Seeing Stars (9 page)

"Shit," said Tim, "that stuff stinks."

"Yeah, but it keeps the rot out. Tim, show Jake the brushes we use. And put coveralls on, guys."

"I'll help," said Claire, and Jake snorted.

Blake said, "You've done enough. I'll get the guys started, then I'll drive you back to Discovery Bay."

"I have my own vehicle." 

From the other side of the boat, Tim called out, "The chick is up for it. She's a good worker. I lost the bet and had to buy her lunch."

Claire said, "I don't mind a mess, if you've got extra coveralls."

She's thought working with Blake and the boys might give her an opening to talk to Jake, but it didn't work. 

After two hours slopping the greenish preservative onto the boat, she felt painfully sore by the time Blake shouted that it was a wrap, but they'd succeeded in covering the boat from keel to deck.

"It'll soak in," he told her when she stood back, looking at it doubtfully. "Without protection, the rot would be eating that hull within months of her being launched. We'll put two more coats on over the next few days, then she'll be ready for painting."

She supposed he knew what he was doing, but it seemed a pity to mar such beautiful wood with this thin, smelly green substance.

"I'll show you how to get the mess off." Blake took her to the back where Tim and Jake were scrubbing their arms with solvent. When she saw their greenish hands, she was glad Blake had insisted she wear gloves for the job.

Tim turned to Jake when he'd finished. "You want a ride?"

Jake shrugged, which Tim apparently translated as a
yes
.

"Tomorrow at nine," said Blake. "The preservative needs forty-eight hours to dry, so we'll get in four hours on the interior tomorrow, then you two can have the rest of the day for yourselves."

"Right," said Tim, but Jake just shrugged.

When the boys were gone, Claire shucked her coveralls and hung them beside the others. 

"Thanks, Blake. It's been quite a day."

"Teak dust and preservative. One hell of a first date."

"An education, and I won lunch." 

He was dressed in stained coveralls, and the atmosphere could hardly be less romantic, but they were alone, the boys gone, and earlier he'd kissed her to within an inch of her life.

"Is there a hot tub at that resort?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Get in it as soon as you get back. Have a good soak, then go to bed for a couple of hours. Another soak when you get up wouldn't hurt at all, and if they've got a masseuse, that wouldn't be a bad idea either."

She picked up her jacket and purse. "You're afraid I'll be too crippled to dance? I'm not much of a dancer anyway."

"Tonight you will be. I'll pick you up at seven."

"What about you? Will you have a hot tub and a massage?" She flushed as she said the words, caught by an image of Blake face down on a massage table, completely naked.

"I'm used to this. You're not."

He might be used to it, but she realized that he wasn't comfortable about her pitching in this afternoon. He might be an expert at romance, but he didn't know everything about this particular woman.

Chapter Five

She called the resort office and succeeded in booking a massage with someone named Renee at four-thirty, then grabbed her bathing suit and a towel and headed for the hot tub. Two hours later, she figured she hadn't a bone left in her body, but she'd dozed on the massage table, and Renee's probing seemed to have released most of the tension.

She might have wimped out of the reunion banquet last night, ducking out at the first opportunity, but today she'd impressed a tattooed teenage ruffian with her ability to do fine sanding, and she'd surprised Blake McKenzie.

She figured they were almost even now. She didn't know how to cope with flirting and kisses, and he wasn't quite sure how to cope with a woman who picked up a sanding block and a paintbrush full of stinky green preservative.

She knew a lot more about him than she had twenty-four hours ago. He had a passion for hard work, building fast boats, and tangling with tough kids. As for the kiss... well, he'd taken her by surprise. Next time she'd be prepared. She'd enjoy it, but she wouldn't lose her footing.

The phone rang as she came back into the condo after her massage. She picked it up, pleased to hear Jennifer's voice.

"Did you go to the reunion thing last night?" Jenn demanded.

"Yes, Mother, and tonight I'm going to the dance with that bad boy you suggested I have an affair with."

Silence.

"What's his name?"

"Blake, but most people call him Mac."

"You
do
have condoms in your purse?"

"Jennifer! We're going to a dance. A public dance."

Jenn snorted. "Do you know what they call a woman as naive as you?"

Claire thought of the kiss, of the insane deal they'd made last night.

"What do they call a naive woman?"

"Pregnant."

She laughed. "All right, Jenn. I'll be careful."

"What do you know about this guy? I was joking when I... well, I wasn't exactly joking. You do need an affair, something to shake you out of you pleasant rut of stars and solitude, but be careful."

"Jenn, he's a pillar of the community. He builds ships and works with delinquent boys, and he's nice to ex-girlfriends who try to cling to him after a divorce. There's nothing to worry about. I spent the day with him, tied up like a pretzel sanding the inside of a boat he's building."

Jenn sighed dramatically. "I knew it. You've signed on as slave labor. For goodness sakes, Claire, you're on vacation. Have some fun."

"I enjoyed it. A lot." The feel of the satin-smooth teak under her hands, the smell of oil from the wood, the reluctant surprise on Tim's face, and the discomfort on Blake's. Add the motorcycle ride this morning, and she'd had more fun in the last twenty-four hours than she'd had in a long time. As for the kiss...

