License to Thrill

by Lori Wilde

  She wanted to snap at him to move his hand away, but she was pretending he was her husband so she had no recourse. She was stuck with his proprietary gesture.

  “Violet! Skeet! Welcome, welcome, we were so worried you would miss the bus again.” A short, plump, middle-aged woman with a perpetual smile locked into place enveloped Charlee in a lilac-scented hug and then stepped back to pump Mason’s hand after they’d climbed aboard the bus. “I’m Edith Beth McCreath, your tour director.”

  “Nice to meet you, Edith Beth,” Mason enunciated carefully, obviously trying hard not to lisp on the woman’s unfortunate name.

  “Gosh,” Edith Beth said, craning her neck upward.

  “You’re a tall one. Must come in handy when you’re reaching for shoe boxes on those high stockroom shelves.”

  “Excuse me?” Mason frowned.

  Edith Beth looked stricken for a moment, plucked a day planner from her pocket, and started ruffling through the pages. “You are a shoe salesman, right, Skeet?”

  “Yes, right. Sure. A shoe salesman.”

  Charlee rolled her eyes. She’d never seen a lousier liar.

  Edith Beth jabbed at an entry in her journal with a stubby index finger. “Yes you are. It says so right here in my trusty notes. A shoe salesman from Des Moines. And, Violet, you sculpture fingernails for a living. Let me see those hands.”

  Before Charlee could stop her, Edith Beth grabbed her hands and stared down at her ragged fingernails.

  “Oh.”

  She jerked her hands away and hid them behind her back.

  Edith Beth laughed. “Must be a case of the cobbler’s children going without shoes, eh?”

  The tour director glanced from Mason’s dirty Gucci loafers to Charlee’s scuffed cowboy boots. She tried to gauge what the woman was thinking but Edith Beth was well schooled in the art of displaying a perky grin in lieu of real emotions.

  “Put ‘em in a seat, Edith Beth,” the bus driver growled. “I’m pulling out.”

  “Yes, yes,” Edith Beth twittered and escorted them to the last empty seat on the bus. “Don’t mind Gus. He’s a bit grumpy, but he’s a very good driver.”

  Once they were seated, Edith Beth stepped to the front and picked up a microphone. “Everyone, let’s have a hearty ‘welcome aboard’ for Skeet and Violet.”

  “Welcome aboard, Skeet and Violet,” the other passengers recited.

  “A shoe salesman?” Mason whispered to Charlee. “I’m a shoe salesman from Des Moines?”

  “Could be worse, could be an undertaker from Chattanooga.”

  “But a shoe salesman? I don’t know anything about shoes.”

  “Yeah, well, try being a nail technician who bites her fingernails.” Charlee sat on her hands.

  “I bet you make a horrible living, Violet dear. Good thing you married me so I can support you selling Hush Puppies and Reeboks.”

  Charlee peeked over at Mason. He seemed to have gotten over Matilda and was actually trying to crack a joke. Thank God.

  “I can’t tell a lie. You are my Prince Charming, Skeet.”

  She felt a tug on her shoulder and looked across the aisle at the petite blonde seated across from her.

  “Hiya.” The woman grinned. “I’m Francie Pulluski and this is my husband, Jerry.” She wrapped an arm around the big bear of a man sitting next to her, who grinned and shook first Charlee’s hand and then Mason’s. “We just got married Sunday before last. How long have you guys been hitched?”

  “A month,” Charlee said at the same time Mason said, “Three weeks.”

  Francie chuckled. “Well, which is it? A month or three weeks?”

  “Um, well, we eloped a month ago, but then his family insisted we have a regular ceremony,” Charlee lied smoothly. “So Skeet considers that date our real anniversary, don’t you, honey?”

  “That’s right, sweet ‘ems.” Mason gave her a tightlipped what-in-the-hell-did-you-get-us-into grin.

  Charlee almost laughed. She’d bet her last dollar the man had never before said “sweet ‘ems” in his entire life.

  “Did you see my ring?” Francie flashed her a modest diamond and Charlee made the obligatory oohing and aahing noises. “Now let me see yours.”

  “Um, it’s at the jeweler’s. Skeet bought it too big. You know how men tend to overestimate size.”

