Hot Spot (10 page)

"Not really. I just have a good imagination."

Back up a minute. Had he heard that right? "I'm the exception?"

"You're exceptional in every way," she murmured.

"That sounds like one smooth-talkin' line."

"Word of God."

He laughed. "Back at you, babe." Line or no line, no way was he going to piss her off by pushing the point. Her sex life was none of his business. "Do you want lime with your Coke? Or a twist of lemon? Cherries?"

"I
want you
with my Coke." There was no point in being coy on a one-night stand.

He shot a glance at his guests, took a deep breath, and said, "Hold that thought. We'll make this fast." Taking her hand, he walked to the screen door, opened it, and drew her into the pool area. "She made it," he said to the group standing at a granite topped bar. "Who needs a refill?"

Buddy came over to give her a hug, she was introduced to Brian Larson, and Kirsty nodded,
coolly
.

Stella started counting down from ten minutes—hoping for five.

She also hoped looks couldn't actually kill, or she was in trouble. Kirsty was shooting daggers at her, and what had been no more than a hackneyed cliche took on sinister implications. No way was she going to stand close to Miss Blonde Bombshell with those little plastic daggers for olives and cherries in a cup on the bar.

Buddy talked about Marky B's newest issue from cover to cover, which saved Stella from having to do more than nod and smile. With her thoughts pretty much focused on the post-ten-minute activities, actual conversation was a stretch.

After passing around the requested drinks, Danny came to stand by Stella. "Take the Coke with you," he murmured, slipping his arm around her waist. "I'll show you the house." He smiled at his guests. "See you in the morning. You know where everything is."

"Aren't we going to skinny-dip before we call it a night?" Kirsty lasered Danny with a meaningful glance. "We
always
do."

Buddy decided diplomacy was in order. "It's getting late," he suggested.

Kirsty gave Buddy a disgusted look. "Since when do we go to bed before dawn when we're partying at Rees's?"

It went quiet; you could suddenly hear the frogs croaking in the marshes.

A three count went by.

"I had enough swimming today," Danny said. "Count me out."

"I remember not too long ago when you
loved
skinny-dipping," Kirsty purred.

Danny didn't move a muscle, no blink… nothing. "Not tonight." His voice was neutral as hell. "If anyone gets hungry, there's food in the pool house kitchen." He turned to Stella. "Ready?"

About ten minutes ago. "Sure. Whenever."

Kirsty stepped forward, blocking their path, her boobs leading the parade. "You're not being very sociable, Rees."

"Sorry. Some other time, Kirsty. I'm expecting an early call in the morning."

Her gaze narrowed, a sullen scowl marred her perfect brows. "If I'd known you were going to be a recluse, I wouldn't have come."

"I could call you a cab." A get-off-my-back coolness in his voice.

Kirsty's baby blues gave off little resentful sparks. "Marisa says you can be hard to handle. I'll have to tell her she's right. And I don't need a cab. Brian will give me a ride home."

So some girlfriend thought he was hard to handle—not that Stella was laboring under the delusion Danny Rees was a monk. But he'd better not make any more comments about her sketches when he was living
la dolce vita
.

"You have yourself a great night," Danny said, as though he was immune to resentful women and, moving around Kirsty, he guided Stella toward the door, not sure he was home free, but hopeful. With Kirsty, one never knew. She was into tantrums.

"She looked real unhappy," Stella murmured as they moved out of earshot.

"Kirsty can be a prima donna."

"That must be why you like her around."

He wasn't going there. "She's Buddy's friend more than mine."

"She seems to like
you
though."

"Could we not talk about Kirsty?" There was no point in arguing about a woman he'd never slept with for a reason. Prima donnas weren't his style.

"We could make a deal I suppose."

He turned and met her gaze. "I'm sure we could." He grinned. "Where do I sign?"

"You're very trusting. You hardly know me."

"Hardly?" He smiled. "I envy the guy who knows you better."

"Perhaps in time you'll be fully enlightened," she said, perjuring herself just for effect. He was too sure of himself.

"What the hell does that mean?" He knew what it meant; he just wasn't sure he cared to think about it.

