Chapter Three
From the seclusion of her upstairs bedroom, Delia watched Nick work on her car for the rest of the afternoon. Oh, she didn't watch him, exactly. Not like some puppy with its nose pressed to the window. But the window drew her nonetheless. And Nick Woodruff disrupted her thoughts for the rest of the day. His butt sticking out of the front end of her Volvo was particularly unhelpful.
In between watching Nick's hindquarters, however, Delia found time to call Readi-Steam Carpet Cleaners, schedule a crew of professional window washers, and start dumping out closets like a fiend. Her divorce had been final for three months, Neville had been remarried for two, and it was time--dear God, was it time--for Delia to move on. If a blatant offer of casual sex from a near stranger could tempt her past the point of all logic, then she really needed to get a life.
Not that she'd been holding up things on Neville's account. No, the sad truth was, she hadn't missed him. She'd merely been enraged that after convincing her they had to have this house, he'd lived in it less than a year. Then he'd met Alicia, one of his wealthy mammo-plasty patients. Apparently, Alicia's new boobs had been a huge--no pun intended--success, because Neville vanished six weeks after the sutures came out, leaving a neatly typed note of apology and most of his high-end shit behind. And leaving Delia with six months of speaking engagements and an incomplete manuscript due on her editor's desk.
But that was then, Delia reminded herself. And Nick Woodruff--whether I want him or not--is now.
Thus encouraged, by late afternoon, she'd managed to haul six huge boxes of Neville's junk down to the garage and dump it near his thirty-thousand-dollar speedboat, just one step away from Monday's curb pickup. And that damned boat was headed to the curb next, Delia decided, if he didn't get his ass up here to haul it out of her garage. Feeling empowered, she marched back into the kitchen, dialed his office, and left him a voice mail to just that effect.
That done, Delia dusted off her hands with a certain amount of pride and decided to reward herself with a hot bubble bath. But on her way back upstairs, the window caught her eyes again--and this time they almost popped out of her head.
Nick Woodruff had taken off his shirt.
Gosh. Oh, God. Delia slapped one hand across her eyes and forced herself into the bathroom. Ten minutes later she was up to her chin in English lavender, but still wallowing in Nick. Most specifically, she was wallowing in the memories of his kiss, and pretending her interest was...well, analytical.
Ha! Nick kissed a woman as if she were the only one he'd ever wanted--and as if she were the last one he ever meant to kiss, too. That fine, full mouth of his had been soft and certain, yet far from overpowering. There was no way she could trick herself into believing he'd forced that kiss. And no way she could trick herself into believing she didn't want another one, either. Dang.
With her toes, Delia snared her drifting sponge, then blew a clump of bubbles off it. Clinically, she mused, one had to marvel at Nick Woodruff's composure, at his absolute certainty that he was sexually desirable. Yet despite the accusation she'd thrown in his face, there hadn't been one ounce of genuine arrogance in him. Just a matter-of-fact acceptance of his sexuality. And of his interest in her. What gave him such confidence? she wondered. Did women just never say no to the man?
That was ridiculous! She had said no to him. And right now, with night falling fast and her body being teased by warm bubbles, Delia was beginning to think that had been a really dumb thing to do. Almost worse was the fact that, when she had said no, the man had simply smiled and shrugged. His self-confidence had been intact, his neighborly demeanor unchanged. He just seemed, heaven help her, like a real nice guy.
But they all did, didn't they? She, of all people, should know how unwise it was to go with your gut in such a situation. Oh, Nick Woodruff was no sexual deviant--Delia trusted her professional instincts that far--but he might well be the world's worst heartbreaker. And there was no educating a gal about that little problem, save the school of hard knocks, and Delia had already flunked out once.
Suddenly something was nagging at her brain. School? Flunking? Records? Filing? Still musing, Delia pulled the plug and stood up. Then it hit her.
The owner's manual. Oh, no! She had promised Nick she would find it! Swiftly, Delia dried her hair, dressed, and dashed downstairs. It was a simple task to find the owner's manual in the study. Neville had made it its own little manila folder, carefully typed out a label, and tucked it neatly behind V in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet.
Eager to tell Nick, Delia grabbed the phone book, then flicked a quick glance out the window.
Dark. It was just getting dark. And Nick had big plans for the evening. I'm going to swim laps, he'd said. And after that, I'm getting in my hot tub. Naked.