  Francie tittered. “I hear ya.”

  “So how did you two meet?” Jerry asked Mason.

  Mason arched an eyebrow and she could tell by the look on his face it was payback time for that crack about men overestimating size.

  “Why, the minute I saw the bartenders at Quintero’s pub hose down Violet at the Wednesday night wet T-shirt contest I knew she was the gal for me.”

  “You were in a wet T-shirt contest?” Francie’s eyes widened. “You brave girl! I could never do anything like that.”

  “She wasn’t wearing a bra either.” Mason winked. “It was true love at first sight.”

  “Drunk,” Charlee said, giving Mason the evil eye. “I was totally drunk. I don’t even remember meeting Skeet that night.”

  Mason’s gaze locked with hers. “Oh, but you sure remembered me when you woke up in my bed the next morning licking my…er…toes.”

  To her utter shock, Charlee felt her cheeks heat as if she actually had been in a drunken, bra-less, wet T-shirt contest and gone home with him for a night of debauchery.

  “Got yourself a wild one there,” Jerry said, a touch of envy in his voice.

  Francie frowned, apparently not wanting her new husband to dwell on the mental picture of Charlee in a wet T-shirt, and she changed the subject. “Aren’t you guys just excited to death to be going on the twenty-first-century version of the Newlywed Game?”

  Um, the Newlywed Game? What was Francie talking about?

  “You betcha,” Mason said, really getting into his Skeet role. “We can’t wait.”

  “You’re gonna have to work really hard to beat us, though.” Francie patted Jerry’s thigh. “We know everything there is to know about each other, don’t we, baby.”

  Jerry looked a little uneasy. “Uh, everything,” he echoed, giving Charlee the distinct impression the guy had kept a secret or two from his new bride.

  “No way are you winning,” the husband of the couple seated behind Jerry and Francie exclaimed. “We’re gonna take the grand prize. We couldn’t afford a honeymoon and this is our chance.”

  Charlee looked around at the other passengers and realized everyone on board were young couples. She counted sixteen pairs, including her and Mason. Were they all Newlywed Game contestants? She asked Francie covert questions and discovered the bus was on a public relations jaunt. It had started in New York and was making media stops at various central locations around the country and picking up contestants as they went. The last stop before L.A. was Tucson. She was unable to ascertain, without making Francie suspicious, why Skeet and Violet from Des Moines were picking up the tour in Tucson.

  She felt guilty then at the thought of robbing Skeet and Violet of their chance to out-couple the other couples on national television. She tucked her remorse to the back of her mind. It couldn’t be helped. They’d done what they had to do to get out of Nowhere Junction.

  “Don’t worry”—Mason leaned over to whisper in her ear—“when all this is over I’m going to hunt up Skeet and Violet and surprise them with a second honeymoon.”

  It was as if he’d read her thoughts. Charlee smiled at him and something in her heart gave a strange tug. He might be a rich, spoiled, stubborn control freak, but he was also a nice guy.

  Warning, warning! Danger, danger!

  Stop having warm fuzzy thoughts about him. You know how much trouble you get into when you let yourself think pleasant things about wealthy, long-legged, brown-eyed, handsome men with matinee-idol smiles. Wise up!

  “Everyone!” Edith Beth boomed over the microphone. “Time for travel games.”

  “Travel games?” Mason asked. “What are we?
On the bus to summer camp?”

  “Oh, it’s fun,” Francie said. “Just wait and see. We’ve been playing on and off since we left Tucson.”

  Edith Beth explained the rules. It was a memory game where one person started with a word and the next person had to come up with a word that used the last letter of the first word. The following person had to recite those two words, then come up with a third and so on. The upshot being whenever anyone missed a word, the entire bus had to kiss their mate.

  Oh, crap. No way. Charlee caught her breath at the thought of having to kiss Mason again. The last kiss had short-circuited her brain and got her feeling all soft and mushy toward him. No more. No can do. Nuh-uh.

  She had to find a way out of this or face some pretty dire consequences.

  Like the loss of all common sense when it came to drop-dead-gorgeous George Clooneyesque men.

  Amid much giggling, the game started. When the sixth person forgot a word, Edith Beth tinkled a cowbell. “Everyone kiss!”

