California Girl (11 page)

“If we don’t find her, we can bring orchids to her funeral.”
He slapped the pot back on the table while Alys picked up the letter.

* * *

Her chuckles as she read Mame’s insane note drove Elliot
crazy. How did she turn off her anxiety and let go like that? He paced up and
down the suite to keep from watching her expressive face too closely. He knew
what it would take to make him forget Mame for a little while, and he didn’t
like knowing that about himself.

He’d stayed in fancier suites, with better views. He’d never
stayed in one with a playful sprite who revved all his motors.

If he wanted to continue following Mame, they’d have to
spend the night here.

He had his credit cards. He could get another room.

He didn’t want to.

Pacing and trying not to analyze that reaction, he watched
Alys read the letter again and chuckle. He didn’t see what was so damned funny.
Mame knew he was here. She had dodged him. On purpose.

“She’s matchmaking!” Alys bounced back against the bland
navy-and-beige cover and giggled.

Elliot didn’t think grown women ought to giggle, but he was
too aware of her slender figure splayed across the enormous bed to be
reasonable. The image of what they could be doing together on that bed fried
his brain. He was tired, worried, and ought to be picturing wringing Mame’s
neck instead of wondering what Alys Seagraves wore—or didn’t wear—beneath her
clingy knits.

Her breasts bobbed freely enough to believe they were
unfettered.

“She says she’s staying with friends,” he pointed out with
irritation. “She wants you to take care of the orchid and make it bloom. She
has some idiot idea that you have a green thumb.” Remembering the heat-blasted
shrubs of Alys’s brown front yard, he thought Mame had gone senile on him.
Hell, one more thing to worry about.

“Her note says you like green tea before bedtime!” Alys
crowed with laughter, waving the paper as if it held the secrets to life.
“Check the drawers to see if she left your favorite jammies.”

Okay, that was pretty funny. Elliot bit back a reluctant
grin. His aunt had her outrageous moments. He could appreciate that. “I quit
wearing jammies after I outgrew the penguin ones.”

Quaking with laughter, she grabbed a pillow and buried her
face in it to stifle her roar. “Penguins!” The pillow muffled her shriek. She
came up to ask, “Did you know that penguins have sex only once a year?” before
burrowing into the pillow and roaring again.

Obviously, his childhood reminiscences contrasted a little
too vividly with his adult identity to send her over the top like that. Did she
think he was the kind of guy who only had sex once a year? He didn’t know
whether to laugh with her or strangle himself. Maybe he ought to see about
getting another room. They still had time to check out that museum she’d
mentioned.

Maybe he’d rather check out the king-sized bed with her in
it.

King-sized bed.

Elliot dropped his head in his hands. Alys’s laughter took
on a whole new meaning. Mame had set up the suite for the two of them, complete
with wedding corsage.

He had a bad feeling this trip was going to be a lot longer
than he’d anticipated.

“I won’t let her do this,” Elliot muttered, the perfect image
of outraged male as he headed for the door. Add some bull horns to go with the
tousled curls and Alys figured she could wave a red cape at him.

“This room is already paid for,” Alys called after him. “And
if Mame needs to reach us, this is the room she’ll call.” So, he was a little
tense. Under the stress, he really was a nice man. She shouldn’t rattle his
cage like that, but it was so much
fun
.
She had felt helpless for so long that she simply couldn’t resist wielding this
tiny bit of power by tweaking his chains.

He halted abruptly, looking trapped, and she relented. “If
I’ll ruin your reputation, get your own room, and I’ll let you know if she
calls. But I have to tell you, I can’t afford a room of my own.”

“Ruin my reputation?” At his look of incredulity, she
laughed.

“Well, you are Doc Nice. How am I supposed to know how your
adoring public sees you? Or if you have a fiancée elsewhere who would be
incensed at your sharing a room?” She gestured at the acres of bed. She’d been
sleeping on a cot for years. First, to be close to Fred during his illness
without disturbing him with her tossing and turning. And then, because she
couldn’t bear sleeping in the double bed he’d died in. “It’s not as if there
isn’t enough room.”