Oh, dear heaven. It was almost showtime.
Delia couldn't help herself. She bolted back upstairs, cut all the lights, and pressed her nose to the window again. Not like a puppy. Nope, more like a bitch in heat. But no lights shone in Nick's big backyard. Delia couldn't see a thing. Still clutching the phone book and her owner's manual, Delia threw herself on the bed, dug around for the remote, and watched a round of CNN.
How long could you stay in a hot tub anyway? About fifteen minutes? Delia thought she'd seen that posted at a hotel spa someplace. And how long to dress? Eat dinner? Hard to say. So Delia watched another round of CNN--which was strange, considering that all she really needed to do was dial up his number and say, Hey, Nick, I found that owner's manual. How big an interruption was that?
To kill time, Delia went back downstairs and uncorked a bottle of cheap Chablis--real cheap, on her budget. But she took a little test sip and found it tolerable, so she plucked one of Neville's antique Baccarat goblets out of the breakfront and went back upstairs with the bottle. Delia crawled in bed and grabbed the remote. Surfing through the channels, she caught a rerun of Leave It to Beaver--the one where Beaver fakes a school excuse from his mother, her all-time favorite. Oddly enough, it was even funnier when washed down with Chablis.
But soon Beaver was over, and impatience got the best of her. At nine sharp Delia rolled over, grabbed the phone, and punched out the number she'd already memorized. He answered in a rough, drowsy voice. "Woodruff."
"Nick?" she said at once. "I found it. The owner's manual, I mean. Can I drop it by tomorrow?"
There was a long pause, then a sleepy chuckle. "Mmm, Dr. Delia," he rasped. "My radio fantasy voice. Say something else, sugar."
Delia was taken aback. "Like...what?"
Springs squeaked, as if Nick were shifting his weight on a bed or sofa. "Darlin', who cares?" he whispered. "Read me your grocery list. I know it'll sound good."
"Well, I...I mostly eat take-out."
He laughed again, wide awake this time. "Honey, do you always take life this seriously?"
He was teasing her, Delia realized. "Did--did you enjoy your swim?" she managed, feeling like a doofus.
"Naw, that part's a workout," he said. "For my bad back, remember? But I had a nice soak afterward."
"Right," she said, cradling the phone to her cheek. "I remember your mentioning it."
"Do you, now?" he whispered. "I don't suppose you would say 'Sorry I missed it,' and make my night, would you?"
Delia fell back into the pillows and exhaled. Damn it, she had missed it. "I'll bet it was real nice," she answered.
"Real nice," he echoed a little wistfully. "Hey, Dr. Delia, whatcha wearing?"
Delia sat straight up, almost knocking Neville's five-hundred-dollar wineglass off the night table. "What am I wearing? What the hell kind of question is that?"
Nick laughed again, the sound flowing over her like warm whiskey. "Come on, sugar, it's a simple one," he said. "See, it's kind of cold over here, and I'm a little lonely. So just whisper real soft, and it'll be our little secret. Did you take a shower and put on your jammies? Or what?"
"A bath," Delia said, before she could reason herself out of it. "A bubbl
e bath. With English lavender."
"Oh, God," he whispered. "Oh, Dr. Delia, don't tease. English lavender always gets me hot."
Delia emptied her wineglass in one gulp. "And I put on a T-shirt, not jammies." She paused, staring at the dregs. "Why, what are you doing?"
He chuckled again. "Making myself go blind, sugar. Now, was that just a T-shirt?"
Delia giggled. "Well, no."
"What, then?"
Delia was flustered, so she grabbed what was left of the Chablis. "Well," she whispered, pouring. "You know."
"No, I don't have a clue, Doc," he said. "Come on, now. 'Sometimes phone sex with someone you trust can be a healthy turn-on.' That's what you told Fred from Framingham, remember? And sweetheart, you must trust me. You left your precious Volvo over here, right?"
"See, now, there's the really scary part." Delia's voice was very small. "I do trust you."
Nick made a strange, rough sound in the back of his throat. "So answer the question, darlin'," he softly demanded. "Whatcha got on under that T-shirt? Black leather motorcycle pants? A chastity belt? Knickerbockers? What?"
"God, I don't believe I'm doing this," said Delia, cradling her forehead in one palm. "Panties."
"Bikini or thong?"
"Oh, God." Delia felt her face growing warm. "Why?"
