Dear Love Doctor

by Hailey North

  Melanie regarded her in silence, then said just loud enough for Daffy to hear her over the noisy rumble of the crowd, “I guess you don’t know that he’s never done that before.”

  What did he usually do? Squire prostitutes, à la Aloysius, around computer conventions? Introduce his babes as his bedmates? Daffy smiled, somewhat perfunctorily.

  Melanie sighed and patted her arm. “It’s good to see Hunter bite the dust,” she said. Then, before Daffy could react, she disappeared into the throng.

  The man in the next seat turned to her. “New in the press box?”

  She shook her head. She wasn’t about to tell this guy she was in Vegas having a fling with the keynote speaker. “I’m with The Crescent.”

  He regarded her with cynical eyes. “Brewster. TechTown Times. You just don’t look like one of the regulars.”

  Daffy glanced down the several rows reserved for the press. Those who covered technology appeared to be a breed of their own. No wonder her editor had sent someone else to interview Hunter James in New Orleans. Her custom-made linen dress and jacket—in a color her cousin, one of New Orleans’s own couturier designers, called lemon glacé—had nothing in common with the khakis and sport shirts the mostly male corps wore. The few women present had more in common with the guys’ wardrobe than with Daffy’s attire.

  Daffy opened her Dior purse and pulled out a pen and the small spiral-bound notebook she carried out of habit. “I make it a practice not to look—or write—like the crowd,” she said sweetly.

  He turned to the man on his other side, but not before he had muttered under his breath what sounded a lot like “witch.” Daffy kept her smile on her face. The guy was a lousy reporter or he would have sniffed out the sure story staring him in the face.

  Because she didn’t look or act like a journalist. And sitting there in the sea of people waiting for the man knocking on the microphone to settle the crowd and introduce Hunter James, Daffy couldn’t help but ask herself why she had settled for dabbling at her profession.

  Social columnist defined dabbling. Oh, she enjoyed knowing just about anybody who was anybody in her beloved city. And the Dear Love Doctor column—what was that but an attempt to avoid the issues of her own life by concentrating her energies on helping other people solve their problems?

  She stared at the blank page of the notebook lying open in her palm. What had happened to her loftier ambitions? What had happened to her dreams of writing for magazines? What had happened to that neglected novel that consisted of half a chapter and a drawer full of scribbled notes?

  The man at the podium began speaking and Daffy jerked her attention from her own soul-searching to the stage. He must have already started to introduce Hunter, because Daffy caught on quickly to a rags-to-riches theme in his words.

  Hunter was an odd combination of free-market entrepreneur and philanthropist, it seemed. Daffy followed enough of the bio to give her the impression that in order to achieve cyber-security, every corporation in the world needed the software created by Hunter and his company.

  She might not understand the technology, but she admired the business savvy. No wonder her brother-in-law had bought the stock.

  Applause ricocheted around the hall as Hunter approached the podium. Daffy clasped her hands together and gazed up at this tall, dark-haired, serious-eyed master of all he surveyed. Had she really lain, half naked and open and throbbing with need and desire, beneath this giant of a man? And only last night?

  Her body warmed as the flood of sensations answered her question. She hadn’t dreamed it—oh, no, every touch, every kiss, every rocketing eruption of desire had been real.

  The guy next to her leaned over and interrupted her reverie. “Hey, James has quite the rep as a ladies’ man.” He winked, but it came off as more of a leer. “Maybe you could get an inter-view—up close and personal.”

  Daffy stared him down, then turned her attention back to Hunter onstage.

  “The Next Wave,” Hunter was saying, “is the title of this talk. This is where I’m supposed to gaze into the future and report what it is I see as the next breakthrough in technology.” He took a sip of water and as he swallowed, Daffy felt the memory of his mouth on hers.

  “I remember a children’s book from my mother’s generation called You Will Go to the Moon.” He smiled. “And the Dick Tracy cartoon with his two-way radio wristwatch. And I remember car phones that had to be carted around in a wheelbarrow, they were so big and clunky. Now we carry our access to the world in our palms.”

