Nora Roberts Land (10 page)

So far, she only had two things to say in her article, and neither was life affirming.

Dating again sucked balls.

And that whole adage about having to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince? Well, frog legs were more appetizing.

She made another turn and pushed off the wall again. Another body appeared in the water at the end of the pool, visible from the waist down from her underwater perspective. She noted the rippling muscles in the man’s abdomen and the dark arrow of chest hair that headed down into tight black swim trunks. As she swam closer, he pushed off the wall and began to swim like someone had fired the starting gun. Powerful freestyle strokes sliced through the water in the lane next to her, and he passed her in a blur, bubbles rippling. She pushed off the wall again and started swimming faster.

His technique was picture-perfect. He surged ahead, all power and speed. She’d bet her morning coffee he was professionally trained.

And then he switched to the butterfly stroke three laps later and confirmed her impression. His body thrust out of the water, his arms spreading out like an eagle, before surging back into it, giving an eel-like kick.

When he switched to breast stroke, a healthy streak of competitiveness kicked in, and she followed suit. She watched him out of her peripheral vision like she had when she was racing at Columbia. She caught the chop from his stroke.

She knew the minute he started racing her. His head angled a fraction before he submerged himself for another lap. Then she did nothing but concentrate on her stroke—and his position.

He was significantly taller, which made him eat up the distance faster. But she weighed less and was slightly more agile on the turns.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she pulled through the bubbles dancing in the water. When she briefly surfaced, she checked the clock. She’d been swimming for nearly an hour. Her legs and arms burned with fatigue. She craved Gatorade.

She sprinted as fast as she could as they turned into the next lap. He stayed with her, inching ahead. She kicked faster, pulling them even. She caught sight of the cross sign at the end of the pool, and she surged and pulled and snapped her legs together like a demented frog. When she reached the front of the pool, she slapped her hands against the wall to stop. Her competitor made the turn and swam on.

She sucked in air when she pulled herself to a standing position, her skin hot against the cold water, her heart pounding. Sweat drops coated her Gatorade bottle. She took small sips, knowing she’d only cough it up.

Her companion thundered toward her in his blue swimming cap and silver reflective goggles before slowing and stopping. When he finally stood in the water, his breath was whooshing in and out. He reached for his green water bottle.

She couldn’t help but stare at his body. His arms looked like they’d been chiseled out of stone, and his abs set a new record for washboard. She left her goggles on. Having red marks around her eyes was so not attractive.

He flashed a grin after draining half the bottle. “You give as good as you get. I didn’t expect such healthy competition this early in the morning, but you have my deepest thanks.”

She grinned right back. “Ditto. I haven’t raced like that in years. You know your stuff.”

He took a deep breath, and his rib cage lifted, making his muscles ripple like the water around him. Her nipples tightened. God, what a body. Perhaps he was a lost Chippendale dancer or something. Maybe his car had broken down on the way to Vegas, and he needed to stay here until it was fixed.

“You’ve got a great form there.” He tugged his goggles off. Melting brown eyes crinkled as he grinned at her.

God, he looked good wet. Water dripped down his body like raindrops on a windowpane. He made her want to run into the locker room for dollar bills so she could see how many she could stick to his nearly naked body.

She looked down shyly. “Thanks. I try to keep in shape.”

“I was talking about your technique.”

He was? Oh, Lord. She’d been drooling over his body, and she’d thought he was doing the same. Who was she kidding? She was wearing a white swim cap and blue goggles—she probably looked ridiculous.

His eyes ran down her body. “Of course, that’s pretty nice too.”

Her face heated despite the droplets of cool water covering her skin.

He stretched his arms overhead, and her mouth instantly went dry. She reached for more Gatorade. Her nipples tightened when he thrust out of the water onto the deck, his back muscles rippling in perfect motion. Oh man, he had the best back—and ass. He pulled off his swim cap and ran a hand through his short brown hair.

She choked on fruity Gatorade when recognition finally clicked in.

“You okay?” he asked, kneeling on the tiles.

The man leaning over her in all his male glory was the guy she’d admired at Hairy’s Pub the other night. He might be wet, but she remembered him now. Right down to the
Pa Rum Pa Pum Pum.
And dammit, he looked as good wet as he did dry.

