must save it—he must save it
all
.”

My voice may have gotten higher and a wee bit more shrill toward the end of my diatribe, because Simon and Ryan stopped talking. As did the three tables on either side of us.

I looked at them, then downed the rest of my Scotch. “So, tomorrow?”

B
y the time we finished dinner, walked back to the house, and enjoyed cookies on the back porch, everyone was reasonably sober and ready to call it a day. I packed them into their car and thanked them for coming down, and we made plans for them to come back after breakfast in the morning. As they left for Mimi’s family’s vacation house, I reread the note I did indeed find from Clark on my back door. And if I didn’t think it possible for someone to be uptight in a note, I now did.

Vivian—

In spite of what occurred this morning, I still feel it my duty to advise you on your restoration project. While I am opposed to a complete and total overhaul, I can see how there are some aspects of the home’s deterioration that may seem untenable to you. Therefore, I have some suggestions that may help to guide you in your efforts. I can return tomorrow morning with the original plans. Please call me at your earliest convenience.

Regards,

Clark Barrow

Come on. Regards? And it was on embossed stationary. Embossed! With Mendocino Historical Society at the top—as if I could forget for one second whom he represented.

And what was this? At the bottom, his phone number?

I dialed it without thinking. It rang twice, then he answered.

“Clark Barrow.”

Christ, he answered the phone with his full name?

“Hi, Clark Barrow, it’s Viv Franklin.”

“Vivian? What a surprise,” he said, his voice deeper than I remembered it. Must be the phone. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The pleasure
. Ooooo, that deep voice. The—why did I call him?

“I got your note, and yes, I’d like your assistance.”

“I thought we’d established that over Scotch, Vivian,” he murmured. His voice
was
deeper than usual. Thick. Not slurred, just . . . heavy.

“We never actually said for sure if you were coming.”

“If I’m coming?” he asked, and I pressed my hand against my cheek. Did it feel hot?

“Tomorrow. If you’re coming tomorrow. Over here.”

“Oh yes. Tomorrow.” He chuckled. “Sure. If you want me.”

Hmm. Nighttime Clark is very different from Daytime Clark.

“Sure. Great. At 10 a.m.?” I managed, my head reeling a bit.

“Perfect.”

“Okay,” I said, then waited. “Bye?”

“Night, Vivian.”

I hung up the phone, shook my head, then shook it again. I went upstairs, crawled under the quilt, and thought about Scotch. Water. Neat. And Regards.

chapter seven

Vivian stood in the doorway, luminous and radiant, lit from behind like an angel. But her thoughts were the furthest from pure. She refused to turn, even when she heard him approach. His footsteps, sure and strong, rang out as he walked toward her. Each step echoed as loudly as her heartbeat, which she was sure he could hear.

He stood just behind her now, close enough that she could feel the warmth from his body reaching out to caress her, a promise of what was to come when he finally laid his hands on her. Yet just the promise was driving her out of her skin, out of her mind, and practically out of her clothes. Her gown of silk was soft to the touch, but right now it
was simply a barrier, confining her when she longed to be naked and free.

Reason? Rules? Order? All disappeared with each breath at the nape of her neck, intoxicating and wanton. She twisted in the doorway, not turning to see but to feel, her body changing into something mindless, only capable of feeling whatever he was going to do to her.

And whatever it was, she would let him. She was his.

His hands hovered at her waist, his strong hands wrapping low on her hips, his skin burning and branding her like none had before. When he p
ulled her against him she could feel how she’d affected him, how her curves alone had made him hard with lust for her.

“Vivian,” he breathed into her ear, lips brushing just below and making her shiver and moan.

His hands slipped across her silk to her navel, tracing a path below her full breasts, made heavier by the second as they grew more full in anticipation of his touch. Her nipples hardened in excitement, straining against the silk. She arched into his hands, pressing her body back against his, flush and barely contained. He groaned heavy in her ear, and she shuddered.

“Vivian,” he said once more, and she began to turn toward him. She had to see him, had to see his
face—this lover she had ached for for far too long.

Lightning flashed and thunder rolled as the elements echoed her excitement at finally knowing his touch. She turned, she turned more, and—

Crash!

I woke up on the floor, covered in sweat and tangled in sheets, blankets, and a very thick quilt. My heart was racing, and no wonder. I’d had one of the most erotic dreams ever; my mind was still full of the images conjured by my subconscious.

Subconscious Viv was extremely horny. Something Conscious Viv could appreciate as well.

I struggled to get out of the cocoon, finally pushing everything down and shimmying out the top. Crawling back on top of the bed, I leaned over and pushed back the curtains, the dawn just beginning to creep into the sky. I looked at the clock. Not quite 5 a.m. Ugh.

I looked forward to the day when I was on California time. I looked forward to the day that I could sleep through the night. I especially looked forward to the day when my sex dreams were replaced by actual sex.