  He had the audience. Daffy glanced around. The reporters were scribbling; the earlier roar of the voices in the hall had dimmed to a hush. Where was he going? Daffy wondered along with the rest of them what new product, what innovation he would announce and then make it essential for the rest of the world to purchase.

  “Those of us in this room take these tools for granted. Gone is our sense of marvel. And maybe that’s a good thing. After all, we don’t stand around staring at our BMWs and Porsches drawling, ‘Golly, whatever happened to those Conestoga wagons?’”

  Laughter rippled across the room. Hunter had a loose, comfortable, engaging style. He was every bit as good behind a microphone as he was . . .

  What, Daffy? Finish the sentence, she teased herself; finish it honestly. Say he’s every bit as good as he is in bed. The convention hall grew even warmer. Daffy fanned herself with her small notebook.

  “But not everyone drives a Porsche. Believe it or not, not everyone carries a smart phone.”

  Someone’s phone rang just as he said this. He smiled, then became more serious. “And even more unbelievable in this country of affluence, not every household is stocked with a computer, or on-line access, or the training to put today’s technology to work or to play.”

  Hunter cited statistics on the number of schools in inner cities and poor rural areas without access to the on-line world. He cited the numbers of unemployed who possessed none of the skills necessary to get a job in a world run by computers.

  Daffy sat up straighter. She sensed him honing in on his goal.

  “There’s been a lot of ink spilled over my rags-to-riches story. And that’s okay by me—as long as the customers keep coming and we keep increasing those riches!” He laughed along with the audience. Daffy watched as many of its members exchanged knowing looks and nods. They’d grown rich on their tech stocks and their IPOs and they were hungry to see what Hunter would feed them next.

  “Well, here’s a headline for you. It’s easier to be rich than it is to be poor.” Hunter paused as the crowd reacted with nervous humor, then, in all seriousness, said, “But to forget what it feels like to go to bed hungry or not have a new bike when every other kid on the block does—that’s something I swore never to do.

  “Some of you are probably asking, ‘What’s your point, James? What’s The Next Wave you’re holding out to us?’”

  He paused again and looked out over the sea of people. With his searching gaze, Daffy felt as if his eyes never left her face, yet she sensed every other member of the audience must have felt the same.

  “The Next Wave,” Hunter said, “is the name of a new foundation I am setting up. Its purpose—to ensure that all citizens of this country have access to the education and training necessary to compete in a technology-driven workplace.”

  A slow scatter of applause began, and started to build. Daffy was part of it, but Hunter held up his hand. “Today, I’m launching this foundation with a personal donation of one million dollars.”

  Daffy stared, her heart in her throat. He was giving away one million dollars. Because he cared—about his country, his community, and the boys and girls who lived the life of deprivation he’d obviously led. He was no playboy, no heartless gadabout with never a care in his head.

  Hunter was far more saint than sinner.

  The applause had grown to a roar and threatened to bring down the banners hanging along the stage. After it quieted, Hunter grinned, then said, “And I
am challenging each and every one of you to pledge one percent of your company’s net profit—and one percent of your personal income—to join me in fueling this effort.”

  Over the reaction of the attendees, Hunter said, “United we stand and divided—economically—we will fall.”

  This time when his gaze sought the faces and found her own, Daffy knew he had eyes only for her. The crowd continued to applaud and Daffy lifted one hand to her lips and blew him a kiss.

  She didn’t know what the rest of the press corps would make of that gesture and she didn’t care. Daffy was proud to be called a friend by Hunter James.

  13

  It was after noon before Hunter and Daffy made their escape from the Convention Center. There had been the cavalcade of the press Q & A, the crush of well-wishers, along with the predictable naysayers. There had been a brief tour of the floor of the Convention Center, a maze of booths and demonstration areas thronged by men and women in suits and dotted with women in high heels and bunny outfits passing out literature.

