by Melody Mayer
“Why in the world do you want to learn about blowguns? They're weapons, not toys.”
Martina kicked the heel of her sneaker into the short grass. “I know. It's just that … well, there's nothing really cool that I do that I can tell … oh, forget it. It's not important.”
Oh. Of course. This was about Kevin, who'd been led to believe via e-mail that Martina was blond, skinny, and wildly popular. Well, she was right about one thing: no other fifth grader at the Crossroads School would try to impress him with her firsthand knowledge of how to use a blowgun.
“Fine. I'll teach you,” Lydia declared.
Martina clasped her hands together. “Really?”
“If.”
Martina's shoulders sagged. “I should have known there was a catch. There's always a catch.”
“It's because I'm clever and manipulative. Anyway, there are two catches. One: You end this danged hunger strike and we go to the restaurant and you order a meal. Two: Never— and I mean never, ever—shoot it unless I'm around.”
“That's not fair!” Martina wailed.
“Now, see, if you go crying like a big ol’ baby, that's just proof that you're not old enough.”
“I am not a baby.”
“And I am not changing any part of this deal. When I'm teaching you, you have to do exactly what I say when I say it, and if I ever catch you fooling around or not treating it like the weapon it is, I'll break it over my knee and present both pieces to Momma Anya with your name on them.”
Martina paled. “She'd kill me.”
“After she kills me. At least if I go first I wouldn't have to watch you die. So … deal or no deal?”
“I guess … deal.”
“Shake on it.” Lydia stuck out her hand. “Including the eating part.”
Martina solemnly shook her hand as Lydia mentally congratulated herself on her own negotiating skills. Right after Jimmy finished his lesson she'd take the kids to the snack bar.
They spotted him a moment later on the driving range, with an oversized Big Bertha driver in his hands and three red-striped golf balls teed up on the ground. As soon as he noticed his sister and big cousin approaching, he grinned.
“Hey, check this out.” He took a swing and hit the ball straight out to the two-hundred-yard marker, then did the same thing with the second ball. “Sweet, huh?”
“Good job!” Lydia was impressed.
“Aww, that's nothing. Check this out.”
Jimmy took three running steps, charged up to the third ball, swung at it with all his might, and missed completely, falling so clumsily onto the grass that his club flew ten feet out onto the range. Twenty feet away down the range, Weston Goldhagen laughed so hard at the sight that she pointed at him and jumped up and down.
“Look Jee-mee! Jee-mee funny!”
“Jee-mee do like Happy Gilmore for Weston!” He pumped his fist in the air, making it clear that he was clowning around.
This was great. Neither of her young cousins had ever made jokes when she'd first arrived from the Amazon. Lydia herself would have laughed at Jimmy's antics, except that she noted who was helping Weston with her swing: One-night-stand Luis.
He waved to Lydia. She waved back.
“He's cute, that golf teacher,” Martina decided, shading her face from the sun with her hand. “Do you like him?”
“No,” Lydia said. “I have a boyfriend, remember? Billy?”
Martina frowned. “Didn't you tell me that it was a good thing for a girl to have lots of boyfriends?”
“Uh-huh,” Lydia admitted. “But sometimes if you really like one boy a whole, whole lot, you don't feel like being with any other boys.”
“So, you like Billy a whole, whole lot?”
“Yep.”
And I cheated on him with your brother's teacher.
Lydia watched as Luis set up a long-drive contest between Weston and Jimmy. Her own feelings galled her. Since when had she become so conventional about sex?
“Tee 'em up,” Luis told the kids.
Instantly, Jimmy and Weston each teed up another golf ball and took their stances.
“One … two … three!” Luis counted off.
Two golf clubs arced back and then swung forward in perfect reverse parabolas. The kids spun their hips and made contact at the same time. Jimmy's ball went farther—out to the two-hundred-yard marker, as opposed to Weston's hundred-and-twenty-five-yard shot. Lydia was more impressed with Weston, though, since the girl was only six.
“Yes!” Jimmy pumped his fist. “Another perfect hit!”
Lydia stepped over to her cousin and hugged him. “Well, you just rock!” she crowed. “You like this sport?”