I leaned back in bed against the pillows. Occasionally I had dreams where I cast myself in my own romance novel, brought about no doubt by reading a few chapters of
The Wolf of Lust Street
the night before.

But unlike the romance novels where I could always see the hero so clearly in my head, when I dreamed, it was always a dark lover I could never quite see. A suggestion of full lips, strong jaw, giant cock of course—but I could never see his face.

Pulling the quilt from the floor, I curled into myself like a roly-poly, pushing thoughts of dark faceless lovers from my head. In the light of day, a faceless lover was actually creepy, not sexy.

Except for the giant cock. Who needed the face when they had that?

Unless that face was buried between my lusty thighs . . .

Get a grip, Viv!

Yeah, a grip of that hair as I hold him in place while he . . .

Without a face, there’d be no mouth. Without a mouth, there’d be no tongue.

I’ll concede the point.

Did all heroines have entire conversations with themselves inside their head? This is why I could never be a romance novel heroine. Insanity precludes it.

I went downstairs to make myself some breakfast. I was determined to start cooking for myself, but the Magic Chef stove that Caroline was so enamored of was clunky, old-fashioned, and a pain in the ass. You couldn’t just turn it on and cook. Nope. You had to light it, jiggle the handle, then coax the flame out—and if you didn’t pass out from the gas fumes before it actually lit, then an hour later, you had boiling water. Which made no sense at all, gas stoves were usually incredibly efficient. Something must be clogged somewhere, something was dirty or just plain old and busted. Which seemed to be the theme here.

I also was determined to make my own coffee. The percolator had met with an unfortunate accident when it was thrown across the backyard, almost beheading a chicken. It now lived in the garage. I’d found an old French press in a jumble of junk in the basement, washed it out several times, and it worked great. So as soon as I had boiling water, I could make coffee. While I waited, I wandered out onto the back porch with a banana, perching in one of the old rockers with my nightgown pulled down over my knees.

I’d never been a morning person, but lately I was finding it one of my favorite parts of the day, even though they were still starting earlier than I liked. Maybe it was still the time change, maybe it was all the fresh air, but I slept hard and fast and woke up ready to start the day.

The sea was quiet today, calm and peaceful. Gulls flew here and there, pelicans flapped lazily then dove like missiles for fish they’d spotted.

I’d thought I’d feel something more . . .
final
about selling my company to my father. I’d buried myself in my work for so long it had become my world. So why wasn’t I more broken up over it?

Instead of feeling sad or discouraged or questioning whether I’d done the wrong thing, I felt the complete opposite. I had no idea what I was doing out here, why I wanted to stay, or what I was going to do with this new life. I just knew that I was . . . content. I was pleased with this turn my life was taking, and excited by the fact that I didn’t know where it was going. It had been a long time since I’d been on an adventure.

Speaking of adventure, my teakettle was whistling. I padded into the kitchen, poured hot water into the pot with my dry oatmeal and into the French press, and started cutting up some fruit. Raspberries, blueberries, and a chunked-up peach went into a bowl with a squeeze of lemon and a sprinkling of sugar. I found I ate more fruit if I made it into a salad.

After finishing up with the fruit, I checked on the oatmeal. Soft. I checked on the coffee. Brewed. Perfect.

Ladling a few spoonfuls of oatmeal into a bowl, I added some of the fruit, a drizzle of honey, a splash of cream, and a sprinkle of cinnamon. I pressed the plunger down on the coffee, watching as the grounds were pressed down and the dark brown coffee was expressed to the top. Pouring some into a cup, I settled into a chair at the old kitchen table. And as I ate, I looked around at the room.

I wasn’t a designer by any means, but I knew what I liked. And I’d always been drawn to a more industrial look and feel, something modern and clean. Maybe it was growing up in a house full of boys who were constantly making a mess of everything. Our house was big, sure, but always filled to almost bursting with sports equipment and action figures. Hockey pucks, G.I. Joe towns, and Legos underfoot (which hurt like you wouldn’t believe when stepped on barefoot). My mom’s charity fund-raising banners and posters, country French decorations, collection of stone turkeys, shadow boxes full of miniatures. Footballs, gym bags, my dad’s model cars, homework, paperwork . . . A family of eight makes for a lot of stuff. So when I got my own place, I went to the total opposite.

Chrome. Glass. Black leather couch and chairs. Clean lines. Right angles. Hard corners. My home office consisted of four computer monitors and a Lucite table covered with notebooks full of equations. My bed? Platform. Suspended night tables. Inlaid reading lamps. Everything in its place and in order.

They say a home reflects its owner’s personality, and Oprah says your home should “rise up to meet you.” I just wanted to able to come in, find what I’m looking for, and go about my day.

This house? Seaside Cottage? It rose up to meet you, and said
“Hey, whatever you’re looking for, I think we’ve got it. Somewhere. Let me just look in one of these boxes; I bet we can find it.”