  Eager to have Daffy all to himself, Hunter had cut that part as short as he could. He’d not been blind to the speculative looks cast at Daffy, whom he kept close by his side. Fortunately, Aloysius was busy overseeing their own spacious booth’s operation—more of a suite, given his partner’s penchant for the luxuries of life—and Hunter had managed to keep him out of Daffy’s line of sight.

  She’d given him a hug as soon as he’d reclaimed her from the press section. A hug and a kiss on the cheek and a whispered “I think you’re wonderful.”

  Her praise meant more to him than all the acclaim of his fellow entrepreneurs—something that scared him just a tad. Why did what Daffy thought matter so much? He barely knew the woman.

  But when he handed her into the limousine waiting for them amidst a sea of rumbling charter buses and the blaring horns of taxicabs, Hunter knew that wasn’t true. He might not have been acquainted very long with her in real time, but the two of them had connected in a way that made Greenwich Mean Time irrelevant.

  “Wow,” Daffy said. “This is a crazy place.”

  “Second largest convention held in Las Vegas,” Hunter said.

  “What’s the largest?” She looked up at him, obviously confident that he would know the answer.

  Hunter settled against the cushions of the limo and smiled at Daffy, relaxing at last. “Historically, CES, which is a show similar to this one, but for the consumer electronics industry.”

  “More booths?” Daffy wrinkled her nose. “More bunnies?”

  He grinned. “Granted, these shows are still geared to guys.”

  “Geeky ones, you mean,” Daffy said. “That reminds me of a confession I should probably keep to myself, but when I first went to the Orphan’s Club . . .”

  Hunter capped her words with a kiss. God, but she tasted good. Against her mouth, he murmured, “I know what you’re going to say and I just want to remind you that geeks come in all shapes and sizes and flavors.”

  He took her mouth then, pulling her to him, half onto his lap. She gasped and he felt her breath enter his own lips and steal down his throat. He groaned and his body leapt in response as she matched his hungry kiss thrust by greedy thrust.

  He’d told the driver to head to an out-of-the-way restaurant known mainly to locals. Mistake. The one place the two of them needed to go was straight back to their hotel.

  Daffy had her hand on his groin and if she moved another inch he knew he’d just have the driver pull over then and there. The dark glass separating the back of the car from the front provided complete privacy. Hunter didn’t know why, because as a rule he took his action where he found it, but slowly, he pulled his mouth from Daffy’s. She gazed up at him, blinking slightly, as dazed as he was by their passion.

  He brushed her hair back from her cheeks, and whispered, “Not here. Not like this. I want our first time to be”—he placed a kiss just above the quivering pulse in her neck and sucked gently—“special.”

  She was his, ripe for the taking, and he was pulling back. What had she done to his mind?

  What she’d done to his body was evident. He could barely sit still, he was so aroused. And after last night’s buildup with no release, he was ready to burst.

  Daffy touched her tongue to her lip and he said in a voice rough with need, “Do that and I might change my mind and take you right here in the car.”

  She smiled and took his hand. She kissed the back of it, then rearranged her dress. Her breasts rose and fell with the quickened rhythm of her breathing. Hunter stared, unable to drag his gaze away.

  With a slight grin, she said, “Keep doing that and you might get into trouble sooner than you think.”

  He laughed. “Maybe we should talk about food. Hungry?”

  Daffy nodded. She glanced out the window. “Look at that water park! It’s humongous!”

  A good dousing in cold water was exactly what Hunter needed. Either that or Daffy wild and winsome beneath his hard and driving body. “I’ve never been to this one.”

  “You like them?”

  He nodded. “I’ve gone to the one outside Baton Rouge a lot.”

  “I did that once,” Daffy said. “My sister was chaperoning a party of kids and she asked me to help. It was fun, but almost everyone is there with children.”

  “Yeah. When I realized that, I started taking kids from the Orphan’s Club. And somehow I enjoyed it even more.”

  Daffy leaned over and kissed him. “You’re the most thoughtful man I know.” She smoothed her skirt. “Too bad we’re not dressed for it or we could go today.”

  “You’d really like to go?” Hunter was pleased. He’d enjoy watching her lose herself in the abandonment of splashing slides and swooping body falls down torrents of rushing water.

