Too Darn Hot

by Pamela Burford

  Her imagination conjured another image: Eric’s powerful body sweating and straining toward a different goal, one that would surely elicit even greater single-minded concentration.

  “I’ve got you, you son of a bitch,” he ground out as the line jerked violently.

  Lina couldn’t help herself. She peered into the inky water and saw a silvery shape whipping around. A mate had appeared at Eric’s side, holding a pole with a vicious-looking hook on the end. Her eyes grew round. What was that for?

  The mate reached over the railing and speared the fish with the gaff as Eric reeled in the line.

  “Oh, my God!” she screeched.

  Working together, the two men hauled the fish aboard, to general merriment.

  That was a bluefish? That was what she was expected to catch? The damn thing must be over two feet long. She’d pictured something about six inches long. Something, well, cute.

  The gaff was removed, but the hook remained in its mouth. Lina stood frozen as the silver-blue fish fought ferociously a few inches from her pretty suede shoes, its body flexing, thrashing, slapping the deck in a staccato beat.

  The sight of the fish’s blood sent her over the edge. She gulped down bile and prayed she could make it to the head in time. She’d seen a sign in the john that read, “Don’t even think of puking in here, that’s what the ocean is for,” or something to that effect, but Lina knew that sign wasn’t for her. Oh no. She had no intention of disgracing herself in public.

  The fish read her mind. Before she’d even begun to turn toward the cabin, the silver head whipped up and two rows of razor-sharp teeth latched on to the hem of her champagne linen slacks.

  Lina’s scream must have been heard in Freeport and beyond. The damn thing was biting her pants!

  She didn’t think, she reacted. She hopped, flailed, even kicked the tenacious beast in its meaty side.

  “Eric! Get this thing off me!”

  “Stop moving around, Lina. I’m trying, but you’ve gotta be still.”

  Bzzz! Time’s up.

  She staggered to the side of the boat, dragging the heavy fish along with her like some ghastly, writhing appendage. She gripped the railing and watched shadowy, silvery shapes glide under the surface as her stomach violently emptied. It was a long way to the water, making her public spectacle all the more impressive.

  She heard a sickening thunk much too close and looked down just in time to see the mate clout the fish’s head a second time with some sort of small club. Only then did the thing finally forfeit the fight—and Lina’s pants.

  The once pristine linen was torn and smeared with blood and God knew what else. Her suede flats were ruined. Her silk top had come half-untucked, and sweat dripped between her breasts. Her hair had flopped into her eyes.

  She didn’t give a damn.

  She’d humiliated herself in front of Eric. In front of everybody. Nothing else mattered.

  “Here.” Eric pressed a cup of lemonade into her hands. She turned back to the railing and rinsed her mouth with the drink. His strong arm encircled her shoulders. She started to pull away.

  “Oh no you don’t.” He dragged her back into his embrace, where she collapsed against him, burying her face in his chest. “You’re trembling.” His voice was gentle and concerned. “Why didn’t you tell me you felt sick?”

  Her only response was an unintelligible groan, closer to a whine. He held her tighter and rubbed her back. She sighed as his large palms moved in firm circles. As soothing as the caress was, she soon felt her stomach tighten once more.

  “Oh no...” she whimpered.

  “Here, let me help you.” He led her back to the railing.

  “No. I hate this. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

  “Too late for that, honey. Don’t fight it. You’ll just prolong the inevitable.”

  She stopped trying to push him away when the moment of truth was once more at hand. As she hung her head over the railing, he stood behind her, holding her, supporting her. It was the ultimate indignity.

  When it was over, Eric gently turned her and offered a paper napkin and another mouthful of lemonade. He appeared unfazed. Thankfully, no one else seemed to be paying much attention to her predicament.

  “If it makes you feel better, you’re not alone.” He pointed down the railing, where a burly young man was leaning over it, cursing a blue streak and making friends with the fishes.

  His eye crinkles fanned. He bit his lip to stifle a grin. “You look pathetic. Like a lost puppy.”