“So much,” he told her.
“It was a great first lesson,” Luis acknowledged, joining them. “I'm proud of you, Jimmy. I'll see you later in the week?”
“Definitely,” Jimmy agreed. “Golf is a lot more fun than tennis, no lie. It's even better than bugs.”
“C'mon, Jimmy,” Martina cajoled. “I'm hungry. Let's go up to the restaurant. I want a burger. A jumbo bacon cheese-burger.”
“You're eating again?” Jimmy was surprised.
“Yeah. Lydia told me she'd—she told me that it would be a good idea to eat. So I listened.”
Martina shot a guilty look at Lydia, knowing that she'd almost spilled why she'd decided to end her hunger strike. Lydia merely shrugged. As they said in Amazonia: no cut, no blood, no piranha attack.
“Cool,” Jimmy agreed. “Let's get something good if the moms aren't there.”
Lydia nodded. “Go ahead, you guys. I'll catch up with you. Luis, I can take Weston up to the pool and wait for Esme.”
“Great. I'm heading to the restaurant myself. I'll walk you up.” He gave her a sexy grin. “I won't bite.”
“Yes, he won't bite you,” Weston repeated, which made Lydia laugh. The twins had learned so much English over the last several weeks that it was a little frightening. Of course, she'd learned the Ama language in the jungle, but that was a tongue with far fewer tenses and basically no adjectives.
Luis moved closer to Lydia so that only she could hear him. “Of course, if you want me to bite …”
Lydia wagged a friendly finger at him. “Come on, Luis. Remember that chat we had on your doorstep?”
“I thought it was a lady's prerogative to change her mind.” His eyes flicked over her as if he knew what she looked like naked, which he most certainly did. “We had a good thing.”
Fortunately, Weston was distracted by a red admiral butterfly as it flitted across the path.
“I don't know about you, Luis. But for me, one-time sex I don't remember that occurred under the influence of alcohol doesn't live on in my personal hall of flame.”
“Hall of flame,” Luis echoed. “Cute.”
“Well honey, you just don't seem to be getting the big N-O tattooed on my forehead.”
“Aww, come on, Lydia. I've got a pair of tickets burning a hole in my pocket. Skybox seats to the Dodgers—I gave the manager a lesson with his pitching wedge.” As if to prove his point, he opened his black leather wallet and displayed the ducats. “Champagne in the fridge, comfortable couches … what could be bad?”
“Luis, I'm sure that lots of cute girls at this club would do anything to hook up with a cute golf pro. How about if I just send them your way?” Lydia said sweetly.
“How about if I trade them for you?” he joked.
Jeez. Luis was beginning to really annoy her. She hoped he got the message from the silent treatment she offered in response to his last question, all the way up to the family pool.
As Lydia and Luis made their silent journey up the hill from the driving range, Kiley sat with her feet dangling in the shallow end of the country club's family pool, watching Sid and Serenity play water basketball. The colonel's regime might be authoritarian, she thought, but there was no doubt that Platinum's kids were in better physical shape as a result of it. Before the arrival of the colonel a
nd Susan, ten minutes of water basketball would have had them sucking wind. Now they'd become superstars, making passes and sinking shots that would have been impossible even three weeks ago.
Suddenly, a large pair of hands slipped over her eyes. “Guess who?”
There was only one voice in America like that. Her breath caught.
“Tom?”
She swung around, and there he was, crouching by the side of the pool, grinning at her. His blond hair was shorter than the last time she'd seen him; his deep tan made his eyes look even bluer, his Chiclet white teeth even whiter. He wore red surfer Jams and nothing else. His ripped torso was hairless, tanned, and perfect. He looked exactly like what he was—a monumentally successful model.
“When did you get back?” Kiley cut her eyes back toward the country club restaurant. She didn't want the colonel to see her talking with Tom instead of doing her job.
“This morning.” He sat next to her, playfully bumping his muscled thigh into hers. “How goes it?”
“Fine. But …I wish you had called me.”
“I wanted to surprise you.” He cocked his head at her. “That a bad thing?”
