Palm Springs Heat

by DC Thome

  When their lips separated, Lara kept her eyes closed. It kept the moment alive—but Lara also feared that if Clay looked into them, he would detect her deceit.

  Lara turned toward the water. “Clay, why didn’t you just knock on my door?”

  “This feels naughtier.” He hugged her from behind and whispered, “It drives them crazy when they can’t find me.”

  “You’re playing hooky from work?”

  “To spend time with my favorite girl.” He nibbled on her ear.

  Lara closed her eyes. This was one of the sexiest men in the world. A cultured man. An arbiter of sensibilities. A man who could make a woman feel she was the only woman who ever lived—and mean it. Sure, he had flaws. Who didn’t? But who was Lara Dixon? A boring girl from the valley whose life’s résumé contained not much more than a community college degree, a failed marriage and a partially hatched plan to save the world from—what?

  What does he see in me?

  “Clay.”

  “Shhh.”

  “What did Anton Roche tell you about me?”

  “Anton Roche?”

  “He said he’d mentioned me to you and you wanted to meet me.” Lara turned to face Clay. “What did he tell you?”

  “He said you knew about racing. That you’d worked in the movie industry. That you were bright and funny. And sexy. He said you were the—how did he say it? ‘The aurora borealis, Liberty’s torch and the leprechaun’s pot o’ gold rolled into one.’”

  Lara laughed.

  “What?”

  “Was he telling the truth?”

  “I haven’t seen any evidence to the contrary.” Clay brushed the hair off her forehead. She bobbed her head to knock it back into place, but when it didn’t cooperate, she decided to let it go.

  “Clay, I—” she began, but he put a finger to her lips, then swept her into his arms and carried her inside to the bed. He kissed his way from her lips to the base of her neck. Lara felt that melting sensation return.

  Clay untied the robe and reached inside. The feathery fabric felt cushy against Lara’s flesh, but Clay’s caresses were heavenly—and then some. He slid his palms upward from her stomach, slipping around the edges of her breasts and around the curve of her shoulders. Lara pulled Clay’s shirt off over his head and tossed it wantonly out into the room, then pushed back her robe’s terry cloth lapels. Clay’s eyes widened at the sight of her bare torso. Starting where he had left off, he continued kissing his way down her body.

  When Clay got to where the robe was still closed, he buried his face in the pink nap and continued on his way. Lara sighed when Clay finally pushed the dense fabric to each side and parted her legs. Starting at her knees, he stroked her thighs with his clean-shaven chin. He then teased her with his breath, warming her folds. Lara moaned and arched her back as Clay slowly worked his tongue inside her until she was ready to explode. She did not want to climax this way, though. She wanted him inside her. So she ran her fingers through his hair and, when he looked up, guided his face to hers. They kissed, and Lara tugged on his waistband.

  “It can’t be very comfortable having these still on,” she said. Clay stood, and Lara unhitched his belt, pulled down the zipper and let his pants drop to the floor. Clay was already hard, and she stroked him through his plain white briefs. Vanilla underwear on a man of so many flavors.

  “How’s that?” she asked.

  “Nice.”

  “And how’s this?” She leaned forward and nibbled through the pima.

  Clay closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  “And this?” Lara ran her index fingers along the inside of the elastic band and peeled off the briefs.

  Clay answered with a lascivious smile as he sat on the edge of the bed, opened a drawer in the nightstand, took out a condom and ripped open the package.

  “Allow me.” Lara snagged the condom from Clay and took her sweet time sliding it into place, unrolling it partway and letting her cupped hand slip the last few inches, then cocking her head to evaluate her progress. Clay played with her hair the whole time.

  “There,” Lara finally said, admiring her handiwork.

  Clay pushed her back into a reclining position. Strange though the surroundings still were to Lara, the weight of his body felt familiar. Like something she always had known. Something that always was meant to have been.

