AFTERGLOW (6 page)

"Do your heroines always best your heroes verbally?"

She frowned at that. "Sometimes. Well, it depends. If the hero is a Mark I, my heroine gives him all sorts of grief verbally—" She broke off at his puzzled look. "A Mark I hero is the strong, macho, arrogant type. A Mark II hero is the witty, sexy, understanding, neat type."

"Which do you prefer?"

"Both."

"You don't want much, do you, lady?"

"We're talking about broad character types, David."

"That's what I tried to tell you last week. The stuff you write just isn't real, any of it. Your hero's supposed to be a woman's prince, isn't that right? The ultimate man with no flaws, a man who doesn't belch like Angelo, doesn't wag his finger like Maurice and is at least a foot taller than Delbert the jockey. You write fairy tales. Admit it."

"I will admit one thing," Chelsea said. "I write books to entertain. Escapist literature, if you wish. My readers are for the most part women. I ask you, if the very hassled woman of today takes time to read, does she want to read about the trials and tribulations of a real woman and her real husband—real people have to worry about bills, taxes, kids and probably worst of all commuting and the car breaking down. And real life extends to the bedroom. Does a real woman want to read about a man who's too tired to give her pleasure, or even worse, doesn't care. No, don't interrupt me! I did give you a chance. I write entertaining literature—yes, literature, David. It's not Proust or Stendhal. I have never wanted to write the great American novel. I just want to write what I enjoy reading, and I enjoy writing romance novels."

"I suppose some women do need that sort of thing."

"If you make it sound like a hefty dose of castor oil one more time, I'm going to smear the black guacamole on your face! Every damned novel, even your ridiculous Westerns, has romance in it. If there were no romance in life, this would be an awfully grim place. Don't you believe in romance? Didn't you experience it when you were going out with your ex-wife? You know, loss of appetite, all your thoughts of that one person—"

David held up his hands and sighed deeply. "How did this happen again? If I recall correctly, we've been through all this in fine detail before. All I wanted to do was neck."

Chelsea, who'd learned from George how to expertly flick a towel, connected with David's thigh with a satisfying thwap. He yelped. She burst into laughter. "I've always said that if intelligent discussion fails, try pain."

David straightened and, without a word, stalked toward her. "David!"

She flicked him again with the towel, but only got his thick sweater. "Drat!" She chose retreat and scurried around the kitchen table.

"It won't do you any good," David said. "You've now got a Mark I hero on your hands. The Mark II just expired quietly."

"How much do you weigh?"

That stopped him for a moment. "One-eighty. Why?"

Chelsea inched nearer the doorway. "How tall are you, David?"

"Six-one or thereabouts. Why?"

"Well," she said, cocking her head, "you've got the basic ingredients for a Mark I." She dashed toward the open doorway. She yelled over her shoulder, "But I just bet you're slow!" She felt a strong arm circle her stomach, and then she was lifted and carried like a sack of avocados into the living room.

"Put me down, you jerk!"

"Is a jerk better than a nerd?"

"They're both equally repulsive!"

David sat down on the sofa and dragged Chelsea facedown over his thighs. "You've got the nicest bottom," he said, wistfully eyeing her.

"You already said that," Chelsea said, squirming to look up at him. "Parts is parts, David. Now let me up."

"Only if you promise to turn civilized and kiss me."

"All right," she said with no hesitation at all.

He was grinning when he turned her over. "Time to pay up, lady."

She was out of his arms and standing in front of him in an instant. "Your question was in reality two. When I said yes, I was answering only the first. Behold, a calm, civilized person."

He said nothing for a long moment, merely stared at her thoughtfully.

Chelsea said nervously, "I got you fair and square. Why don't you just admit it?"

"I'm trying to figure out what a Mark I hero would do in this situation. How 'bout if I throw you on the floor and tickle you until you plead for mercy?"

Chelsea shook her head. "No, that's a definite Mark II reaction. Much too lighthearted for a Mark I."

"Hmm, how 'bout if I grab you, fling you over my shoulder and toss you in the shower? Lots of cold water."

"That's just punishment with no real satisfaction for the hero. Nope, won't cut it."

"I think I've got it." David rose quickly, grabbed her hand and tossed her down onto the sofa. He eased down on top of her and pulled her hands above her head.

Chelsea didn't struggle. She felt the hard length of him on top of her, but he wasn't too heavy. It had been such a long time since she'd felt anything even remotely close to the kind of warmth he was so easily building in her. He leaned down and very gently touched his lips to hers. "I'm glad you've got a seven-foot sofa," he said against her mouth.

"I can't even think of a raunchy pun to go with that," she said. He kissed her again. "Are we necking yet?" she asked with a Transylvanian accent, and nibbled at his throat.

"No," he said slowly, "I don't think so." He paused a moment, then asked in a very intense voice, "Chelsea, do you ever get serious?"

"You have very white teeth."

"I know. Do you? I mean, do you ever respond to things in an appropriately serious manner?"

"Of course, but
things
rarely call for seriousness. You, on the other hand, probably go overboard with seriousness."

He said stiffly, "I certainly never laugh my way into a woman's bed."

"I wasn't aware that we were in anyone's bed. Besides, I doubt you could laugh your way into the shower!"

"We are, nearly," he snapped, pulling back from her, "and the shower is probably just where you belong."

