One Sexy Daddy (16 page)

Ryan whistled low and sweet.

“Okay, forget any deal I got for you. Adam, start talking.”

She awoke slowly, savoring the luxury of being in his bed. She had become his woman. Physically, to be sure. But also emotionally. She loved him, loved his touch, would always love him. If he left Deerhorn, she would never be with another man. She hadn't known, when she had created a list of things to do, that making love could never be a pragmatic choice. It couldn't be an experience to be done once and then never again—it affected everything about her.

She believed in lovemaking as a commitment, body and soul. She knew it was old-fashioned, not very cosmopolitan, hardly sophisticated, definitely not scientific.

She wondered how making love had opened her heart to Adam—so that lovemaking created love and love created the desire to make love. What a wonderful thing!

She loved him with all her heart and would always do so, but knew that loving him would
bring heartache of some kind—he would leave and she would stay, or he would leave and ask her to go with him, or he would stay and not be all that he was meant to be. Any one of those choices were painful—to her, or to him, or to Karen.

But for now, she breathed deeply, thinking of how she loved…his smell.

His smell?

She sat up, flinging off the covers.

Oh, no.

Smoke.

She tucked each leg through a pair of panties. As she flew out of bed, she snagged a work shirt from the floor and threw it over her shoulders. She passed the study, saw Adam talking on the phone.

“Fire!” she yelled.

He smacked his forehead. “The pancakes! Ryan, I gotta go. Talk to your partners. Call me Monday.”

Adam and Stacy took the steps three at a time, shoving open the kitchen door to an angry gray fog. Flickering flames danced on the stove. The smoke alarm went off, followed quickly by the timer gaily announcing it was time to flip the pancakes.

“Get out!” Adam yelled. “Go call the fire department.”

Stacy went to the living room and dialed the chief's number.

“I don't know why he keeps trying, 'cause he sure doesn't have a domestic bone in his body,” observed the chief. “But you can't blame a man for trying. I'll be there right quick.”

Stacy hung up and went back to Adam. The fire was out, the smoke escaping out of the windows he had opened, the pancakes festering in the sink. Dark cinders streaked the wall above the stove. Orange juice ooze dripped onto the floor.

“I wish I knew how to cook,” he said, looking around the woefully destroyed kitchen.

“You don't have to be perfect at everything,” Stacy said. “That's why there's other people.”

He looked her up and down, from the long legs to the dazzling crown of curls.

“You do the cooking,” he said, advancing on her. “And you do the gardening, too.”

She backed up two steps, he took one forward.

“You do the checkbook,” he said. “I make money pretty well, but I don't keep track of it.”

He put a hand on each of her hips and drew her up to him.

“What about child care?” she asked.

“We'll share that,” he said. “But you've got to do her hair. Those pigtails are murder.”

“That hardly seems a fair division of labor,”
she said smartly. “What are you going to be doing with all your free time?”

“I'm in charge of something very special,” he said, kissing the base of her neck.

“Oh, really,” she said, gasping inwardly.

“Something that takes a lot of skill.”

He moved to her ear, rubbing the morning stubble against the softest part of her skin. Goose bumps rose on her arms.

“Something that takes years of training.”

“What's that?”

“Making love to you.”

And he picked her up, spreading her legs so that they coiled around his back.

It was at that moment that the back door jerked open and the fire chief—extinguisher in hand—walked in. A cheery hello withered on his lips. His helmet dropped to the floor.

“Miss Poplar,” he said, bobbing his head.

Behind him, Mayor Pincham squeezed into the house.

“I'm sure glad you're better at building than you are at making…” The mayor stared. “…pancakes.”

Stacy buried her head in Adam's shoulders, her bare feet finding purchase on the floor.

Suddenly, three men were talking at once. The fire chief was relating that he had often thought that people around here were too interested in other folks. Lefty said that he didn't intend on
telling his wife because his right hand was just now getting its full function back and he wasn't going to ruin his golf game or his campaigning over something that was none of his bee's wax. And a short man in a gray suit and pink silk shirt shoved his way into the kitchen to announce it was time, long past time, for Adam to let bygones be bygones and come home.