  How the hell had she gotten herself into this situation? Mason looked at Charlee and gave a little shrug. He leaned over to kiss her.

  She doubled her fist. “You do and you die.”

  “It’s all for the good of the cause. We wouldn’t want to get found out as impostors and risk getting thrown off the bus.”

  “You’re just trying to take advantage of the situation.” She narrowed her eyes at him.

  He smirked and flashed her those sinful dimples.

  “You can pretend to kiss me,” she said. “For the good of the cause. But that’s it.”

  “Whatever you say.” Mason leaned perilously close to her lips and almost, nearly, barely, touched her mouth with his. His gaze was locked on hers, his eyes burning a daring challenge.

  The air in that tight space between them vibrated with tension and anticipation.

  Gak! This was worse than kissing him. She felt keyed up, on edge, hypersensitive.

  The game went on and they got away with feigning their kisses. Until it was Charlee’s turn.

  She tried to remember the cycle of words but Mason’s body heat distracted her and she flubbed.

  Edith Beth rang the cowbell.

  Once again Mason almost, nearly, barely brushed her lips with his.

  Charlee shivered.

  “Oh, no, no, no,” Edith Beth said, walking down the aisle to their seat and shaking her head. “That will never do. You’re kissing her like she’s your sister, Skeet. This woman is your wife. Lay a big wet one on her.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Charlee whispered fiercely through clenched teeth.

  Mason shifted away from her and confessed to Edith Beth, “I’m sorry, but I’ve never been comfortable with public displays of affection.”

  Thank heavens he’d heeded her words. He was trying to get them out of this. Heck, he probably didn’t want to kiss her any more than she wanted to kiss him.

  Yeah? So how come she felt a little disappointed?

  “We’re not the public,” Edith Beth said. “These are your fellow Newlywed Game contestants. Come on, Skeet, plant a kiss on Violet she’ll never forget.”

  “Kiss, kiss, kiss,” everyone chanted.

  “You guys,” Charlee pleaded with the group. “Skeet had onions on his hamburger back at the diner and his breath is really pungent.”

  “I’ve got a mint,” Francie offered and dug in her purse for a peppermint.

  “Aren’t you helpful,” Charlee said and it was all she could do to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

  Mason popped the mint and grinned at her. All for the good of the cause, his expression declared.

  Charlee squirmed. She felt trapped and panicky and freaked out. She feared if he kissed her, really kissed her, the way he had back there in the truck stop parking lot, that every bit of rational self-control she possessed would fly right out the window and she’d turn into a quivering pile of estrogen Jell-O.

  “I’m not moving until you give her a real kiss, Skeet Hammersmitz.” Edith Beth folded her arms over her chest and tapped her foot against the floor.

  “You do and so help me God, you’ll pay for it,” Charlee murmured in his ear.

  “Tit for tat, sweetheart,” he murmured back. “You started this back there at the diner.”

  He had a point. She had no one to blame but herself. Oh, and the goons in the Malibu.

  His eyes met Charlee’s and her stomach took the express elevator straight to her boots. Her heart pitter-pattered.

  The last time she’d kissed a wealthy, brown-eyed, handsome man she’d gotten her heart shattered into a gazillion little pieces.

  Buck up. You’re older now. Less gullible. You can handle this. It’s just a friggin’ kiss, Charlee.

  He hesitated.

  Edith Beth clapped her hands and got a rousing round of “Skeet, Skeet, Skeet, Skeet” going.

  Charlee didn’t want him to kiss her against his will. She raised her voice to be heard over the chanting. “It’s okay, folks. Skeet doesn’t have to kiss me in front of everyone. I know he loves me.”

  “Prove it,” someone from the back of the bus shouted.

  “Kiss her, Skeet, kiss her, Skeet, kiss her, Skeet!”

  “Oh, just go on and get it over with,” she snapped.

  And then Mason was kissing her even more passionately than he’d kissed her in the diner parking lot and that kiss had been pretty darned passionate. He curled her into the crook of his arms, bringing her close to his warm, firm chest. She felt the heady lub-dubbing of his heart through the soft material of his shirt.