  “Precisely the effect I attempt to cultivate.”

  Eric lost the battle to contain his chuckles. He rubbed his thumbs under her eyes. “Make that a lost raccoon.”

  She groaned imagining how she looked with her mascara smeared.

  “There. Perfect.” He sat with her on the hard bench.

  “I don’t want to spoil your fishing,” she said. “You go on. I’ll just rest here.”

  “Do you feel well enough to try your hand at it?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve discovered a sudden aversion to blood sports.”

  “I never viewed fishing in quite that light.”

  With a dainty twist of her ankle she indicated the condition of her shoes and pants.

  “Okay, blood sport,” he conceded.

  “Did that guy have to, you know, stick it and clobber it and all that?”

  “Well, it was eating your clothes.” After a moment of sober reflection, he added, “Though I suppose I could have tried to rehabilitate it.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “You know. To cure it of its unnatural appetites.”

  “Go on back to your blood sport.”

  The engines abruptly started up again. She breathed a gusty sigh of relief. “Thank God. We’re going back.”

  “Well, no. We’re not.”

  She stared at him in disbelief.

  “There aren’t enough bluefish in this spot, so they’re going farther out.”

  “Farther out?”

  “‘Fraid so.”

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Time out.” She pressed her palms to either side of her throbbing head, trying to organize her chaotic thoughts. “Exactly how long is this trip supposed to last?”

  “Exactly?”

  “Approximately. Whatever.”

  “All night. It’s night fishing.” He shrugged. “About seven hours or so.

  “No...” she groaned. She couldn’t survive another five hours on this boat.

  She stared at the bit of cut bait hanging uselessly from her fishing pole where it was propped against the railing. It swung back and forth with the rhythmic movement of the boat. She waited till the last possible moment before struggling to the railing once more.

  Chapter Twelve

  The irresistible aroma of fresh bagels tormented Eric as he rang the apartment doorbell. He shifted the heavy, warm paper sack in his arms and unfolded the top, sucking in a deep, restorative lungful as he did a quick inventory of the contents.

  Onion, garlic, sesame—

  The door swung open. “Bagels!” Nothing wrong with Joy’s sense of smell. She shoved a hand blindly into the bag and extracted a garlic-encrusted bagel. She bit off a healthy chunk and stuck her nose in the sack. “Any olive cream cheese in there?”

  “Morning, Joy.”

  She rooted around in the bag and pulled out a bagel studded with violet-colored bits. “Jeepers! What are you doing with a blueberry bagel? It’s a crime against nature.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “I don’t know...” she said regretfully. “No olive cream cheese.”

  He edged around her and entered Lina’s apartment for the first time. If his showing up unannounced was unforgivably gauche, Joy’s response gave no indication.

  Ah yes, General Reid’s ever-dependable Bagel Maneuver.

  “Is Lina still asleep?” It was nearly eleven, but he wasn’t surprised when Joy answered in the affirmative. Not after last night’s disastrous in
troduction to deep-sea fishing.

  Joy pulled a tub of whipped cream cheese from the bag he still held and pried off the lid. She tore her bagel in half and scooped up a wad.

  “There are these things called plates,” he said. “And knives to spread stuff.”

  Mouth crammed full, she waved airily in the direction of the kitchen. “Hop your shelf. God O rum. Fire-eating base hit.”

  “Fire—what?”

  She rolled her eyes and chewed faster. With exaggerated enunciation—and an empty mouth—she repeated, “Filene’s Basement. They’re having a sale. Maybe I’ll catch you later.” She grabbed her purse and keys.

  “Gee...” Put some sincerity in it, Reid. “Wish you could stay and keep us company.”

  She snorted. “I’ll bet.”

  The door slammed shut and Eric was alone. He looked around the apartment—what he could see of it from the tiny foyer. It was pleasant enough, he supposed, but oddly unsatisfying, the furnishings an eclectic mix that reflected the personality of neither occupant. Off-white walls, hardwood floors, security bars on the windows. A typical Queens postwar building.