It worked. What a frown. Sweet. "Nothing. I shouldn't have said it," she murmured, wondering how to look blase and worldly.

He hesitated, not sure if he was pissed off or not. What the fuck was wrong with him? He wasn't pissed off—okay? Where was he? Oh, yeah, not talking about Kirsty. "Okay," he said. "So what's your deal?"

"Do you like being tied up?"

He shot her a glance. "You don't seem the type." He'd just fucked her every which way. Call it instinct.

"What type is that?" Jeez. Could he see the not-real-experienced-with-bondage girl beneath her bluster?

"Usually a little more in-your-face." He shrugged. "You know, more—"

"Assertive?"

He was thinking hard core, not that that was all bad.

"I can be assertive. Didn't I create Marky B? She's assertive as hell."

"Don't tell me you like whips, too." Marky B was good with a bull whip. He had a feeling she wasn't. Call it a hunch.

"What if I said I was?"

He smiled. "
That
I'd like to see."

"I
could
be good with a bull whip."

"I could knit doilies, too, but it's not likely."

"Hmpf. For your information, it's
crochet
doilies."

Now
her
sulkiness was sexy as hell, in contrast to Kirsty's, which was just annoying. "Knit, crochet." He shrugged. "Whatever. Look, sweetheart, if you say you're good with a bull whip, I believe you. Really. I can picture you in leather."

"You're just saying that." But her heart was pumping overtime because he'd said "sweetheart" in the
sexiest
way possible—all intimate and hushed and sort of endearing.

She had a little-girl openness that was damnably charming. And unusual in the women he knew; he was charmed to the bone. "Show me tomorrow. I happen to have a bull whip in the barn."

"What for?"

Those big grass-green astonished eyes. He probably didn't have to worry about being tied up tonight. "It was here when I bought the place," he said in lieu of telling the truth. This wasn't a night for full disclosure. Very few of his nights were. "Are you hungry?" he asked to change the subject, opening the back door and waving her into the kitchen. "I could make you a sandwich or something."

"I'll take the something," she said with a smile. "I'm on this train that's only going one way tonight."

He grinned. "I've been enjoying the ride, too. Care to check out the next stop?"

Leaning into him, she gazed up and smiled. "I'd be real happy to have you show me."

If they didn't have guests outside, he'd show her right here in the kitchen. With her, patience wasn't a viable concept. Full steam ahead was his only speed. "That way," he murmured, nodding in the direction of a shadowed hallway, taking her hand in his and moving toward a doorway between open shelves neatly arranged with dishes, glasses, pots, and pans.

"You cook?"

"On rare occasions."

"It looks like you cook. I've never seen so many copper pots." Stella started totting up the prices in her head; one of her personal dreams was to own even a fraction of this array, so she knew prices. That drug dealer label popped into her head again. Although, lottery winner was a possibility as well… outrageous odds notwithstanding.

"Stay overnight and I'll cook you breakfast."

"Ummm… tempting. If only I didn't have to make a living."

"I could make a personal buy tomorrow that might cover your daily sales."

Her eyes widened.

"Think about it. Your comic inventory is prime. There's lots of stuff I need. And we could sleep in."

She made a moue. "I'd have to see Kirsty in the morning."

"She and Brian might leave, and if they don't, I could serve you breakfast in bed."

"What are you—Santa Claus and Prince Charming rolled into one?"

"I'm enjoying myself. I'm selfish as hell. Humor me, and I'll make it worth your while," he said with a grin. Reason had taken a trip around the world; he was operating on sex drive alone.

"Jeez… I don't know." She smiled. "The hotel package is damned tempting."

"We're running a weekend special for Lumberjack Days. A personal masseuse, breakfast in bed, mimosas if you like. And all the sex you can handle."

"Okay. You got me on that last item. The store can open late, and I'll apologize if anyone's waiting at the door."

"Deal." Half a loaf was better than none. And he had this curious need to wake up with her in the morning. He must be drunker than he thought.