  She nodded, then said, “If we had the right clothes.”

  Hunter winked, pressed the intercom button, and asked the driver to pull over at the first multipurpose store he saw. “I didn’t give away all my money today.”

  And before Daffy could say “water spout,” they’d gone into a souvenir store that also carried, in addition to a plethora of miniature slot machines, overly large, fuzzy dice, and authentic Western Indian souvenirs imported from China, a selection of swimwear, beach towels, sunscreen, and flip-flops.

  Hunter headed straight for a carousel displaying the skimpiest bikinis Daffy had ever seen outside of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.

  “Let me pick?” he asked, a teasing look in his eyes.

  “As long as I hold veto power,” she answered.

  He held up a scrap of a thong, then shook his head. “Very sexy but can’t be comfortable.”

  Daffy laughed. “Only good for a photo shoot.”

  “Or a bedroom,” he murmured, then selected a backless item with a plunging neckline that could only be called a one-piece by virtue of not having the belly button cut out.

  Daffy started to shake her head, but before she could ask how she was supposed to keep such a suit on her body, Hunter returned it in exchange for a rather modest turquoise bikini that might actually cover half of her breasts. “Better,” he said.

  “Really?” Daffy couldn’t hide her surprise.

  “Don’t want every guy in the water park slobbering over you, do we?”

  Oddly flattered by his possessive comment, Daffy accepted the suit, checked that it was her size, as she had thought, and then said, “Now let me pick for you.”

  “None of those Speedo rubber suits,” Hunter protested, even as she lifted a form-fitting ounce of fabric from the men’s rack.

  Daffy let her gaze travel from Hunter’s face ever so slowly down his body, studying it the way she’d watched him study her. When she settled on his evident arousal, she said, “Well, I can see those might be uncomfortably . . . tight.”

  Hunter choked. “Quite the minx, aren’t you?” But he smiled and Daffy wondered for a fleeting second why it was they were on their way to the water park when she wanted t
o back him into a corner of the shop and make voracious love to him.

  Then she remembered she’d asked to visit the park. She sighed and selected a serviceable pair of navy blue swim trunks. She didn’t want to spend the afternoon fighting off all the young babes they were sure to encounter.

  “Just what I would have picked,” Hunter said, accepting the trunks from her and guiding them to the stacks of beach towels and other water-play paraphernalia.

  Piled high with their purchases, they stood in line behind a customer purchasing a disposable camera. He seemed to be having trouble with the foreign exchange rate, and while he and the clerk negotiated the terms, Daffy glanced around.

  A small TV blared behind the counter. What looked like a local newsbreak came on, and suddenly she saw Hunter’s image.

  She tugged on his sleeve and pointed toward the screen.

  The customer before them finished and they moved forward. The man behind the counter snapped his gum, stared hard at Hunter, then began to ring up their purchases.

  “You two having fun in town?”

  “Oh, yes,” Daffy said.

  “First time?”

  “How did you know?” Daffy glanced around, wondering if she wore a sign. Why, she’d traveled Europe, Asia, and Australia and always fit in easily.

  The man shrugged. “After a while, you can just tell.” He totaled the merchandise and announced the amount, holding his hand out to Hunter. “Now, you, you sure look familiar. Can’t say why, though.”

  The news brief ended and a commercial blared its way onto the screen.

  The man swiped Hunter’s card, returned it to him without glancing at the signature, and finished the transaction.

  Daffy kept her reaction bottled up until the two of them had left the shop. They climbed into the waiting limousine and then she said, “You’re famous. That man actually recognized you!”

  Hunter shrugged. “No big deal.”

  “But . . .” Daffy trailed off. He was right; it wasn’t any big deal. Daffy had photographed everyone who was anyone in New Orleans’s social circles and many of those people fell into the category of famous or at least semi-famous. But somehow, sitting here in a chauffeured limousine next to a man who had just that morning announced the formation of a foundation to save the technologically underprivileged of America, she felt herself in the presence of fame.