She thought she’d wiped him speechless with her invitation.
Elliot’s eyes widened with an interest that shot lightning bolts and sizzled
through every fiber of her clothing. Uh-oh. She didn’t know whether to roll
under the bed or flaunt whatever it was he wanted to see.

“I think we better hit the Museum and look for Mame,” he
finally replied with desert dryness.

She might have felt insulted by his tone if he wasn’t having
such a difficult time tearing his gaze from her.

Almost relieved that they didn’t have to have a showdown
just yet, she swung off the bed. “I need my suitcase with the toiletry bag.”

Elliot shoved his hands into his pockets, and his mouth
turned up in a mocking smile. Even with his curls rumpled and his wrinkled
white shirt rolled up his arms, he could pass for Mr.
GQ
. She didn’t like the look of that smile, although she sure
wouldn’t mind kissing it.

“Give me the car keys, and I’ll bring the car back here. I’m
not carrying your bags for two blocks.”

Well, heck. Neither was she. Nice shower, fluffy hotel
robe—or hot walk to car and carry bags so she could keep the keys?

“Power requires sacrifices, doesn’t it?” she asked grumpily,
handing over the keys.

“You’re not afraid I’ll drive off and leave you here?” he
asked, jingling the ring and not even trying to interpret her comment.

The itinerary was in her purse. He wouldn’t be going
anywhere without it. “Guess I could call and report the car stolen if you don’t
return.”

“I’ll be back.” The look in his dark eyes was all male as he
glanced from her to the bed, then let himself out.

Whoosh
! Alys
exhaled the breath she’d been holding. Doc Nice had some interesting facets
hidden beneath that button-down appearance. Maybe she should turn up the air-conditioning
because the temperature had gone from zero to blazing in ten seconds.

Did she have any perfume left in her toiletry bag? If this
was to be the first night of the rest of her life, she wanted to let out all
the stops.

* * *

“You’ve shown your sister’s will to Lucia’s grandfather?”
Mame swallowed her pill with a glass of water. She hated letting her body
dictate what she could and could not do, but it was good they’d chopped this
journey into small bits. If she wanted to look fresh and cheerful for dinner,
she needed to rest. Her reunion with her old high school friend had been wonderful,
but the hours of chatter had drained her. She hated to admit she was getting
old.

“Salvador will not talk to any of us. He is a bigot, that
man. He calls us ‘peasants’ and ‘redskins.’ He called my sister . . .”
Dulce stared at the ceiling and gulped back a tear. “He called my sister ugly
names and said her family would not get one cent from him. We do not want his
money. We want Lucia. She is only five and should be with family, not
strangers.”

The guest room they’d been given had two narrow beds covered
in matching blue-and-brown checked covers. Mame reflected that her friend had
obviously not changed her children’s décor since they’d left home. Of course,
neither had she.

“Your family should have hired a lawyer,” Mame said. “If
your sister left a will appointing you as Lucia’s guardian, and her husband
left no will, then it seems to me the law is on your side.” She lay back
against the pillows and practiced deep breathing.

“We tried.” Dulce clenched her fists. “Money talks and we
have no money. His lawyer went to court to say our will is forged and that we
must have torn up his son’s will. Our lawyer said the court might place Lucia
in a foster home until the dispute is satisfied. She is already traumatized
from losing her parents. She used to chatter like a little parrot. Now, she
sits there like a lost mouse. It is this…this…” In frustration, she shook her
fist at the window.

“She’s lost both her parents. Violently. It will take her
time.” Mame tried to sound soothing, but Dulce’s unspoken rage and grief filled
the room. She remembered her own despair when she’d lost her brother and her
best friend in a single night. If it hadn’t been for the children . . .

She understood Dulce needed her niece as much as Lucia
needed her. God had chosen Mame to help them through this, because she
understood the anguish and frustration of loss. “Once we take Lucia home where
she belongs, away from the school and a man who despises her, she will
recover.”

Dulce hung her head in acceptance. Wishing she were
stronger, Mame closed her eyes again and sought sleep. She wouldn’t let Elliot
and the hospital be right. She would heal herself.

“Why did you leave the orchid?” Dulce asked quietly. “It has
no flower.”

“It has the promise of flowers.” Mame smiled and relaxed,
knowing she was right in this. “Someday, Alys will bloom like that flower.”

