Her breathing stopped in her chest as she stared up into his face. “Sounds painful,” she managed as shock tightened her throat. It had to be shock, and not the heat of his touch brushing her throat.
“It won’t hurt a bit.” He raised his gaze from her neck to her eyes. “You’ll like it, trust me.”
Trust Sebastian? The boy who’d only been nice to her so he could tease and torture her? Who’d only pretended to like her so he could throw mud on her clean dress and make her cry? “I learned a long time ago not to trust you.”
He dropped his hand to his side. “When was that?”
“The day you wanted me to show you the river and threw mud on my new dress,” she said, and figured he’d no doubt forgotten that day long ago.
“That dress was too white.”
“What?” How could something be too white? If it wasn’t white, it was dingy.
He took a few steps back and grabbed his coffee. “You were always too perfect. Your hair. Your clothes. Your manners. It just wasn’t natural. The only time you were any fun at all was when you were messed up and doing something you thought you shouldn’t.”
She pointed at her chest. “I was plenty fun.” He lifted a dubious brow, and she insisted, “I’m still fun. All my friends think so.”
“Clare, your hair was too tight then and you’re wound too tight now.” He shook his head. “Either your friends are lying to you to spare your feelings or they’re as much fun as a prayer circle.”
She wasn’t going to argue about how much fun she and her friends were, and she dropped her hand to her side. “You’ve been in a prayer circle?”
“You find that hard to believe?” His brows lowered and he scowled at her for about two seconds before the corner of his mouth tilted up and gave him away. “When I was in college, one of the first stories I was sent out to cover involved a group of evangelicals recruiting on campus. They were so boring, I fell asleep on a folding chair.” He shrugged. “It probably didn’t help that I was hung over as hell.”
“Sinner.”
“You know that old saying about finding something you’re good at and sticking with it.” The other side of his mouth slid up into a wicked smile, leaving little doubt that he’d turned sinning into an art form.
Her heart gave a little flutter, whether she wanted it to flutter or not. And she didn’t. Clare reached for the glasses on top of her head, and her hair slid over her ear and across her cheek. “If you see your father, will you tell him I need to talk to him about the guest list for his party?” she asked, purposely turning the conversation away from thoughts of sinning.
“Sure.” He raised the coffee to his lips. “You could leave the list and I’ll make sure he sees it.”
She pushed her hair back. “You’d do that?”
“Why not?”
Probably because being nice and helpful to her wasn’t in his nature. “Thanks.”
He took a drink and watched her over the top of the mug. “Don’t mention it, E-Clare.”
She frowned and pulled a piece of paper from the bag on her shoulder. Growing up, he’d called her any and every variation of her name. Her least favorite had been Hairy Clary. She set the list on the table and adjusted her purse. She remembered the time she’d thought she was so smart, and had tried to outwit Sebastian by calling him a numb nut. She’d heard the expression somewhere and thought she was calling him a stupid nut…until he pointed out that she was actually calling him a numb testicle. There’d never been any winning with Sebastian. “Tell him these are the people whom I’ve already contacted and who will attend. If he sees an omission, someone I’ve forgotten to include, I need to know ASAP.” She looked up at him. “Thanks again,” she said, and turned toward the door.
Without a word, Sebastian watched her leave. Warm coffee slid down his throat as his gaze moved down the shiny brown hair brushing her bare shoulders and back.
She was so thorough. So tidy. Somebody should do her a favor and mess her up a little. Wrinkle her clothes and smear her lipstick. At the front of the house, the door opened and closed, and Sebastian moved toward the table. That someone wasn’t going to be him. No matter how tempting. She was too uptight for his tastes. But even if she did loosen up, he couldn’t imagine that doing the deed with Clare would ever go over very well with the old man. Not to mention Joyce.
He kicked the chair away from the table and sat as he booted up his computer. The only reason he could come up with to explain his inexplicable attraction to Clare was that (a) he’d seen her naked, and (b) he hadn’t had sex in a while, and (c) her damn book. He hadn’t planned on reading it straight through, but she’d hooked him and he’d read every page. Every well-written, hot page.