  Still clutching the bagel bag, he made his way through the apartment to the only closed door. To knock or not to knock? He didn’t want to wake her. Eric hefted the bag under one arm and turned the doorknob. Slowly. He eased it open. He stuck his head in and looked around.

  A breeze ruffled lightweight floral curtains that matched the bedspread sliding off the foot of a pretty brass double bed. In the subdued light that filtered through the curtains he made out Lina lying on her belly diagonally across the mattress, a pale yellow sheet twisted around her legs.

  He nearly groaned at the unexpected physical response engendered by the sight of her luscious, barely clad body sprawled in the tangle of her bedding, looking much as he’d pictured her a thousand times in his fantasies.

  Exhausted. Satisfied. Replete in the aftermath of his loving.

  Eric took a deep breath and tried to rein in his galloping imagination. The smell of warm bagels reminded him he’d come here to bring Lina breakfast and make sure she’d recovered from her ordeal.

  That was why he’d come, wasn’t it?

  He approached the bed and set the bag on the carpet. Now he could see she wore some sort of short white nightgown, a flimsy little cotton thing with spaghetti straps. Practically nothing to it. As insubstantial as a naughty thought.

  He sat cross-legged next to the bed and angled his head to peer at her face. She was turned toward him, but her features were obscured by the pillow she clutched and by her disheveled hair, going every which way. Her full pink lips were half-parted. He knew he should leave, but...

  He couldn’t resist the smooth expanse of her upper back exposed by the skimpy nightie. His fingers lightly stroked the warm, silky skin, earning a deep sigh of contentment as her back rose and fell under his palm.

  Yes, he really should leave. He certainly shouldn’t allow his fingertips to trace up the back of her neck and over her scalp.

  Like this...

  His teasing caress set off a voluptuous tremor that culminated in a languid stretch. Another, deeper sigh, and her eyes opened and locked with his, inches away.

  For a miraculous few seconds, her drowsy, contented expression remained unchanged, as if he belonged there. As if his presence in her bedroom were an extension of whatever dream she was floating out of.

  Then those sapphire eyes widened. She blinked.

  Tenderly he brushed her hair off her face. “Good morning.”

  Her voice was a croak as she tried to say his name. She cleared her throat. “What...” She sniffed the air, her brow wrinkled. “Do I smell—” sniff “—bagels?”

  He tapped the bag. “Right here. Still warm.”

  She lifted her head and peered at the large sack. “How many did you buy?”

  “Two dozen.” So he got carried away. “They freeze.”

  Her eyelids were puffy. The side of her face that had been pressed against the bunched pillow was sleep-striped with pink wrinkles. But most alarming was her hair. On that side of her head, it stuck straight up. She noted the direction of his gaze and tentatively touched her head. She cursed.

  “You look half-scared,” he said.

  “I went to bed with wet hair. Didn’t know I’d be entertaining first thing,” she teased.

  “You actually took the time to shower when you got home this morning? As wiped out as you were?”

  “Are you kidding? I was covered in fish guts and stuff. I’ve never been so grotty. Excuse me—’colorful.’ Stop laughing.”

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “Yes you are. I should sneak into your bedroom some morning when you’re sound asleep and— Oh!” She caught his devilish expression and slammed him with her pillow.

  “Is this the thanks I get for bringing you breakfast?”

  She moaned, as if even the thought of food were more than she could bear.

  “How about a plain one?” He dug in the bag and came up with a smooth bagel. He tore it in two and offered her half. “To settle your stomach, soak up the acids and whatnot.”

  “And whatnot?”

  “You know what I mean. Just eat.”

  She leaned on an elbow and ran her fingers through her hair. Now it looked less scary and just plain messy. Her nightgown had tiny buttons running down the front, and the top couple were undone. Her side-lounging position coaxed an enticing display of cleavage from her small breasts, the outlines of her dark coral nipples faintly visible under the wispy fabric. No sooner had he noticed this than Lina noticed him noticing it. She untangled the sheet and pulled it up to her shoulders.