“You are
loco
,
Mame.”

“That’s what Jock always told me.” Being crazy had its good
sides as well as its bad. Remembering Jock, the sensible one of their
inseparable trio of high school comrades, Mame drifted into dreams. He’d told
her she’d never make a career of go-go dancing.

He’d been right, but she’d had fun trying.

* * *

“Remington was a realist. He sculpted what he saw.” Elliot
held the hotel room door for her after returning from their walk through the
museum. The western art had refueled Alys’s excitement for the days ahead. She
wanted to see Indians and deserts and cactus.

“Frederic Remington was a salesman.” Alys flung her purse on
top of the suitcase he’d lugged up earlier. She hadn’t considered how difficult
hauling that thing around would have been for her if it hadn’t been for Elliot.
“He sculpted emotionally appealing images for the masses.”

Now that they were finally alone, she was stalling. Elliot
hadn’t signed up for another room. He’d returned here without a word of
expectation. She’d had hours in which to imagine how she would do this. She
couldn’t decide if she was nervous or eager or both.

As if he’d known what she had in mind, Elliot had gone out
of his way to be accommodating. He’d toured the museum as if he’d actually been
interested in Western art. He’d found Mame’s name in the guest book before she
did. Apparently reassured that his aunt was well and playing games, he’d agreed
to Alys’s choice of restaurants, although he’d refused the barbecue specialty.

He’d even picked up the tab.

And now he was checking his cell phone for messages and
pulling out his laptop computer as if he meant to settle down to business.

Damn, he was going to make her work for this, wasn’t he?

Dropping to the bed, Alys sat cross-legged and flicked the
remote control to the TV news. Elliot diligently typed away at his keyboard,
ignoring her.

He’d showered and changed into a navy knit golf shirt that
molded to his chest. He wasn’t a muscle-bound man, but she was quite certain he
didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. He had the wide shoulders of a jock and the
trim abs of a runner. He had a curl in the middle of his forehead.

Studying Elliot’s narrow face eased the physical tension
building inside her. If she didn’t imagine how his body would fit against hers,
she could watch those deep, intelligent eyes forever. Even when he studied her
as if she were a flake in his coffee, his eyes reflected concern and a
fascinating interest that had her thinking things she had no right to think.

She loved the strong jut of his nose with that bit of extra
downturn on the end. It seemed to point out the sensual mobility of his mouth.
He pulled a stern face too often, but she’d seen him laugh. Surely all the
humor on his talk show wasn’t scripted. Maybe Fate had assigned her the duty of
teaching him to laugh more—as long as she could go her merry way afterward.

She sighed over the strong column of his throat above the
open button of his shirt. He apparently did his jogging without a shirt. He had
a lovely bronze tan. If she thought about that too much, she’d remember how
white and frail Fred had been, and she would freeze up again.

She should have had two glasses of beer at dinner instead of
one.

Elliot’s absentminded rub at his midsection sealed the deal.
He was too good a man to lose to ulcers at this early age. Mame would want her
to take care of her favorite nephew. And Alys knew how to do it.

Recalling her sales lessons from years ago, she mentally
repeated them while she flicked off the TV remote and removed her gauzy blouse.
Be positive. Be aggressive. Make the first move.

She stood up to drop her blouse over her suitcase, and a
corner of Elliot’s eye twitched. She’d put on a fresh shirt after her shower, a
short goldenrod knit that the gauzy blouse had mostly concealed. Without the
blouse, he could see her nipples if he looked.

He was trying hard not to look.

“Do you think Mame will call tonight?” she asked, wanting
his full attention.

“Only if she’s ready to go to the hospital,” he said,
hitting a key on his laptop and glancing up.

Alys smiled and stripped off her shirt. She wasn’t wearing a
bra.

* * *

Elliot forgot Mame, his e-mail, and where he was.

Alys Seagraves had the perfect breasts of a
Playboy
model. Without the airbrushing.
He could see a small mole just below her right breast. And maybe the left one
was just a little larger than the right. He wanted to weigh them in his hands
to find out. Bigger than peaches, smaller than cantaloupes, but just as round,
their pointed pink tips begged to be plucked and tasted.