On those rare occasions when Sebastian found the time to read something that wasn’t related to his job, he picked up a Stephen King. As a kid, he’d loved horror and science fiction. As an adult it never once occurred to him to reach for a romance. From Chapter One, he’d been impressed with the smooth depth of her writing. Yeah, it had been emotionally overdone in some scenes, so much so that he’d groaned a few times, but it had also been exceedingly erotic. Not the Penthouse Forum sort of eroticism he’d found with some male writers. More of a soft lead by the hand rather than a slap across the face.
The night before, when he’d fallen asleep, he’d dreamed about Clare. Again. Only this time instead of a thong, she’d worn drawers and a white corset. And thanks to the clarity of her writing, he’d been able to picture every damn ribbon and bow.
Then today, he’d opened the door and found her on his doorstep as if he’d conjured her up. To make matters worse, her dress had cherries on it. Cherries, for God’s sake. Like she was dessert. Which had instantly reminded him of the pirate throwing Lady Julia on his big table and licking Devonshire cream from her breasts.
He pulled his T-shirt over his head and brushed it across his chest. He needed to get laid. That was his problem. Only he didn’t know anyone in Boise who could take care of that particular problem for him. He didn’t pick up women for one-nighters anymore. He couldn’t say for certain when sex with a total stranger had lost its appeal, but he figured it was about the same time he picked up a woman in a Tulsa bar and she’d about gone postal on him when he wouldn’t give her his cell number.
His word processing system appeared on the screen, and he tossed his shirt on the floor by his feet. He glanced at his note cards and shuffled a few to the top. He moved them around in rapid succession, setting some aside, then picking them back up and placing them in a different order. For the first time in weeks he felt the beginning flick in his head. He glanced at his notes scribbled on a legal pad, picked up a pencil, and scribbled a little more. The flicker caught fire and he placed his fingers on the keyboard. He moved his neck from side to side and wrote:
I’m told his name is Smith, but it could be Johnson or Williams or any other typically American surname. He is blond and wears a suit and tie as if he plans to run for president someday. Only his heroes aren’t Roosevelt, Kennedy, or Reagan. When he speaks of great men, he speaks of Tim McVeigh, Ted Kaczynski, and Eric Rudolph. Homegrown terrorists who’ve settled in the sediment of the American subconscious, overshadowed and forgotten for now by their foreign counterparts, until the next act of American extremism blows itself onto the nightly news and spills black ink across the nation’s newspapers as blood runs in the streets.
Everything clicked and whirred and fell into place, and for the next three hours the steady tapping of his keyboard filled the kitchen. He paused to refill his coffee mug, and when he was finished, he felt as if an elephant had stepped off his chest. He leaned back in his chair and blew out a relieved breath. As much as he hated to admit it, Clare had been right. He’d been trying to force it, to start the piece in the wrong place, and he hadn’t been able to see. He’d been too tense. Holding on too tight to look at what was so glaringly obvious. If Clare had been in front of him, he would have planted one on her beautiful mouth. Of cours
e, kissing Clare anywhere was completely out of the question.
Sebastian rose from his chair and stretched. Earlier, when he asked her about her research, he’d meant to tease her a little. Knock her off her pins. Get her going, like he had as a kid. Only the joke was on him. He was thirty-five. He’d traveled the world and been with a lot of different women. He did not get all hot and bothered by a romance novelist in a cherry dress as if he were a kid. Especially that particular romance novelist.
Even if Clare was up for a few rounds of noncommital, no strings, hot and sweaty sex-and that was a big if-it would never happen. He was in Boise to try and build a relationship with his father. Something from the ashes, not set ablaze what little progress they’d made by sleeping with Clare. It didn’t matter that Joyce wasn’t Sebastian’s employer. She was his father’s boss, and that made her the boss’s daughter. If shit had hit the fan years ago over a conversation about sex, he hated to think what might hit the fan if they actually had sex. But even if Clare weren’t the boss’s daughter, he instinctively knew she was a one man woman. The problem with a one man woman was that he was not a one woman man.