The hallway was dimly illuminated, and as they walked by an open door, a dazzling display of flashing lights brought her to a stop. Turning, she gazed at a room that looked like the Pentagon war room—electronic equipment by the score—a half dozen computers and monitors, two huge plasma screens, and several unfamiliar machines with lights and screens, buttons, and knobs.

"My office," he said.

"For?"

"Computer stuff."

"No shit. So you
do
have a job."

"Sort of. I design video games." He didn't say he'd designed the most popular video game in history when he was still in college and sold it five years later for mega-millions. He never offered up that information.

"You can make a living doing that? Duh. I guess you can," she said with a wave. "This is a very nice farm."

"Thanks. I like it. I'll show you the creek and tire swing in the morning." He pulled the office door shut and continued walking, preferring not to talk about his business. His friends like Buddy knew he had enough to live on, but he never discussed his finances.

"I
love
tire swings."

Jesus, she was appealing—fresh as dew and hotter than hell. "You can go first then," he said with a grin.

"You're awfully sweet."

"Not really."

"Allow me to disagree."

"I'm on my best behavior."

"Because you want sex."

Because I want you
, he thought. Sex he could have anytime. "Something like that," he said with a faint smile.

"This is going to be a memorable sleepover."

He laughed. "I don't plan on sleeping. In here," he murmured, pushing open the door to his bedroom.

She stood arrested on the threshold. "You must have a decorator." She was pretty sure about the no wife after one look. The room didn't contain a hint of a woman—with the exception perhaps of the decorator's sense of color. The space was coordinated from die paint on tüe walls to the rugs on either side of the bed. And not a stick of furniture cost less than a grand, including that footstool with the needlepoint image of a black lab.

"My sister," he said. "She works for the Sierra Club. I think we have a nature theme going here."

Along with an opulent, gentleman's retreat motif, the furniture was antique, English probably, Ralph Lauren maybe, the carpet a muted green, the large four-poster bed covered with a tailored egg-shell-colored linen quilt. A museum-quality tall-boy stretched across one wall; a bow-front desk occupied anotJier; and upholstered chairs were arranged on either side of a fireplace, their size commensurate with their owner's proportions, their color a star-ding blood red and dandelion yellow stripe overlay with a fish design. Numerous prints on the walls depicted fishing scenes as well.

"Do you like to fish?"

"Every once and a while. Libby does though. My sister," he added.

"Ah." Stella swung her arms gently at her sides.

"Enough conversation?"

"Was I being rude?"

"I'm not really in the mood to talk, either."

She smiled. "It must be karma. Or maybe it's because we both collect comics; I've never been so obsessed before."

"Could be." He didn't know, either, but whatever it was, he wanted to keep it going. Shutting the door, he drew her to the bed, lifted her up, and sat her down on the pristine linen cover. "Where were we?"

"When we were so discourteously interrupted? I think we'd both just come."

He grinned. "Something different."

"Something really fine. And a word of warning. I'm afraid I'm addicted. You may have a junkie on your hands."

"It must be my reward for brushing after meals."

"I suppose you say that to all the women."

"Nope."

"So I'm unique."

She said it with a flourishing sweep of her arms and a grin, and drama aside, damned if she wasn't.

"Like a unicorn, babe. The one and only."

"I just adore flattery. However…" She gave him a significant look in a significant area.

"Gotcha. No more talk."

"Take note of how I dressed for success tonight." She pulled her chartreuse sleeveless sweater over her head, kicked off her sandals, and wiggled out of her green-stripe capris in five seconds flat.

He grinned. "It works for me." She hadn't worn underwear.

"Now if you please." She tapped her wristwatch and offered him the most innocent expression… as though she were asking for a traffic report instead of sex.

He was even faster at discarding his clothes. But then he'd had lots of practice. "Do you have any requests—other than speed?" he quickly added, already familiar with the drill.

"Nope. That's about it."

He was laughing as he settled between her legs. "You're easy to please."

"And you're my drug of choice tonight," she purred, sliding her arms around his neck, pulling her knees up, making it easier for point A to meet point B.

"Waitin' for that first rush?" He slid the head of his cock up her wet slit.