  When he was inside her, all of her doubts and concerns disappeared. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else even existed. The ocean, infinite and so near, vanished. The strain of the day was swept away by soothing caresses. Painful memories and fears of inadequacy floated away in the effervescence of the moment.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Lara lay on her back with Clay snuggled alongside her, asleep, head on her chest, breathing rhythmically and low. Lara remained awake, her eyes trying to penetrate the deep shadows. Her mind worked in overdrive, trying to undo a tangle of thoughts, worries and emotions. How can the best and the worst be happening at once?

  And then she noticed the blinking “missed call” light on her phone. Like I need another thing to worry about. I’ll check it in the morning.

  She closed her eyes and tried to will herself to sleep. But they shot open just a few seconds later. What if Clay wakes up and sees something I can’t explain?

  Lara moved one arm deliberately toward the nightstand, trying not to disturb Clay. She panicked each time he breathed, certain he was waking up. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally reached the phone. She picked it up and, craning her neck, saw Gina’s name and number. Paranoia shot through every nerve. Gina Wray was a well-known presence on the web.

  And a sworn enemy of Fast Lane.

  She carefully worked the flip-phone open with one hand and tried turning it off, but it slipped and hit the glossy blond wood of the nightstand with a clunk before tumbling to the floor.

  Clay’s head popped up. “What…?”

  “Nothing,” Lara said. She guided his head back down. “It’s a beautiful night. Let’s just sleep.”

  She stroked Clay’s hair as he nestled into a comfortable position and fell back to sleep. Lara remained awake far into the night.

  13

  “You had better hope you find him before I do,” Sushma snarled into her phone. Her voice was as cold and murderous as a gunfighter’s as she charged from her office.

  “Yes, ma’am,” came back the cool, confident voice of Morgan Hopkins, the man who’d headed security at the ICE House since Chase Creighton built it in 1968. “Where do you suggest we start?”

  “Never mind. I will take care of it.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind.” He was well acquainted with Sushma in shark mode.

  Sushma marched up to Lara’s suite and pounded out a code on the number pad. The door clicked opened.

  “Where is he?” Sushma barked as she entered the bedroom.

  Lara yelped as she jolted awake.

  “Where is he?”

  He? Lara blinked and ran her tongue around her dry mouth as her body and brain trudged up to speed.

  “Where is Clayton?” Sushma’s voice came from the dressing room.

  Clay? He left.

  Lara scooched up to a sitting position, clasping the sheet in front of her. Unlike the previous night, she had not put anything on before falling to sleep; she had wanted to feel Clay’s skin touching hers. “Doesn’t anyone around here knock?”

  “It is seven twenty-five. Clayton was supposed to be in my office at seven fifteen.” Sushma stormed back into the bedroom, stood at the foot of the bed with her hands on her hips and glared at Lara.

  “Satisfied?” Lara hissed.

  “You do not fool me.”

  “You’ve looked everywhere but under the bed! Here, let me help you.” She leaned over and yanked up the dust ruffle. Something caught her eye.

  My phone! Fuck! Now Lara was fully awake. Keep cool.

  Lara let the ruffle drop and looked back at Sushma with steely eyes.
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  Sushma straightened her suit jacket, smoothed the skirt and folded her arms. “You cannot play your little games with me.”

  “Games?”

  “You are attempting to make me make a fool of myself.”

  Lara just cocked her head, daring Sushma to look.

  Sushma ground her teeth; she clearly did not want to lose this bizarre game of chicken.

  They were interrupted by a knock on the open door.

  “Hello?” Morgan called. “Everything all right in here?”

  “You are the chief of security; why do you not see for yourself?” Sushma called back, keeping her eyes on Lara.

  “Someone said they heard something funny, so we came right away.” Morgan entered the bedroom, trailed by two young male assistants. When he saw Lara, he matter-of-factly looked away, but the assistants had a hard time keeping their eyes in their sockets.

  “What is their problem?” Sushma demanded.

  Morgan turned to the assistants.

  “She’s not wearing any clothes,” one assistant babbled.

  “I’m glad somebody noticed.” Lara hiked the sheet all the way to her neck.