His life had slowed in the past few years, but he’d spent most of his twenties bouncing from town to town. Six months here, nine there, learning his job, honing his craft, making a name for himself. Finding women had never been a problem. It still wasn’t, although he was a lot more particular at thirty-five than he’d been at twenty-five.
Perhaps someday he would marry. When he was ready. When the thought of it didn’t make him put his hands up in the air and back away from the idea of a wife and kids. Probably because he hadn’t exactly been raised in an ideal situation. He’d had two stepfathers. One he’d liked, the other he hadn’t. He’d liked some of his mother’s boyfriends, but always knew that it was just a matter of time before they left and his mother would once again shut herself in her room.
Growing up, he’d always known that his parents loved him. They’d just loathed each other. His mother had been vocal about her hatred of his father, but to be fair to his dad, the old man hadn’t ever said anything against his mother. Yet, sometimes it was what a person didn’t say that spoke volumes. He didn’t ever want to be stuck in that sort of vicious circle with a woman, and he certainly didn’t want to raise a child in that environment.
Sebastian bent at the waist and picked up his T-shirt from the floor. No, he would never rule out marriage and family. Someday he might decide he was ready, but that day wasn’t even in the pipeline.
The kitchen door opened and his father walked in. He moved to the sink and turned on the faucet. “Are you workin’?”
“I just finished.”
Leo grabbed a bar of soap and washed his hands. “I have tomorrow off, and if you’re not busy, I thought maybe you and me could drive up past Arrowrock dam and drop a hook.”
“You want to go fishing?”
“Yeah. You used to like to fish, and I hear they’re bitin’ up there.”
Fishing with the old man. It could work out to be just what the two of them needed, or it could turn into a disaster. Like shopping for a car. “I’d love to fish with you, Dad.”
Seven
The day after Lucy’s wedding, Clare had taken a vow of sobriety. The following Thursday evening at 5:32, she broke it. But really, a girl had to celebrate.
She held a bottle of Dom Perignon in her hands and worked the cork with her thumbs. After a few moments it popped and flew across her kitchen, hitting a deep mahogany cupboard and rebounding behind the gas stove. A gossamer mist rose from the mouth of the bottle as she poured into three tall champagne glasses. “This is going to be good,” she said through an unrepentant smile. “I stole it from my mother.”
Adele took a glass. “Stolen champagne is always the best kind.”
“What year?” Maddie asked as she took a glass.
“Nineteen ninety. Mother was saving it for my wedding day. Just because I’ve given up on men, doesn’t mean a vintage bottle of champagne should suffer.” She clinked glasses with Maddie and Adele and said, “Here’s to me.” An hour earlier she’d been given an oral HIV test, and within minutes found out she was negative. One more weight lifted from her shoulders. Her friends had been with her when she’d received the good news. “Thanks for going with me today,” she said, and took a sip. The only sad part of the celebration was that Lucy was not with them, but Clare knew that her friend was having a wonderful celebration of her own, soaking up the sun in the Bahamas with her new husband. “I know you both are busy, and it meant a lot that you were there with me.”
“Don’t thank us.” Adele wrapped an arm around her waist. “We’re friends.”
“I’m never too busy for you.” Maddie took a drink and sighed. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a drink of anything that wasn’t low carb. This is fabulous.”
“Are you still doing the Atkins?” Clare asked. For as long as she could remember, Maddie had been on one diet or another. It was a constant battle for her to remain in her size six jeans. Of course, as writers, spending so much time sitting put on a few pounds and was something they all battled. But for Maddie it was a never-ending struggle.
“I’m doing South Beach now,” she said.
“You should try going back to the gym,” Adele advised, and leaned her behind into the black granite countertop. Adele jogged five miles every morning out of fear that she would someday inherit her mother’s wide butt.