  Don’t give in. Fight the feeling. It’s just lips.

  Correction. Not just lips. Hot, moist, demanding lips. Lips that tasted of peppermint. Lips that glided like silk over hers. Lips that took her breath and refused to give it back.

  Lips that belonged to a wealthy, long-legged, brown-eyed, handsome man with matinee-idol smiles and a day’s growth of beard stubble.

  She was screwed and she knew it.

  His kiss, his touch, his smell, all felt too good, too irresistible.

  What the hell. She threw in the towel and succumbed to the moment.

  Her eyes shuttered closed and she allowed herself to drift into uncharted waters, to fully experience the promise of his mouth. This was different than the rough, demanding way he’d kissed her before. This kiss was both hungry and tender. At once lazily languid and intensely urgent.

  A hot, overwhelming rush of desire thundered through her. His tongue thrust past her lips and delved deeply into the warm recesses of her mouth.

  Sensation stormed through her body. Waves of it, crashing one on top of each other in a blind, mad rush. Sweetness and heat and pressure. Moistness and pleasure and pure, honeyed desire.

  “Woooooooo,” the whole bus chimed in unison.

  Happy now, everyone?

  “Okay,” Edith Beth interrupted. “You get a gold star, Skeet. Let’s move on. Your turn to recite the memory string.”

  But Mason completely ignored Edith Beth, his focus—and his mouth—centered on Charlee.

  “Ahem,” Edith Beth cleared her throat.

  Charlee pried open one eye and saw him waving the tour director away. His own eyes were closed as he too savored the moment. Charlee’s belly tightened.

  “Somebody hand me a water hose,” Edith Beth joked.

  “A water hose was what got them into this,” Francie said with a giggle.

  “How come you never kiss me like that,” Charlee heard one newly wed wife whisper to her husband.

  Mason grinned against her mouth and she found herself grinning right back.

  “All rightee then,” Edith Beth said, admitting defeat. “We’ll leave Skeet and Violet to it and get on with the game. Next!”

  “What are you doing?” Charlee whispered into his mouth after Edith Beth had moved on but Mason continued to kiss her. “You can stop now.”

  “I’m enjoying the benefits of being your husband. Believe me, there�
��s enough negatives in this relationship, I’m taking the good where I can.”

  “You’re not really my husband and we don’t have a relationship.”

  “You want to call Edith Beth back over here and explain that to her?”

  “No. I guess you’ll just have to go on kissing me.”

  “Guess so.”

  She knew they were using Edith Beth’s game as an excuse to capitalize on the sexual allure that had been simmering between them from the very moment they had met. She knew she was susceptible to the charms of rich, brown-eyed, handsome, long-legged men. She knew she was careening straight for Heartbreak Hotel. But no matter how hard she tried to pull away, once started, she simply could not stop kissing him.

  He was like a horrible, horrible addiction and she couldn’t get enough, so she convinced herself there was nothing wrong with satisfying her physical craving as long as she didn’t get her mind or heart or soul involved. She could kiss and simply walk away. This didn’t have to mean anything more than sumptuous bodily pleasures.

  Denial. The junkie’s tool in trade.

  The bus traveled on into the night and long after Edith Beth’s game had ended, Mason and Charlee continued to kiss. They were like fourteen-year-olds sitting in the back row at the movies experimenting with their first flush of sexual desire. They slid down low and rested their heads against the back of the seat. Charlee was practically in his lap, her legs dangling over his knees.

  Kissing was a heady, invigorating, and totally stupid thing to do.

  They did it anyway.

  Even when their lips started to chap they kept kissing.

  Nothing was inside her head except the moment. She forgot about Maybelline and Elwood and Nolan. She forgot about the men in the Malibu. She forgot about the fact she had a terrible track record with men. She operated on pure animal instinct and indulged herself in the sensual pleasures of Mason’s mouth.

  Soon enough, reality would intrude. For now, they were on a honeymoon bus bound for Hollywood and the Newlywed Game. It was a world removed from where they’d come and where they were headed.

  When they finally opened their eyes and came up for air, they noticed everyone around them was kissing. Mason grinned. “Look what we started.”

  “Forget the Love Boat. We’ve got the Love Bus.”