"'Cause I'm visualizing, Doc," he whispered, his voice dark and hot. "Sensual visualization. See, last week, I thought I was starting to lose interest in sex."
"Yeah, right."
"Oh, no, sugar, I'm serious as a heart attack," he insisted. "Then, remember last Friday? When you told Menopausal Marge from Montreal how to use sensual visualization to--you know, to get herself fired up? Well, you were right, Doc. That shit works. I'm imagining you in your panties right now, and I'm hard enough to hammer nails."
"Nick." Delia giggled. "You are not menopausal."
"But it's still working real good for me. So, come on, Delia. Help me out. Describe every inch of your tight, sweet body, baby, and I swear, I'll never tell a soul. But first, let's get back to those panties."
As if to hide from herself, Delia wriggled under the covers. "Okay," she finally whispered. "They're hip huggers. Pink ones."
"Pink," groaned Nick. "God, Delia, are they the same color pink as your cheeks when you blush? The cheeks on your face now, I'm talking, because honey, I gotta confess, that's about the prettiest shade of pink I've ever laid eyes on. So far."
"Is...Is it really?"
"Delia, darlin', I get hot just thinking about it."
She was very quiet for a moment. "Nick, you're weird."
"Nope," he insisted. "I'm a normal, healthy male with normal, healthy appetites, burning with a whole morning's worth of thwarted lust from watchin' you in that weird skirt and those ugly shoes. Besides, remember what you told Tricia from Tallahas--"
"God, please do not mention my job again," interjected Delia.
"Why?"
"Because I...I don't find talking about my job very...well, you know." Suddenly Delia of the million-word vocabulary couldn't find the right one.
"Erotic?" His voice slid over her skin like silk. "Is that it, babe?"
"Yes."
"But if I talk about other things," he whispered, "you might feel otherwise?"
"Yes. Maybe. Oh, Nick, I don't know!"
"I can work with a maybe," he said reassuringly. "Shoot, just breathe heavily into the phone, darlin'. Given your voice, that'll probably do the trick."
"Wh-what trick?"
Nick laughed his wicked laugh again. "Oh, Delia, you just don't know what you do to me."
Despite the darkness under her bedcovers, Delia squeezed shut her eyes. "Then tell me," she whispered.
That caught him off guard. "Umm--tell you?"
"Go ahead, big boy," she whispered, giggling. "Tell me everything."
"Yeah, okay," he said, then hesitated. "But listen, sugar, something just occurred to me. Are you on a hard line?"
"Mmm, hard," she whispered, mimicking his voice. "I like that."
Nick laughed a little nervously. "Now, be serious a minute, darlin'," he cautioned. "'Cause frequencies float, and we don't want to give old Bud Basham a coronary here."
"Oh," breathed Delia. "Okay."
"Good. Now, is that a remote phone you're using?"
"No, it's under the covers with me. Cord and all."
"Lucky phone," he rasped. "Delia, know what I'd do if I was under there with you?"
"No. What?"
Nick breathed heavily for a moment, and it didn't seem feigned. "Oh, I don't know, baby," he whispered. "It'd be so hard to choose."
"Choose."
"Okay." The springs squeaked again. "Okay, first, I think I'd slide my hands up your thighs, then just keep going, right under your T-shirt. What color did you say that was?"
"Black," she whispered wickedly. "It's vintage AC/DC, from the original Back in Black tour."
"Oh, baby, you rock," he choked, but she could tell he was about to laugh out loud. "I just knew you had a dark side. Okay, so, what I would do is, I would ease my hands along that pretty, pale flesh of yours, right up over your ribs, touching every one of 'em, just enough to make your skin shiver."
"Mmm." It really did sound good.
"Mmm is right, darlin'," Nick whispered. "And then, I'd brush the very tips of your nipples with my palms. Just to make sure they were nice and hard."
"Ohh," said Delia.
"Are they, Delia?"
She hesitated. "A little."
"Just a little?" Nick sounded crushed.
"A lot," said Delia. "Hard. Tingly."
"Jesus, Delia." His voice was sincere. "Touch them. Tell me for sure."
"Hard, Nick," she whispered. "They feel...heavy. Maybe...kind of lonely."
"Wait." Nick swallowed hard. "I've changed my mind."
"Nooo."
"Oh, yeah, darlin', I think I'd rather take your panties off first."