“No. I’ve belonged to four and quit each one after a few months.” Maddie shook her head. “The problem is I hate to sweat. It’s just so gross.”
Adele raised her glass to her lips. “It’s good for you to sweat out all the evil toxins in your body.”
“No. It’s good for you. I like my evil toxins to stay right where they are.”
Clare laughed and grabbed the bottle by the neck. “Maddie’s right. She should keep all her evil toxins buried deep and hidden from the unsuspecting world.” The three of them moved to the living room, which was stuffed with the antique furniture that had been in Clare’s family for generations. The arms of the medallion-back sofas and chairs were covered with doilies a great-grandmother or aunt had constructed with her own hands. She set the bottle on the marble-topped coffee table and took a seat in one of the high-backed chairs.
Maddie sat across from her on the sofa. “Have you ever thought of getting those guys from the Antiques Roadshow in here?”
“Why?” Clare asked, and picked a white thread from the left breast of her sleeveless black turtleneck.
“To tell you what some of this stuff is.” Maddie pointed in the direction of the burgundy gout footstool and the cherub pedestal.
“I know what it is and where it all came from.” She dropped the thread into a cloisonné dish.
Adele studied the Staffordshire figurines on the mantel. “How do you keep all this stuff clean?”
“It’s a lot of work.”
“Get rid of some of it.”
“I can’t do that.” She shook her head. “I have the Wingate illness. I think it’s in our genes. We can’t seem to part with family heirlooms, not even the horrible stuff, and believe me, my great-grandmother Foster had truly hideous taste. The problem is, we used to have a large family tree but we’ve been winnowed down to just a few branches. My mother and myself, a few cousins in South Carolina, and a mountain of family antiques.” She took a sip of champagne. “If you think my house is bad, you should see my mother’s attic. Sheesh. It’s like a museum up there.”
Adele turned from the mantel and moved across the Tulip & Lily rug to the sofa. “Did Lonny steal anything when he left? Besides your dog?”
“No.” Lonny’s fondness for her antiques had been something they had in common. “He knew he didn’t want to make me that angry.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“Not since Monday. I had the locks changed yesterday, and I get my new mattress delivered tomorrow.” She looked down into her glass and sw
irled the light blond champagne. Less than a week ago she’d been naively happy. Now she was moving on without Lonny. New locks. New bed. New life. Too bad her heart wasn’t moving as fast as the rest of her. Not only had she lost her fiancé, she’d lost a very close friend. Lonny had lied to her about a lot of things, but she didn’t believe that their friendship had been a pretense.
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand men,” Adele said. “They’re seriously whacked in the head.”
“What did Dwayne do this time?” Clare asked. For two years Adele had dated Dwayne Larkin and thought he just might be Mr. Right. She’d overlooked his undesirable habits, like smelling the armpits of his shirts before he put them on, because he was buff and very handsome. She’d put up with his beer-swilling, air-guitar-playing ways, right up to the moment when he told her she was getting a “fat ass.” No one used the F word to describe her behind; she’d kicked him out of her life. But he wouldn’t go completely. Every few weeks Adele would find one or two of the things she’d left at his house sitting on her front porch. No note. No Dwayne. Just random stuff.
“He left a half-empty bottle of lotion and one no-skid footie on the porch.” She turned to Clare. “Remember the no-skid ladybug footies you gave me when I had my appendix out?”
“Yeah.”
“He only gave me the one back.”
“Bastard.”
“Creepy.”
Adele shrugged. “I’m more annoyed than afraid. I just wish he’d get tired and stop.” She’d called the police about it, but an old boyfriend returning his former girlfriend’s stuff wasn’t against the law. She could try and get a restraining order, but wasn’t sure it was worth the hassle. “I know he probably has more of my stuff.”
“You need a big boyfriend to go scare the crap out of him,” Clare provided. “If I still had a boyfriend, I’d lend him to you.”
Maddie lowered her brows as she gazed across at Clare. “No offense honey, but Lonny wouldn’t have scared the crap out of Dwayne.”
I’m In No Mood For Love Page 8