TEMPERATURE'S RISING

by Donna Sterling

  "Uh-oh," whispered Kyle, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "That's the principal of my school. I think you're in trouble."

  Callie swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. She thought so, too. No student of Mrs. Forrester's would ever take her summons lightly. And no one who knew her as a mother would expect her to tolerate an attack against her son. She'd always been one of his staunchest supporters.

  Callie would now stand before her as one of his detractors.

  She tried to force a smile but wasn't sure she succeeded. Rising on rubbery legs, she walked across the grass, aware that the people surrounding Mrs. Forrester had fallen silent.

  Everyone seemed to be watching.

  As Callie grew closer, she saw that her honey-blond hair, caught up in its usual soft twist, now glinted lightly with gray, and the lines around her brown eyes were more pronounced, but she wore the same air of regal elegance and authority that had awed generations of students.

  "I understand, Ms. Marshall," she said in her smooth Southern voice that somehow straightened one's posture, "that you've come to the Point on business."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  A very subtle lifting of one honey-blond brow and a disapproving stare ambushed Callie with regret. Though she'd leveled a few punishments against her in the classroom and always sided with the Colonel whenever Callie had complained about his stifling rules, Mrs. Forrester had believed in her. She'd seen merit in all of her work and encouraged her to aim high. And when her mother had died, Mrs. Forrester had come to Callie's house and held her. Simply held her.

  "The work that brought me to the Point," Callie haltingly explained, "is just business. Nothing personal."

  "Obviously, since you haven't seen fit to grace us with your presence."

  Callie hesitated, confused by the remark. "Ma'am?"

  Mrs. Forrester inclined her head in her most teacherlike manner. "From what I understand, young lady, you've been here for two days. Have you called any of us? Hmm?"

  A hand raised and wagged energetically in the air beside Callie. "Oh, oh, I know, Ms. Forrester," cried Frankie, her arm extended above her sleek blond head like a rambunctious student's. "She called me. But I didn't check my messages until this morning." She turned to Callie with a typical Frankie shrug and grin. "Sorry, Cal."

  "She didn't call me," Jimbo complained loudly in his hefty, gruff, he-man voice.

  "Me neither, man." Robbie regarded her with a comically doleful frown beneath the bushy mustache he'd sprouted since she'd last seen him twelve years ago. "I'm totally bummed."

  Callie stared at the familiar faces, too stunned by their teasing, welcoming warmth to speak.

  Mrs. Forrester put an arm around Callie's waist, drew her closer and angled her toward the picnic table. "I guess the question is, should old acquaintance be forgot?"

  "Hey, that's your cue, Freddie!" Jimbo yelled.

  A saxophone struck up the tune "Auld Lang Syne." A chorus of zestful voices joined in, only slightly off-key. Arms wove around shoulders and the group swayed around the table.

  Through a disbelieving daze, Callie noticed the chocolate sheet cake in front of her sprinkled with candy confetti. Yellow frosting spelled out, "Welcome Home, Callie."

  Her throat clenched. Her eyes misted. She wouldn't cry! Especially not in front of Jimbo and Robbie. The last, lingering trace of tomboy in her wouldn't allow it. The big-city career woman she'd become wouldn't allow it. She looked away from the cake, the singers and the smiles, fighting for control.

  Her gaze veered to Jack.

  He was leaning against a tall, smooth-barked palm tree, watching her with the pleasant detachment of an amiable stranger. How did he feel about this extravagant welcome his mother and friends had extended her? His bland expression gave no hint.

  But he wasn't standing among them, his arms looped across friends' shoulders, his voice raised in song. He stood apart from the action—very unlike the Jack Forrester she'd always known—a fact that had to be noted by the other residents of Moccasin Point who looked on in interest.

  Not that anyone would blame him. She was, after all, the investigator who had been seeking damaging facts and photos to destroy his good name.

  No one knew he'd been her lover last night; the one who had turned her heart inside out with the most sumptuous passion she'd ever known.

  She supposed she should be grateful for his aloof yet pleasant air, regardless of what feelings, if any, he harbored. She'd begged for his discretion, and he was giving it to her.