Her body went nuclear, alarms sounding, lights flashing. Alert, alert. Warning, warning.

He extended his hand. “Let me help you out.”

Before she could think, he’d gently pulled her up and out of the water with enough strength to set her thighs to quivering. His cold hands had the power to produce fire, she discovered, as heat shot up her arms even as goosebumps broke out across her body. She wanted to die of embarrassment, knowing how ugly those red bumps looked on cold white skin. Add her obvious nipplage, and she looked like a horny swimmer recently released from a female prison. She dashed for her towel before realizing it would look weird if she secured it around her chest.

This was so not the way she wanted to meet this guy! She was supposed to have on La Perla, makeup, and a hot outfit.

“You swim here often?” He approached her in nothing but those skin-tight black trunks. His defined thighs and definite bulge left nothing to the imagination. Oh my.

He towered over her, likely six three, if she had to bet. His mouth lifted on the right side, but he didn’t say anything. He put his hands on his trim waist, making her swallow thickly. “Well, do you?”

Water droplets ran down her face from her swim cap. His damn pheromones were fogging up her supposed anti-fog goggles. Must be a manufacturer’s defect.

“I’m planning to.”

“Good. We can race some more. I think both of us will like it.”

That isn’t all I’d like,
Divorcée Woman purred.

Oh, shut up,
she replied, and then shook her head. Was she really carrying on a conversation with her alter ego?

His wet, jet-black eyelashes framed expressive chocolate eyes. He slung his towel around his neck, making her already burning legs threaten to buckle beneath her. Was this a faint coming on? Perhaps she needed oxygen. Did the gym have a tank somewhere?

Oh, God, she had it bad. Best to bail now. Introduce herself when she was…put together. No guy would want her like this.

“I’m Tanner.” He extended his hand. “I’m new in town and a journalist…ah, I’m teaching at Emmits Merriam this quarter.” His smile twisted. “I’m still getting used to thinking of myself that way.”

He was a journalist?

Her heart twisted. She didn’t care how hot he was. After Rick-the-Dick, she’d made a solemn vow to never date another journalist.

Did she have the worst luck or what?

She eyed his hand, afraid of the sparks any contact between them might generate. She took it with hesitation. A strong current shot up her arm.

“Nice to meet you,” she muttered before she said something else. Like, “Would you show me your moves, Chippendale? I’ve got some money in my purse.”

Oh, I’m a total idiot. He’s a journalist, and this party ain’t gonna happen. Ever.

She dropped his hand when her nipples tightened again. “I need to go.” She hurried away from the pool, stopping when she skidded on the wet tiles.

The NO RUNNING sign mocked her as she ducked into the woman’s locker room.

Was she running? Oh yeah.

She wasn’t up for a do-over. No matter how hot he was.

Chapter 11

T
anner emerged from the gym with wet hair and headed for his SUV. He looked around the parking lot for a slim woman with delicious porcelain skin and wet hair, but he didn’t see anyone. She had been quite a surprise. He’d never imagined he’d come across a competitive swimmer like his lap mate in this podunk town. She glided through the water like a gazelle. And damn did she have good form. Both in and out of the water.

If he hadn’t seen a lock of red hair slicked against her ear, he might have guessed she was Meredith Hale, but he knew Meredith was a blond.

He wished she had taken off her goggles and swim cap, but he understood. The female swimmers he knew always complained about the outfit’s sexlessness.

It hadn’t covered up her beaded nipples. He suspected her reaction was from more than cold, but he couldn’t be sure. He’d seen the interest in her eyes before her goggles had fogged up. God knows, his trunks had gotten tight looking at her wet skin and tight body.

Then she’d totally frozen him out and run off.

Maybe she was married.

Maybe he needed to focus on what he’d come here to do.

Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. She had a few freckles scattered across her skin, a mole under her right shoulder blade, and a tight, rounded bottom. He’d wanted to connect the dots when she’d turned to reach for her towel.