"Would you? Why?"
"Because I just can't wait, Delia," he whispered. "Because I'm about to come all over my couch. And because I'm betting you've got some other pink parts that are prettier than your cheeks, sweetheart."
Delia giggled. "Maybe."
"Maybe my white cracker ass," he rasped. "So I'd slide those silk panties down your legs, Delia--and I know they'd be silk, darlin', 'cause it'd be a sin for a woman like you to wear any other kind--and I'd slide 'em right down to your ankles. Maybe just rip 'em right off, then, and buy you new ones later."
"O-okay," said Delia. "No one ever bought me underwear before."
"Then you have not lived the life you deserve, sugar."
"I guess not."
"Delia?"
"Yes, Nick?"
His voice was dark and steady. "Slip your hand under those pink silk panties," he commanded, "and tell me what it feels like."
Delia hesitated. "Oh, Nick."
Nick's breath ratcheted up sharply. "Come on, baby," he begged, his voice thick now. "Do it. Do it for me. Don't stop me now. Please. Just slide your palm down your belly and under the elastic, okay? And slip your fingers between your legs. Are you wet, Delia? Are you? Good God, honey, say yes, 'cause I'm dying here."
"Yes," she whispered, the word barely audible. "Yes. Wet. Dripping."
Nick swallowed hard again. "God almighty, girl," he whispered. "I really am gonna come just listening to you."
"Are you, Nick?" Delia asked, her voice deep and foreign. "Really? Because, you know, I think you have such an incredible butt. I watched it half the afternoon, sticking out of the hood of my car, so tight and perfect. You know, I really am sorry I missed your hot tub."
"Ah, God, Delia," he groaned. "Oh, God. Keep talking, baby. Just keep talking. 'Cause, I swear--I swear--"
"Holy shit!" screamed Delia, leaping from beneath the covers.
"What the hell is that?" he barked. The pounding on Delia's kitchen door was so loud, Nick could hear it through the telephone. "What the hell is that? Delia? Delia--
?"
Someone punched the bell. Six times. "Open the goddamned door, Delia!" bellowed Dr. Neville Sydney. "Open it right now. Don't you dare touch my fucking speedboat, you hear me?"
"Delia?" said Nick. "Delia? Baby, put the phone back to your ear. Put the phone back. Talk to me, sugar. Talk now--or I'm coming over there."
"Holy shit, Nick, it's Neville!" hissed Delia into the phone. "And for this, I really ought to kill him."
"Jesus Christ," said Nick. "Delia, do not answer that door. I'm coming over there. And I mean now."
Delia's back floodlights were already on by the time Nick slid into his jeans, shoved his service pistol into his waistband, and started across the yard. He could see a big, black Lincoln Navigator idling outside her garage, its chrome trailer hitch glistening yellow beneath the lights. He could already hear the argument, too. Because Delia, of course, had not listened to him and kept her damned door shut. Instead, she was leaning half out of it, going nose-to-nose with Mr. Rhinoplasty himself.
Delia's ex-husband was waving wildly in the direction of the garage. "You vindictive bitch!" he heard Neville shout. "You've changed the remote codes! You can't hold my boat captive! How dare you?"
"Neville, have you always been such a twit?" snapped Delia. "The damned Liftmaster is broken. Didn't you hear it grinding?"
"Well, howdy, howdy folks," said Nick, sidling up to Neville.
He wasn't sure who was more taken aback, Delia or her ex-husband. She looked at him, shut her mouth, then opened it again. "Nick, Neville," she said, waving between them. "Neville, Nick. As in Woodruff. The riffraff behind your pine trees. Remember?"
Neville didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. "Fine. Whatever. Delia, I want my boat."
"And didn't I tell you, not six hours ago, to come get it?" snapped Delia, still in her vintage T-shirt. "Believe me, Neville, I have lots more stimulating things to do with my evenings than stand here talking to you."
"Oh, I see," he said, his voice smooth and smarmy. "This is all about Alicia, isn't it?"
Nick could see Delia had got hold of a big, fancy wineglass, and she was brandishing it now. "Oh! Oh!" she screeched, balling up her empty fist. "News flash, Neville! Everything is not about Alicia, okay? Some of this is about you dumping me with this overblown excuse of a house, and then not moving your shit out of it."
Neville crossed his arms petulantly. "Well, now I've come for the boat."
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