Chelsea could only stare at him. "You mean you want heavy breathing and perhaps readings from Shakespeare's sonnets?"

"You're really quite immature," he said. "Quite immature." He swung off the sofa and rose, standing over her.

She still couldn't believe he was serious. "Shall I go dress in black?" she asked him, pulling her sweater back into its demure place. "Or perhaps I could just stuff a stocking in my mouth so I wouldn't lacerate your serious sensibilities with my immature humor."

He shoved his fingers through his thick hair. "Look, Chelsea, a sense of humor is all well and good, but when one is supposed to be serious
…
and involved, one doesn't want to make the other person feel that what he's doing is something to joke about."

"I don't believe you," she gasped. "Let me add that that convoluted sentence you just managed to string together is neither a Mark I or a Mark II thing to say. That's a stuffed-shirt-Eastern-pseudointellectual bit of garbage! No wonder your wife divorced you! You are the most full-of-it man I've ever met! And you can't even play poker decently!"

David felt more frustrated than angry. Damn it, she was a frivolous, silly California twit, with no pretense to anything but a cute butt, and her big mouth certainly took the attraction away from that attribute.

"And I am not immature," Chelsea said, scrambling up from the couch. "Just because I don't swoon all over you and sigh when you make your stupid male pronouncements, or moan with great seriousness when you kiss me—"

He shook his head, cutting her off sharply with, "Damn it, you drive me crazier, in a shorter amount of time, than any female I've ever known. Good night, Chelsea. Since you're trying to find a man, I'll be glad to keep my eyes open for you—but I doubt there's any male silly enough to endure your biting his throat like a vampire when he just wants—"

"Vampire! You idiot! If I were looking for a man, you, Dr. Great, wouldn't have gotten a second glance. And just wait a minute," she hollered after him. "I didn't finish my sentence! My sentence before this one!"

"Put it in your next novel! I'm sure you can think up a sufficiently revolting male villain to say it to."

"I'm going to kill you, George," Chelsea gritted, the slammed door rattling on its hinges. "I'd rather be bored than put up with that stuffed shirt."

Chapter 4

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"
D
amn it, Elliot, I even called her to apologize yesterday, and she had the nerve to hang up on me!"

"Then what did you do?" Elliot Mallory asked with great interest, although he knew full well what had transpired. Between taking care of Alex and visits from Chelsea, George was going nuts, and she had told him everything.

"I called her back. I asked her to go to dinner with me. And she told me she had a deadline and no time to
waste!
That fluff-headed woman needs a keeper!"

"I like the keeper part," Elliot said, unable to keep the grin off his face. "Usually, Sarah—her housekeeper—does a pretty decent job. What I don't understand, David, is why you're so heated up about all this. It sounds to me like you and Chelsea can't be together for five minutes without one of you going into a royal snit. This time you wanted to be serious and soulful and she wanted to play. Last time you treated George and me to a marvelous battle-of-the-sexes act. And, David, Chelsea isn't immature. She's very open and giving and witty. It's just the way she is."

"You're right. I was out of line, damn her eyes!"

Elliot blinked. He leaned back on his elbows and stared out over the pool. The minute he'd seen David, usually a morning swimmer, come in at one o'clock in the afternoon, he had known he was in for it. Just the night before he'd sworn to George that he wasn't going to get involved anymore—"No, damn it, George, that's it! Those two … keep your hands to yourself, no, stop it, I won't change my mind"—but none of it had done him any good. So much for swearing anything.

"She's so different, and I was very rude. What upsets me even more is that I don't know why I turned into a Mr. Hyde. She's so lovely, so warm, and
I …
well, I was an ass, damn it!"

"Did you ever hear about Chelsea's parents?" Elliot asked, mentally praying for absolution himself from the sin he was about to commit.

"No, why?"

"Well, if Chelsea acts a bit different sometimes, or flippant, perhaps, you might consider her relationship with her parents. They're really quite rich, you know. Her dad's a dentist, her mom a world traveler. Chelsea's been alone a good deal of her life. I know they don't help her financially, and I'm certain she's much too proud to ask." Not one single lie, he thought, congratulating himself. He was as good with words as Chelsea. Maybe he should take up writing, too. A medical thriller, maybe.

"But the condo in Sausalito. You know real estate prices around here, Elliot."

"She probably rents it, a special deal, I think George told me once. I don't know how she makes ends meet, poor girl." He managed a commiserating sigh.

"She won forty dollars off me at poker," David muttered.

"Good. Now she'll be able to afford groceries."

"She has a housekeeper!"

"I think Sarah gives her a break. Chelsea helped her husband get his mystery manuscript read at her publishing house."

"But what about her writing? Surely the kinds of books she writes sell, don't they?"

Elliot shrugged, saying only, "I've heard that publishing houses don't always pay as promptly as they should. Maybe she's got a problem with advances and holdbacks and stuff like that." Deception was a wearing experience, he thought. Chelsea, to the best of his knowledge, made more money than David, and as for her parents, they were utter screwballs, true, but they loved their only daughter to distraction. Why the hell was George so set on getting these two disparate specimens together?

He heard David say under his breath, "Then she'd never accept money from me. She's so little
…
I want her to eat."

"I've got an idea, David," Elliot said, rising and stretching. He felt pleasantly refreshed after his fifty laps. He also felt guilty for making David think Chelsea was a starving waif. "Why don't you wait a week, then give her another call?"