He didn’t know her name, but he
wanted
to know it. He’d admired some women in and around town, but this woman—well, there was something about her. And her voice. It was like sipping Baileys, creamy, soothing, with a kick at the end. She was feminine but strong, exactly how he liked his women.

Well, he’d see her at the pool again. Perhaps he’d even run into her beforehand.

Too bad he couldn’t do anything about it, he decided. He couldn’t go out with other women here, not when he was trying to make Meredith Hale fall in love with him or spend time with him or whatever the hell he was going to do to get Sommerville off his fucking back.

With that in mind, he took off to the coffee shop owned by Meredith’s sister, Jill, which Sommerville’s file had mentioned as a good place to run into his “target.” He pulled into a parking space on Main Street. The shop already had a slow but steady stream of patrons. God, he hoped it wasn’t some fruit loop place that only carried sprouts and organic shit. If it didn’t have fucking whole milk, he was going to be really pissed.

He pushed the door open, his nose twitching at the smell of the pungent dark roast. After a quick scan, part of him was glad none of the patrons was Meredith. He begrudgingly headed to the counter.

Is this what his life came down to? Being attracted to some anonymous swimmer, stalking someone’s ex, and craving whole milk?

Richard Sommerville was going to pay.

***

Jill manned the cash register with a swing in her step. She tapped her foot to the Harry Connick, Jr., song pouring through the loudspeakers. It wasn’t Abba, but Jemma had won the morning music coin toss. She wasn’t going to fight it. A bitchy barista made bad coffee.

She called out another order as the door chimed. When she caught sight of the customer, her eyes opened wide, like she’d just downed an espresso shot. It was the guy who Mere had liked at Hairy’s Pub. Oh yeah! Sista Pimp could do some matchmaking this morning and make up for what had happened the other night.

When he stepped up to the counter, studying the pastry case, she gave him a big smile. “Hi there. You’re new in town, right?”

His eyes lifted from the long line of muffins. “Yes, how’d you guess?”

“When you work in a coffee shop, you tend to know everyone. I’m Jill. What’s your name?”

He straightened, giving her a curious look through deep chocolate eyes. Mere sure could pick them. He was easily a decade older than Jill, but she could still appreciate his good looks. He was a total Clooney—he’d aged well and would probably keep doing so. Mere was so going to owe her.

“I’m Tanner.”

“Hi Tanner, what can I get you?”

He scanned the chalkboard menu. “Please tell me you have whole milk.”

“Of course. It’s only called Don’t Soy With Me. It’s a—”

“Play on words. Got it. How about a grande mocha with an extra shot of chocolate?”

So he had a sweet tooth to match those eyes. “Whipped cream on top?”

“Yes, please.”

Oh, a man who said please. After working retail for a while before opening the shop, she knew how rare that was. She called out his order to Jemma. “Here or to go?”

“To go.”

“What else?”

“What’s the best pastry in your opinion?”

She hummed. “Well, if I were going to splurge…Are you going to splurge, Tanner?”

His mouth twisted into a cute grin. Mere was a goner. “Splurge on…?”

“Calories. I have to watch myself.” She pointed to herself. Her size eight looked good on her because she was on the tall side, but she knew she could easily pack on weight if she didn’t watch it.

“You women worry too much about that crap. You look fine. And yes, I plan to splurge. How’s the éclair?”

“Not my favorite. How do you feel about jelly donuts? This one has fresh huckleberry compote in it.”

He fished his wallet out of his back pocket. “Never had huckleberries. Sounds good.”

She rang him up, pleased no one was behind him. It meant she could pump him for information. “So what brings you to town?”

“I’m teaching in the journalism department at Emmits Merriam.”

It clicked. “Oh, you’re Tanner McBride, the international correspondent I’ve been hearing about.”

He cocked his head, his gaze direct. “Are you a journalism student or something?”

She laughed, twirling the tip jar with her hand. “Oh that’s funny, but you shouldn’t say that too loud. People will get ideas.” She held up her wrists. “No black ink in these veins. Much to my family’s disappointment. So, Tanner, do you want to come over to my family’s house for dinner on Friday night?” she asked, deciding they’d use her parent’s house since her mom had a bigger and better stocked kitchen than hers or her grandpa’s.