“No, it's just I'm working.”
“So I see.” Tom nodded toward the kids. Sid had just made a great dunk; his team cheered. Tom cheered with them. “Nice job, Sid!”
“How was Florida?”
“The usual modeling nonsense, but I banked a nice chunk o’ change. Sent it to my dad so he could buy a new combine and pay off a bunch of debt. The corn harvest last fall was kinda shaky.”
Kiley's heart melted at the mention of his parents’ farm. She had so much in common with him. Half of her friends back in La Crosse had been in 4H or FFA. Could he help it that he was a farm boy who was ten standard deviations better-looking than average?
“That was a nice thing to do.”
“It's my pops.” Tom grinned. “But listen, if I ever decide to take over the family farm, please send me to a shrink. My dad works his butt off and no one appreciates it.”
“You do.”
“Yeah,” Tom admitted. “I do.” His fingers brushed the back of her hand. It gave her chills. “It's great to see you. I missed you. So did you fall in love while I was away?”
She'd never been a good liar, and always considered it one of her strong points. The moment Tom posed the question, she flashed to Jorge and the way he'd kissed her at the Conga Room. It must have registered on her face, because Tom frowned.
“Hey, that was supposed to be a joke.”
She was taken aback by the stunned look in his eyes.
“Tom, it's just that …”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the colonel and Susan returning to the pool deck. “Look, I can't talk now. My boss is coming.”
He scrambled to his feet. “To be continued.”
“Call me later.”
“Yeah, okay.”
He rubbed his chin, seemingly puzzled and—was it really possible? Hurt.
Kiley slid into the pool, swimming over to the basketball game so that she could make a show of participating with the children. She'd just fired a pass to Sid when she heard the colonel call to her from the pool's edge.
“McCann!”
“Yes, sir?”
She resisted the urge to salute. Instead, she swam over to the nearest ladder and climbed out of the pool. He was waiting for her with a towel and a clipboard.
“Scuba!” he boomed. He offered her the towel. “What's your take on that, McCann?”
Kiley dried herself off, then wrapped the towel around her waist and tucked in the edge. “That it's self-contained underwater breathing apparatus, sir.”
She wasn't about to add that she knew scuba diving was a requirement for any self-respecting marine biologist. Or that back in La Crosse, scuba diving had been a recreational activity only for those wealthy enough to go away on winter vacations to Hawaii and Jamaica. Since Kiley's winter vacations tended toward car trips to Appleton to see her aunt, she'd never learned.
“I want you to learn, McCann. Right here at the club.” He thrust the clipboard at her. “This is the registration form. Classes begin day after tomorrow. I've already paid the fees. Sign at the X.”
Kiley took the outstretched pen before the colonel could change his mind, thinking that Susan might have talked to him about her interest in Scripps. “This is fantastic! I've wanted to learn to scuba dive forever.”
“The missus mentioned your aquatic interests,” the colonel barked. “This will be a good opportunity for you. Bruce too.”
“Bruce?”
“Yes, McCann. He's going to be joining you.”
Huh. Good luck. Thus far, the colonel's attempts to shape up Platinum's fourteen-year-old had been met with nonviolent civil disobedience worthy of Mahatma Gandhi. As a result, he'd been confined to quarters—his bedroom—every night for the past two weeks, and had done more push-ups than a linebacker at summer training camp. Now the colonel wanted Bruce to learn to scuba dive?
“Sir?”
“McCann?”
“Permission to speak freely, sir.”
The colonel put his hands behind his back. “Permission granted, McCann. What's on your mind?”
“Sir, I doubt that Bruce is going to want to learn to—”
“Stop right there, McCann,” the colonel interrupted. “ Want doesn't cut it with me. This is not a matter of what he wants. This is a matter of what he needs. Are we clear on that?”
“Yes, sir,” Kiley replied, still highly dubious. “I hope you can convince him, sir.”
The colonel laughed. “That's the second part of your assignment, McCann. I wish you all the luck in the world.”
The white-jacketed Indian waiter was about to take the lid off one of the crockery dishes when Billy stopped him. “Wait a second, Kumar. I want to give her the full experience. Close your eyes.” Billy grinned across the small table at Lydia.