The clutter, the crap, the chaos—it was too much. However. There was something kind of cozy about it.

Take this kitchen, for instance. Huge, especially considering the age of the home. Usually kitchens in older homes were small and efficient. This one was filled to the brim with “things,” but it was cozy. Through the large, sunny window on the back wall you could see the barn and the garage, the flowers out back, and the ocean. The bottom half of the walls were covered in what Caroline said was wainscoting, battered and chipped a bit in places, but it was in pretty good shape. The old butcher-block countertops were covered in cuts and nicks, but I could imagine a hundred-plus years of women gathered here, dicing and chopping and laughing and chatting as they prepared another Thanksgiving dinner. There were three, count them three, blenders on those same counters, none of which worked. But at one point, did they whip up milkshakes for a generation of kiddos running here and there? Was I one of those kiddos?

The floor was scraped and dented linoleum, but I’ve no doubt that at one point someone had tended and waxed that floor to a polished gleam. The walls were a faded yellow, but covered with cheery vintage posters hawking Gold Medal flour, 20 Mule Team Borax, and Gorton’s Frozen Fish Dinners.

It was a home. And juxtaposed against my very neat and orderly place in Philadelphia, my apartment was never a home, I realized. It was just a place I slept.

Pretty heavy thoughts over oatmeal. It was really good oatmeal, though. I dipped up another spoonful.

Aunt Maude may have been on to something. The Legless Knight was clearly pushing it, but perhaps not
everything
had to be tucked out of sight.
Hmm. We’ll see
.

Enough introspection. I finished my breakfast and got dressed for the day. I was hoping Caroline would have some crazy design idea today where I could smash through a wall or something.

Lingering frustration over that dream?

I said
enough
introspection.

“S
o what exactly do you want me to do here today? You keep referring to me as backup; why is that?” Caroline asked as we walked through the house again. Simon and Ryan had dropped the girls off and then headed off to go windsurfing. It killed me that I wasn’t out there with them; it was something I’d always wanted to try. Instead I was inside the house on a glorious day like this, talking about floral prints and a settee. But I appreciated the help.

“You’re my backup insofar as you’re the one who can tell Clark when he’s being too much of a pencil pusher. When he needs to just shut up and let me make the changes I want,” I explained, tapping my foot.

“And what exactly are those changes?” she asked.

I took a deep breath. Then frowned. Then took another deep breath. Still with the frowning.

Caroline looked amused; I looked like a fish stuck on land and no clue how to breathe.

“I don’t know exactly,” I admitted. “But it just made me so damn mad that he could come in and tell me I couldn’t do something!” I thought back to the first day he came over here, arguing with me about the baluwhatzit. “The truth is, I love this house. I love everything
about
this house. But it hasn’t been updated in years, and if I’m going to live here, it’s got to be brought into the modern age. Even the basics are falling apart—the roof is like Swiss cheese. I’ve been lucky it hasn’t rained since that first night, but the next time it does, it’s going to pour in here again. And the front porch is rotten— I put my foot through it the night I arrived, and you can feel it when you walk on it.”

She nodded. “Yes, I felt it give when I came in today. Well that should be easy enough. He can’t expect you to go through the porch floor every time you come home.”

“Humpf. We’ll see. Hey, where’s your friend Mimi?”

“Hmm, she’s been awfully quiet since she went upstairs,” Caroline mused, walking over to the bottom of the stairs. “Mimi?” she called up.

“Nothing,” was the answer.

“Mimi, what are you up to?”

“Nothing,” came down again, followed by a thump. “I’m okay!”

“Oh boy, I better go see what she’s gotten herself into. I left her alone once in my bathroom, and my lipsticks were alphabetized and color coded within minutes.”

As Caroline headed upstairs, I shook my head. Although part of me thought that seemed like a good idea, the two lipsticks I owned were already color coded. Barely There Pink and Knockout Red. Pink for first dates. Red for, well, you know.

Grabbing a broom, I decided to spend a few minutes sweeping up the dust that seemed to come out and do a dance party every night after I went to bed. These floors were so old they literally made their own dust! Sighing, I was bending over sweeping up yet another pile when I heard a sound behind me.

Turning, I saw Clark. Nose bandage, briefcase, hand raised as though he’d been about to knock. And directly behind me, so he had a wonderful view of my posterior.

I stood slowly, wondering which Clark I’d get today. Nighttime Clark or Daytime Clark?

“I’m going to tie a bell around your neck, so you quit sneaking up on me like that,” I said, crossing toward the screen door.

“I’ve got scones. Do you like scones?” he said, lifting the bag so I could see he did indeed have scones.

I laughed in spite of myself, and the grin that spread over his face literally took my breath away. For a moment, he reminded me of someone. I couldn’t put my finger on it, and it’s a good thing too, because at that very moment I wanted to put my fingers, and hands for that matter, all over—