  Yet she couldn't help wishing for a sign—the smallest of smiles, the most discreet of nods—to tell her he didn't mind this public display of welcome, the warm and wonderful taste of friendship she'd thought lost forever, the camaraderie that lifted her heart as nothing else could have.

  The song ended. Mrs. Forrester hugged her. "You do whatever business you have to, but don't be a stranger, hear?"

  "Mrs. Forrester," Callie whispered, anxiously searching her eyes, "you do know the nature of my business, don't you?"

  "Of course. But I have faith in him, and in you, too. You'll do whatever's right. Now go have fun."

  Frankie spun her around with an exuberant "I can't believe you're wearing a dress. I didn't recognize you. You look gorgeous! Robbie, come take a picture of Callie in this dress."

  A camera flashed, and when her vision cleared, Robbie grinned and winked. Jimbo shoved him aside, looked Callie up and down, then let out a long, low whistle. "Never thought I'd see the day, Marshall." A teasing, obnoxious smile spread across his wide, slightly freckled face. "You look so good, I might have to give you a big ol' wet kiss."

  She gripped two fistfuls of his sleeveless black T-shirt. "Try it, Henderson, and you'll be picking teeth out of your tonsils." She punctuated that promise with a shove against his meaty chest.

  Jimbo shouted a laugh. "Good golly, it is you, Marshall."

  "Come on, Cal. I want you to meet my husband." Frankie hooked her arm through Callie's and led her across the grass. "By the way, I go by 'Francine' now."

  "Oh, right, Frankie," Jimbo scoffed.

  Frankie flipped him her middle finger in a rude but discreet gesture behind her back as she ushered Callie toward another lively cluster of picnickers.

  Jack watched from his post by the palm tree, wondering if Callie would risk another glance at him.

  She didn't. She'd given him just that one dazed stare in the middle of the song. He'd been glad to see that the hurt, little-girl-lost expression had left her eyes, though he doubted anyone else had seen it through the veil of cool dignity she wore so well.

  Her need to hide behind a veil of any kind angered him. In a misguided attempt to show him support, the community had shut her out.

  At least his parents and close friends had more sense than to think he'd want Callie snubbed, regardless of her mission. They'd jumped at his suggestion of a cake, which his mother had baked and decorated yesterday. Frankie had thought of the song, and Jimbo had arranged for Freddie of The Flounders to play it.

  Jack wasn't sure why he himself had hung back from the welcome-home celebration. Maybe because he knew she wasn't home to stay. Maybe because that fact was eating a hole through him.

  Tearing his gaze away from her alluring profile as she shook hands with Frankie's husband, Jack opened a cooler and dug a can of beer from the ice, more for an outward show of party spirit than from any real desire for the beer. He wouldn't doubt she'd take a picture of him drinking it to add to her collection.

  He flipped the tab up with his thumb and resisted the urge to follow her again with his eyes. Not an easy thing to resist, when he craved the sight of her. And the feel. And the taste.

  He took a deep, unsatisfying swig of beer.

  Last night hadn't been what he'd expected.

  Oh, he hadn't been too surprised by the gut-torching passion. He'd felt his first stunning blast of it when he'd kissed her earlier. And he hadn't been too overwhelmed by the beauty of her naked body, though it had,
admittedly, rocked him with some force. He'd always known he'd find her beautiful.

  But he hadn't expected the surge after surge of hot emotion that crested through him the entire time he'd made love to her. And he hadn't expected that emotion to stay with him, like a low-grade fever, long after he'd torn himself away from her bed.

  He hadn't yet recovered.

  Worse, though, was this morning-after anxiety he'd never before experienced. What if last night had been all he could ever have of her? He couldn't forget the last coherent words she'd spoken: Never, ever, ever…

  The can of beer buckled in at one side beneath his clenching fingers, and foam sloshed over his hand.

  The idea of never kissing her, or holding her, or loving her again, was too intolerable to entertain.

  You scared her off, an inner voice charged.