“Billy Martin. If you think you're going to shock me by having me close my eyes and then making me eat something nasty, you have got the wrong girl.” Lydia didn't know why it was that whenever she was with him, her Texas drawl got more pronounced. It was as if she allowed her own authentic self to surface for him. “I have eaten roasted mealworm and fried monkey guts. How about you?”
Kumar paled.
“Interesting girl,” Billy told the waiter, then gazed again at Lydia with his deep blue eyes. “You'll have to trust me.”
“Billy. My parents homeschooled me in a mud hut. Nothing makes you learn quicker than red ants biting your butt.”
Billy laughed. “You, Lydia Chandler, are one of a kind. Okay, Kumar. Lid off the vegetable biryani. Lydia, close 'em.”
“Since when did you get so bossy?”
She closed her eyes in happy anticipation. It wasn't for the Indian food, much as Billy had rhapsodized about how this particular restaurant across from the Westside Pavilion in the Rancho Park section of the city was the best in all of Los Angeles. Mostly, she was imagining him in bed with her, doing what came naturally. She'd enjoyed the look in his eyes when he'd picked her up and saw what she was wearing—a L.A.M.B. by Gwen Stefani leopard-print minishift with a flirty short-sleeved white lace blouse underneath, and purple studded Marc Jacobs ankle boots with a three-inch heel that her aunt Kat had given to her outright.
What Billy didn't know was that under the lace blouse and minishift, Lydia wore nothing else. No bra, no thong, nothing. All the better for dessert.
The restaurant was called Jaipur, and it turned out that Kumar was the son of the owner. Evidently, Billy ate here a lot. Kumar had led them through the dark-walled interior to a table in the back, not far from the to-go counter. With ragas playing on the sound system, Indian artwork on the walls, and unfamiliar but mouthwatering aromas wafting out of the kitchen, Lydia felt like she could be half a world away.
“Okay,” Billy said. “Taste this.”
Lydia opened her mouth. The motion made her think of sex.
Tonight, everything was making her think of sex.
“It's hot,” he warned.
Lydia nearly laughed out loud. Maybe he was on her wavelength, too. A delicious mix of aromas wafted into her nostrils—saffron, cream, curry, pepper, onions, maybe eggplant, something sweet but not sugary. Then the fork was in her mouth, and smells turned into a panoply of amazing flavors unlike anything she'd ever tasted.
She chewed with gusto, swallowed, and then opened her eyes as languidly as possible. “That's amazing. What was that?”
“Began bharta—specialty of the house,” Kumar said proudly. “I'm glad you like it.”
“I love it!” Lydia exclaimed.
“It's eggplant baked in a tandoori oven, special red onions, ginger imported from Mumbai, hothouse yellow tomatoes, and some other spices,” Billy filled in. Kumar gave a little bow and said he would leave them to enjoy their meal. When he was gone, Lydia stuck her own fork into the clay pot.
“I think we should move in here,” she declared, forking up another mouthful of the delicious concoction. “Or maybe Kumar could sleep in your living room and cook for us. Three meals a day, I don't demand much.” She spooned some of the food onto Billy's plate, then filled her own.
Billy cocked an eyebrow. “How would that work, since you don't live in my apartment?”
“Just think how much fun we could have if I did,” she flirted.
“On a nightly basis,” he added.
She reached across the table and entwined her fingers with his large, strong ones. “I have a secret, Billy. Something I really need to tell you. I should have told you before, but …”
She hesitated. He put his fork down. “Okay.”
She leaned in to him. “I'm not wearing any underwear.”
He burst out laughing. “Aren't you the naughty girl.”
“Not yet,” she reminded him. “But I'd like to be. After we finish this amazing food, that is.”
Billy gave her a smoldering look. “Tonight's the night, huh?”
“You wanted us to wait, we waited. You wanted us to get to really know each other, we know each other.” Under the table she lifted one purple-booted foot and slid it along the leg of his jeans. “So yes. Tonight is the night. Even if I have to tie you down.”