  “I apologize, ma’am.” Morgan nodded without looking at Lara. And then, like a Zen master to two incorrigible pupils, he addressed the assistants. “What a professional does in a situation like this, gentlemen, is simply avert his eyes.”

  He waited for a moment, but the assistants were intractable. “Never mind. Go wait in the hall.”

  “Both of us, sir?”

  “Yes, both of you.” Morgan grabbed their arms and escorted them to the door. They kept sneaking peeks at Lara until he closed the door in their faces.

  “Now,” he said, “I believe this young lady and I have not been properly introduced.”

  Lara extended her hand. “I’m Lara Dixon.”

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Dixon.” Morgan looked at her eyes as he shook her hand. “I’m Morgan Hopkins, chief of security here at the ICE House.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mor—“

  Sushma interrupted. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Do your job.”

  “Yes, ma’am. What would you like me to do?”

  “Help me locate Mr. Creighton.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Have you checked the bathroom?”

  “Of course. Look under the bed.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Shit.

  Morgan dropped to his hands and knees, peered under the bed and felt around.

  “All clear,” he announced as he climbed back to his feet.

  Lara’s heart skipped a beat when she saw Morgan holding her phone—with the “missed call” light still blinking. “I believe you dropped this, Miss Dixon.” He put the phone on the nightstand. Face-down.

  Whew. “Thanks.”

  “Shall I continue the search, Ms. V?”

  “Yes. And when you find Mr. Creighton, inform him that I am not pleased that he missed our scheduled meeting.”

  Morgan headed for the door, still careful not to look in Lara’s direction.

  “Mr. Hopkins?” Lara said, smiling. “Thank you for respecting my privacy.”

  “Of course, ma’am. Let me know if you ever need any help from me or my people.”

  * * *

  Lara’s smile vanished as she turned to Sushma. “So, are you planning to look around a little more?”

  “Your sarcasm is unbecoming. I have a few things to say.”

  “Could I put on a robe or something?”

  “By all means.” Sushma crossed her arms and waited.

  “Could you at least turn around?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Sushma pursed her lips, sighed and turned grudgingly around.

  Lara retrieved the pink fuzzy robe from the floor, where it had ended up the night before. “Why did you think you would find Clay in here?”

  “Do not try to act coy. I know he was here.”

  “Is there a rule against that?”

  “No, there is no ‘rule.’”

  “Then what is your problem?”

  “May I turn around? Your highness?”

  “By all means.”

  Sushma turned around. “You are the problem.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Do you treat every woman who comes into Clay’s life this way?”

  “Do you know why you are here today? Why you have been brought into The Rotation?”

  “Because of the way Clay and I—” Lara stopped herself.

  “The way you and Clay what?”

  Lara went into the bathroom and squeezed a generous helping of toothpaste onto a brush. “The way Clay and I have hit it off since meeting a week ago?” She swished the toothbrush around in her mouth.

  Sushma appeared in the doorway. “For the record,” she said, “I do not believe you are a stupid person.”

  “High praise,” Lara sputtered through the foam.

  “I assume you know by now that Clay Creighton does not choose the women who join The Rotation.”

  It was hard to miss.

  Lara spat out the toothpaste. “So?”

  “The Rotation is a business proposition, Miss Dixon. An extremely important business proposition. Every dollar Fast Lane earns proceeds from it. And it so happens that Clay Creighton—the man millions of men depend on for advice about women—is a particularly poor judge in these matters.”

  Lara’s jaw stiffened. “Business matters, you mean?”

  “Precisely. When it comes to business, he makes appallingly bad choices.”

  “If I’m such an appallingly bad business choice, then why did you bring me into The Rotation?”

  Sushma got right up into Lara’s freshly polished grille. “I have brought you into The Rotation so that I can keep my eye on you.”

  “I see. If Clay were allowed to date me—or whatever—on his own, anything could happen, including”—she moved so close to Sushma that their noses almost touched—“the end of The Rotation.”