It was the kiss she remembered as she showered away the massage oil, replacing it afterward with body lotion. Tonight, he would kiss her again. 

Blake rang her bell at three minutes to seven. When she opened the door to him, she found the sight of him dressed in a silk shirt and dress slacks oddly disconcerting. She'd become comfortable with the man in coveralls and preservative this afternoon, hadn't been prepared to feel so self-consciously uncertain in the presence of the formal version.

"Come in. I'll get my purse."

When he stepped inside, the sound of the door clicking closed shivered over her nerves. She made herself ignore the disconcerting sensation and hurried into the bedroom for her purse.

Actually, it was Jennifer's purse, a small silver bag that matched the trim on the dress. The dress was Jenn's too, and more revealing than she'd realized when she'd tried it on back in Arizona. The thin straps and low back made it impossible to wear a bra under it—something that hadn't seemed a problem back on the mountain because the dress itself provided quite a bit of support. But the lack of foundation garments was suddenly an issue now.

Walking down the stairs to join Blake, who'd waited in the foyer, she saw his eyes take in every detail, and she figured he knew exactly how much she had on under the dress.

She swallowed nervousness and kept her movements steady down the stairs, although she knew she was also showing quite a bit more leg than she was accustomed to. Lydia would probably think of this as a modest dress, but Lydia wasn't sitting in Claire's skin.

"Will I do?" 

"Oh, yeah." His low voice that made her even more self-conscious, then he took her arm and opened the door. "We'd better get out of here now if you want to get to the dance."

She was glad he wasn't looking at her now or she'd show her inexperience in the flaming heat of her face.

Outside, she stopped in confusion. She had wondered if he would bring the bike, had wondered how she could sit on a motorcycle without this skirt riding all the way up to her hips. But there was no bike... no truck either.

"Where—"

He opened the passenger door of a low sports car and gestured her in. "I thought this was more suited to the occasion."

When she stepped close to the car, he touched her face and she froze. She stared into his eyes and couldn't tell what he intended, what he wanted.

"I'm a bit nervous."

"Yeah." He brushed her cheek with his thumb, but didn't give her the kiss she half-expected. "Me too. It's been a while since I've done this, but I figure I'll just hang on and hope the storm doesn't turn out to be a hurricane."

She couldn't stop a smile. "What are you talking about?"

"Nonsense," he said lightly, brushing her lips with his. "Climb in, Cinderella. We're going dancing, and some time this evening I'll pull you into the shadows and kiss you as if I couldn't get enough of you."

Inside the car she busied herself with the seat belt and tried not to watch the way he walked around the front of the car... like a dangerous animal, graceful and rippling with powerful muscles.

A storm... perhaps a hurricane. Kissing Blake McKenzie was a wild, breathless experience. Making love with him... what would it be like?

She'd never been out in a real storm. Until now, she'd watched, safely inside, just as she watched the heavens through glass. On a scale of one to ten, if riding a motorcycle with Blake was, say, an eight... what would it be like to hang on, riding passion's storm with him? 

When he slid into the car and fastened his seat belt, she felt as if her thoughts were lying exposed for anyone to see... for him to see.

"How many vehicles do you have?"

"You've seen the lot now."

"This is nice." She touched the soft leather of her seat, and breathed in the subtle scent of expensive leather, mixed with the musky scent of his aftershave.

His mouth curved in a half smile. "This is a classic Corvette, a '54.
Nice
is far too tame a word for this baby."

"Apologize to her for me," she said with a grin, feeling more comfortable now, although she knew it was an illusion. The man liked fast cars, fast bikes, fast boats. He might claim to a recent lack of experience, but he had once liked fast women, too.

He liked speed, and his kisses stirred a storm of sensation she didn't know what to do with. A woman who wanted her life under her own control, a woman who liked things exactly as they were, would be crazy to let herself get blown out to sea in a hurricane with a man like this.

Tonight, she promised herself, she would enjoy his kisses, but she'd keep both feet on the ground. Then, tomorrow, she'd buy a package of condoms as Jennifer had so sensibly suggested. In a week's time, whether the package had been used or not, she would drive to San Francisco for her second interview with the CTIO people, then on to Pasadena for the professional astronomers' research symposium—two big steps on her way back to her own tame life, her mountaintop, and her stars.

As long as she didn't let herself get hooked—addicted—to the hurricane, there was no reason she couldn't sign on for the ride.

Back in the early eighties, when James Denver fought the battle of wills with a punk named Blake McKenzie, telling Mac some home truths he'd never forgotten, James should have covered a bit more territory.

James's advice about women had been confined to a few tough lectures on the consequences of a man failing to prepare before he let lust take hold.

But nowhere in the lectures had James said a word about quiet women with blue eyes as deep as a hot July sky. Nowhere had he warned Mac about the way a woman could look so innocent that it grabbed a man right in the gut when she opened her door to him, wearing a dress that would make any sane man embrace madness.

The scary thing was, Mac knew damned well Claire's dress wouldn't have stirred more than a ritual, instinctive response if Lydia wore it, or any other woman. But on Claire...

Logically, he had known she would have long legs. After all, she was almost as tall as he was, but he hadn't realized what long legs meant until she walked toward him, all legs and blond hair, lean and supple with a willowy femininity he hadn't realized could make his mouth water.