“Who's he?” Stacy whispered at Adam's ear.

“Lasser,” he said.

“Adam, I saw the television spot last night,” J. P. Lasser said. “Damn good piece. And I'm glad you're getting the school built. Under budget, I assume.”

“It wasn't your budget,” Eugene Pincham said darkly.

“Whatever,” Lasser said. “Adam, it's time for you to get back on board. We'd make you a partner. Your salary's doubled. And Vegas is calling.”

“I'm not listening to Vegas,” Adam said.

“Adam, take the job back,” Stacy said.

“You should listen to the pretty lady,” Lasser said. “Who is she—Miss Wisconsin Cheese Manufacturers' Association?”

“I think I've had quite enough out of you,” the mayor roared.

He grabbed Lasser by his shoulders, turned him around, and gave him one big healthy left fist to his chin.

“Why'd you do that?” Lasser yelped, holding his face with both hands.

“I've always wanted to do that,” the mayor said, rubbing his bruised hand. “You stole my girl.”

“When?”

“June 2, 1972. You told her I was worthless, wouldn't amount to much, and that she should ditch me and go to the prom with you.”

“And did she?”

“Yes,” the mayor said, and then a triumphant grin erupted on his face. “And then I got her back—I married her.”

“You're crazy. You're all crazy,” Lasser said. He stumbled out the door.

The mayor worried his hand.

“You won't be able to swing a club or shake hands with the voters for a long time,” the fire chief observed.

“No, that's where you're wrong,” said the mayor. “I punched Adam with my right hand—I used my good swinging arm on Lasser. How do you think I got the nickname Lefty?”

The fire chief nodded admiringly.

“You'll have to excuse my fiancée and I,” Adam said.

As Adam led Stacy out of the kitchen, the two leaders of the community stared.

“Did he just say fiancée?” the fire chief asked.

“Yeah. 'Course it's none of our business.”

“Absolutely not. If they wanted to announce they were engaged, they'd do it in public. If we say anything, we're just gossiping.”

“Yeah, and I've never liked gossip. My wife is more of the talker in our family.”

“My wife's like that, too. Always passing along information that's best kept private.”

“Well, gotta go.”

“Me, too.”

The two men shook hands and went out to the driveway for their cars, staring with dark machismo at the black limousine with Illinois license plates that idled on the curb. The fire chief put his equipment in his truck. The mayor settled into his sedan.

Both men pulled out their cell phones and each made a total of five calls before the fire chief was told by someone on the other end of the line that the mayor had relayed the news only moments before.

The fire chief glanced sheepishly at the mayor's car as he backed out of the driveway.

 

“D
EERHORN LOGIC
. We're engaged,” Adam said, flopping down on the bed beside Stacy.

“No we're not.”

“I just told those men down there that you're my fiancée. It's going to be all over Deerhorn in five minutes that we're getting married.”

“It might be. But we're not. You haven't proposed.”

“Do I have to get down on my knees?”

“Yes.”

He slid off the bed, kneeling between her legs.

“Will you marry me, Stacy Poplar?” he said, kissing the inside of her thigh.

She propped herself up on her elbows.

“Yes, but what are we going to do for money? Neither one of us has a job,” she said.

He kissed the patch of red and gold hair at the base of her abdomen.

“Love, baby. We're going to live on love.”

And he climbed up next to her. As they whiled away an hour, they both got the feeling they were just starting to learn about how to make love.

 

O
N THE AIRPLANE
, Amber—who had long since forgotten that her last name was Kozolowski and her first name was Krysha—put a long thin fingernail on Ryan's lapel.

“One little kiss,” she pleaded.

“Amber, I'm married.”

She pouted, using the technique she had been taught in class. She thought of her pet dog dying. Even though she didn't have a pet dog, it was still a pretty sad thought, one that gave her lips a full, kissable look and her eyes a come-hitherness that photographers loved.