  He suspected that was true. He had known why she'd stopped him during their lovemaking—at least, until he'd overcome her hesitation with stark, physical need. She'd panicked because of the emotional intensity he hadn't been able to hide. She'd wanted to play. He'd wanted to seize and possess and consume. God help him, he still did.

  He had to keep his distance, he realized, until he got himself under control. Until he knew he could interact with her in a light, casual, rational way that wouldn't send her running back to Tallahassee.

  "Hey, Doc, we found the seine net," said one of the teenage boys he'd sent to rummage through his fishing gear on the boat. A lively mob of younger kids, who had been romping on the beach with Zeus, caught sight of the seine net and raced over with eager smiles.

  Thank God for diversions.

  He tossed the half-full can of beer into a trash bin and led his bevy of young fishermen to the beach.

  * * *

  The lump that had lodged in Callie's throat showed no signs of diminishing. Frankie and Mrs. Forrester introduced her to their friends, some of whom she'd known long ago. Dr. Forrester—Jack's ginger-haired, robust father—acknowledged her with a wink and nod, then settled his large frame into a lounge chair with his pipe and the Wall Street Journal.

  She felt dazed by the warmth they'd all shown her. Honored. Grateful.

  Confused.

  She'd assumed that Jack's family and closest friends would turn a cold shoulder to her. She'd been prepared to deal with that. Not until they'd sprung their surprise celebration had she realized how much their acceptance meant to her.

  She felt, for the first time since her mother had died, that she'd come home.

  A dangerous feeling, especially when her head and heart still reeled from her night with Jack. She couldn't allow herself to get too attached to her rediscovered friends, or to the balmy, tranquil place of her childhood, or to the orthopedic surgeon who now engaged an adoring group of children in a lively attempt to trap mullet.

  She'd made her home in Tallahassee and, with her busy schedule, probably wouldn't return here very often. More importantly, she had a job to finish that could hurt these very people.

  She tried to keep all that in mind as she and Frankie settled into lounge chairs with raspberry wine coolers and chatted about their lives over the past twelve years.

  A trio of ladies interrupted them and confronted Callie with determined expressions. "I heard you've been asking about shrimp at our picnic last July," said Betty Gallagher, the sheriff's wife. "Thought you should know that I put some in my cheese biscuits."

  "Your cheese biscuits?" Callie repeated in surprise. Agnes had mentioned sampling some of those, which meant her allergic reaction had been real, and Jack's injection had saved her life.

  "And I threw a few into my Hawaiian-style pineapple fruit salad," chimed in Louise Cavanaugh.

  "I shredded some into my coleslaw," added another woman.

  Callie gazed at them in mild suspicion. Either they were making false claims to validate Jack's emergency treatment of Agnes, or poor Agnes had had plenty of reason to turn purple. "Well, that clears up the shrimp question," she announced, visibly pleasing them all.

  When the women trooped away, Frankie broached the subject she'd been avoiding. "I have to admit, Cal, I didn't know what to think when I first heard about your investigation. I could understand Meg accepting the case, since she never hung around with us much as kids, but you and Jack were always so tight."

  Callie stared down into the pinkish depths of her wine cooler. "I have a business to run. Payroll to meet. Important clients to please. Meg is one of those clients."

  "Don't you care if you ruin Jack's name?"

  She lifted her gaze to meet Frankie's. She wanted to tell her that she wasn't the one suing Jack, and that she intended to search for only the truth, and that it would be up to Meg to decide if and how to pursue the case.

  No words emerged from her mouth.

  She couldn't talk about Jack right now. Whenever her gaze strayed toward the beach and she saw his golden hair gleaming in the sun, his bronzed arms rippling with muscle as he worked the net through the waves and his brilliant smile encouraging his young helpers, her heart spun in dizzying circles.

  His hair had gleamed by the light of her bedside lamp last night, his muscles had rippled as he'd made love to her, and his smile had followed her into her dreams.

  He hadn't said the first word to her yet today. Maybe he wouldn't. She should be glad.

  Before she managed to pull her gaze away from Jack's distant figure, Frankie tactfully changed the subject.