  Sushma’s gaze hardened from steel to titanium. “Everything you do for the next several months—every minute of every hour of every day—comes under the purview of Fast Lane Enterprises Incorporated. If you were interested in ‘privacy,’ you should not have signed the agreements. Do we have an understanding?”

  Lara nodded coolly.

  Sushma strode out of the room.

  Lara remained rooted in place until she heard the door slam. She looked in the mirror and saw she still gripped her toothbrush tight. Like a dagger. She put it down and went into the bedroom, where the first thing she saw was her phone.

  Gina.

  Shit.

  Lara picked up the phone and stared at Gina’s number. Lara thought about calling her back at that moment, but then turned the phone off and set it back on the nightstand.

  She needed to think.

  * * *

  Not one hour earlier, Clay had awakened from a particularly restful slumber and lain next to Lara for a good half-hour. He didn’t want to pull some kind of clichéd one-night-stand move by leaving, but he was never going to fall back to sleep. Not with so many thoughts crashing about in his brain. Lara breathed slowly next to him, her skin softened by the lanolin effect of sleep. Clay turned his face to smell her hair. A moment of perfection. He wanted it to last forever, and the only way he could think of making that happen was to get up and start getting dressed before anything happened to change it.

  Lara turned over and smiled at him sleepily.

  Clay kissed her forehead. She ran the back of her hand along his face and chin. He liked how smooth it felt against the bristle of his unshaven skin.

  “What time is it?” Lara asked.

  “Six-twenty.”

  “You always this eager to greet the day?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” he said, his eyes gleaming. “Life is good.”

  “It’s not so bad hunkered down in between these silk sheets, either.” Lara pulled up the covers
and rolled onto her side.

  Clay considered the contours of her body. Smooth. Curvy. Alluring. But he had to go. People would be looking for him.

  “I have to talk to someone,” he said.

  “At six-twenty?”

  “He doesn’t live in this time zone.”

  Clay brushed Lara’s hip with his hand as he started toward the deck. His toe bumped something on the floor, but he couldn’t see anything, so he headed outside.

  Fog lingered as Clay climbed onto the roof. He passed the steps that led to the War Room, dropped to a sandy hillock topped with tall, swaying grass and marched toward the building where he kept his antique cars.

  It was a defunct Packard dealership, a quaint edifice that Chase had transplanted brick by brick from Mendocino a half-century before. As Clay entered the showroom, he drew a deep breath to savor the cocktail of smells: Rubber and oil blended with carnauba wax and a dash of old leather. Not a bad place for a man to live out eternity.

  He strolled past the massive, chrome-covered beasts of the 1950s—a Hudson Hawk, a Nash Ambassador, two Buicks, a Ford—and continued around the cartoonish balloon-fendered cars of the ’40s toward the sleek, art-deco masterpieces of the ’30s that had led Chase Creighton to an epiphany about how an ideal woman would look. “The curvaceous architecture of a ’36 Delahaye,” he famously wrote in the inaugural issue of Fast Lane, “is sex set in steel. Behind the wheel, a man is not merely driving a car, but having an erotic experience nonpareil.”

  Of course he had not meant to equate driving to being with a woman. But Fast Lane readers understood. Clay did, too; Chase’s prized jet-black and silver Delahaye reminded him of Lara under the sheets. He smiled and continued on, past the twin brown-over-gold ’39 Bugatti Avaris to a ’38 Buick that Chase dubbed “The Forever Mobile” because it looked so much like the car Cary Grant and Constance Bennett are driving when their characters from Topper smack into a tree and enter the afterlife.

  Clay stroked the edge of the distinctive tail fin and climbed in. The ancient leather seats creaked as they conformed to his body. He caressed the steering wheel and tugged on the shifter knob, then opened the glove box and took out its sole contents: a fading photo of Clay and his father sitting in this very seat on the day Clay turned sixteen. The two of them were off to the Simi Valley DMV so Clay could take the road test for his driver’s license. Clay smiled, remembering the examiner’s face when they pulled into the parking lot. The examiner had administered exams in a few Bentleys and Ferraris, but got quite a thrill from riding in a vehicle so rare.