  Damn.

  He shared the bagel with her, and they ate in silence.

  “Better?” he asked when she’d taken a few bites.

  She nodded. “Thanks.” She cocked her head, as if listening for something. “Is Joy here?”

  “No. She went to fire-eating base hit.”

  “Oh yeah, they’re having a sale.”

  He studied her ingenuous expression a moment, then polished off his bagel, shaking his head in wonder. “You women are damn scary, you know that?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “So what did you have planned for the day?” He allowed his gaze to peruse her demurely draped form. “Not that I’m complaining. You can lounge around in bed, and I’ll feed you bagels till the cows come home.”

  “A tempting offer, but I have work to do.”

  “More superb restaurants to drag back from the brink of anonymity?”

  “That’s me, patron saint of obscure four-star eateries.”

  “You’re not going to make me wait three months to read the Cookhouse review, are you? How about a peek?” He rose from the carpet and sat on the edge of the bed, urging her to scoot over.

  She bit her lip. “Well...I shouldn’t.”

  “Sure you should. He ran a finger along the top of the sheet where it covered her chest, then gently pushed her onto her back and leaned over her. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Her eyes widened slightly; in the muted light they were the darkest indigo. “You won’t?”

  “No,” he whispered, “I won’t.”

  She swallowed hard. “What will you do if I refuse?”

  He grazed his knuckles over her jaw. “Whatever it takes to change your mind.”

  Her voice had a slight tremor as she whispered, “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

  “No.” Their lips nearly touched, their breath mingling.

  “What are we talking about?” she asked.

  “Not your article.” He lowered his mouth to hers.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The satin caress of Eric’s lips chased away all conscious thought, leaving Lina floating on an ethereal plane of existence defined only by the scent and weight of the man leaning over her, the silk of his mouth sliding against hers, the intoxicating taste of him. That he was here, in her bedroom
, was nothing short of a miracle. The dreamworld she’d inhabited a few minutes ago had not evaporated when she’d opened her eyes.

  He was here.

  His large hands stroked her shoulder, cradled her head, those long fingers burrowing through the messy strands to slide over her sensitive scalp. She pulled back from his kiss, struggling for breath, her heart bucking wildly. Her arms were around his neck, and she wondered how they’d gotten there.

  Eric smiled down at her, that delicious heart-stopping smile, his eyes bottomless pools—inviting her to join him there and lose herself.

  “We mustn’t do this,” she whispered.

  “We’re going to anyway. And it’s going to be wonderful.”

  “I know.” Was there ever a doubt? Responsibility reared its ugly head. “Umm...” Exactly how does a mature but inexperienced divorcée broach this delicate subject? She cleared her throat. “I have—”

  “Where?”

  His impatience was delicious to behold. She laughed, then sobered. Where were those darn things anyway?

  “They’re...yeah, they’re on the shelf in my closet.” She grabbed his arm as he started in that direction. “Wait, that’s not right, I got tired of dusting them. Let’s see, I think I put them in the bathroom vanity drawer. No, wait! I was afraid the cleaning lady would see them.”

  He made a funny sound low in his throat, like the noise Steve’s Weimaraner, Percy, made whenever the UPS man came to the door.

  “I know!” she said. “I hid them in my travel kit. I think. But where the heck...?”

  Eric unceremoniously reached into his back jeans pocket and produced a few small square packets, which he slapped onto Lina’s nightstand. “There! At least mine aren’t two years old.”

  “How old are they?”

  He checked his watch. “Forty-two minutes.”

  “Come here.” Lina pulled him back down and avidly reclaimed his mouth. She needed Eric. She’d needed him since the moment she’d first laid eyes on him. She could scarcely believe that now, at last, he was hers to touch, to love, to take inside herself and cherish. If only for a few short hours.