“It's just you're so irresistible, Ryan. You drive me wild.”

“No,” Ryan said. He shifted uncomfortably in the tight commuter plane seat. “I'm married. I love my wife. I don't play around. Ever. I'm going to Wisconsin to find out about a business opportunity and see my best buddy get married. If my wife hadn't just started her job at the law firm last month, she would have taken the time off to come with me.”

“Did I hear you say business opportunity?” Amber perked up. She was twenty-six—well, all right, twenty-seven—and she knew that her face wasn't going to be a money-maker forever. And she had done much better in finance class than in acting.

“Adam's building a resort. One that can compete with Geneva.”

“Switzerland?”

“Geneva, Wisconsin. He's going to put in a golf course, skating rink, boating, basketball—it'll feature a hotel and some restaurant he calls Tanglewood. He's even got some Greek guy with a place called Burger Joint. They're going to rename it Burgerkopoulos.”

“How much is your firm putting in?”

“Two mil.”

“I'll put in one. My roommate can probably come up with another mil, too. But I gotta take a cut gross, not net. Call my lawyer first thing
Monday morning to work out terms. Oh, and I'm really very upset that we can't have something more…personal.”

“You're a beautiful woman. Really quite tempting. But my wife means everything to me. Okay? So take your hand off my leg.”

Amber's cell phone rang as soon as they landed.

“Hello. Yeah, I did everything we talked about. He passed the test. Gets an A for…well, for not committing adultery. Oh, you're welcome. It was no trouble at all,” she said, passing the phone to Ryan. “It's your wife. She was a little insecure about you traveling with a cover model.”

 

T
HE SCHOOLHOUSE
was festooned with flowers from every Deerhorn garden. In the parking lot was Adam's wedding gift to Stacy—forty bridal maples, their roots wrapped in burlap and a pretty white ribbon tied around their trunks. Punch and cookies were set up in what was supposed to be the lunchroom but which forever after would be called the wedding room. There was no need for engraved invitations, because every man, woman, child and dog in Deerhorn knew they were part of the festivities.

Cover model Amber was mobbed with autograph seekers, most of whom had been sent by her publicity department and who left before the
wedding. She found herself oddly attracted to a fan who said he was the lead singer of the band that was “doing this wedding gig.” Ryan Jennings, whose firm would be putting two million dollars into the Deerhorn Resort development project, stood up as Adam's best man.

“Ready, Adam?”

“Never would have thought it, but I am,” he said. “Look at this school. Isn't it great?”

Ryan looked around the classroom.

“Sure, Adam, the quality of workmanship is there.”

“No, it's the love you're looking at, Ryan. This is the school that love built.”

“Sure thing,” Ryan said, not understanding how his friend could have changed so much in just a couple of months.

 

I
N WHAT WOULD BECOME
the girls' locker room, Marion and Karen helped Stacy into the white lace-and-satin dress that had been worn by both Mrs. Poplar and Marion on their wedding days.

“So you're going to be my mom,” Karen said. “Finally!”

“And for always,” Stacy said.

Marion looked up from a fray in the gown's hem that she was stitching.

“Don't forget I'm your aunt,” she told Karen. She knotted the thread and snapped it off. “I hear the band,” she said. “Bob Pincham's play
ing. Says he's going to do a version of the wedding march that some band named Dogstar would be proud of.”

The two women took Karen's hands and walked across the hall to the tiny meeting hall that could but barely be called an auditorium.

Stacy paused at the door as everyone turned and gawked. She had been a bridesmaid half a dozen times and had never expected to be a bride. She had planned to live her life enveloped in the free-floating love and respect of a small town. Funny how taking a risk had changed those plans.

From the end of the aisle, Adam's eyes met hers. He smiled that wonderful smile, that charming smile, that smile that made women feel good all over—but now and forever that smile was just for her.

Just for her.

“Come on,” Karen said, tugging her arm. “We're never going to get cookies and punch if we don't get this part over with.”