  * * *

  While the boys cleaned the mullet they'd caught and their mothers grilled the fillets, Jack showered and changed on his yacht, then returned to the throng of picnickers. A plate of grilled fish, barbecued ribs, casseroles and salads was thrust into his hands.

  He settled down at a table beside his father.

  A stream of friends paused at their table to joke, chat or just pat Jack on the back. Others exchanged witticisms with him from neighboring tables. One pretty young redhead tossed flirtatious smiles his way—a friend of a friend, he supposed—while a local beauty in tight black shorts sat down beside him, her thigh snug against his, her smile a blatant invitation.

  To all appearances, he was having a high old time.

  Except he couldn't stop his gaze from following the slender brunette in the white sundress who refused to pay him the slightest attention. She carried a plate from the buffet, and Jack noticed men's secretive glances at her while she strolled by. His muscles tensed with a possessiveness that startled him.

  He really couldn't blame them for watching. She was so damn beautiful, he ached just looking at her.

  The white, strapless sundress hugged her breasts and narrow waist, then flowed in gauzy folds that silhouetted her mile-long legs. Her dark, thick hair shimmered in tousled waves, inviting a man's fingers to sift through them. And her hips moved with the same sensuous grace that had slain him as a teenager.

  He knew those hips intimately now. He'd held them last night while he'd lunged deeply into her. Her body had turned to hot, fluid silk around him.

  He glanced away. Clenched his jaw. Struggled for control. No wonder he'd scared her. The mere memory of making love to her ignited him with a fearsome intensity that scared even him.

  He couldn't keep his eyes away from her.

  She'd chosen a seat at a distant table with Frankie, his mother and a few other women. Only one male had joined the group—little Kyle Talmidge, his thick glasses crooked on his face and his arm cast propped on the table. He'd somehow wriggled himself into the small space beside Callie. She gifted him with a tender smile.

  Never before had Jack felt envious of a six-year-old.

  If he didn't find a way to win a smile for himself, or to touch her or maybe even hold her, he wasn't sure he could make it through the rest of the picnic.

  A kiss would help ease the peculiar tension gripping him. A long, private kiss. His temperature rose at the prospect.

  "You okay, son?"

  Jack shifted his attention to his father, who'd been eating
in companionable silence beside him. "I'm fine. Why?"

  His father swung a slow, pointed gaze toward Callie. "Oh, I don't know." He pushed his plate away, drew a redolent cherry-wood pipe from his shirt pocket and struck a match.

  A man of few words but remarkable insight.

  Jack realized then that the flirtatious beauty who'd been sitting too close on his other side had left the table. The food piled on his plate remained virtually untouched. And the icy can of beer someone had placed in his hand now sagged with a dent in its side. Suds streamed down onto his fingers.

  He sorely needed that kiss from Callie.

  "Freddie," he called to his longhaired musician friend at the next table. "I'd say it's time for some dance music."

  * * *

  The first hint of evening had cooled the air and splashed the sky with pink and violet. Parents with children said their goodbyes. Teenagers congregated on the beach to build a bonfire.

  Freddie and the Flounders, meanwhile, nearly raised the roof off the pavilion with a rollicking blend of country-western and rock. Couples danced the two-step, the swing and their own freestyle gyrations across the pavilion floor while spectators hooted, whistled and clapped. Frankie, Jimbo and Robbie grabbed their partners and joined in the festivities.

  Callie watched from the crowded sidelines, hoping she wouldn't be asked to dance. She'd never been very good at it.

  Besides, she was simply waiting for the chance to say goodbye to her friends. The time had come for her to go.

  She'd noticed during dinner that two pretty women had been hovering around Jack. No one could mistake the invitation in either woman's smile. Would he take one of them up on the invitation? Why shouldn't he?

  Pain had lanced through Callie at that thought, and she'd resolutely kept her gaze away from him. She'd also overheard disturbing snatches of conversation in the crowd behind her.

  "Mrs. Forrester was just being gracious. Have you noticed that Doc himself hasn't said a word to her?" "I don't blame him for keeping his distance." "I don't believe he gave her his car to drive yesterday. That rumor can't be true."