She'd come here to open up to life; what harm could it do to go along with him? “All sorts of things.” She couldn't tell him she wanted to fall in love with a romantic man who'd treat her like the heroine in a novel. “One of my favorite dreams was to become a gypsy woman. I loved the thought of roaming exotic countries.” Getting away from Daddy's watchful eye. “Hearing vendors shout their wares in languages I didn't understand. Inhaling the aromas of foreign foods."
"Perfect.” Nick dropped a kiss on her head. “Your wish is my command. Today you are Gypsy Woman, and I am Gypsy Man."
* * * *
AS THE EXPLORER bounced along, carrying them over dusty roads, Cee's imagination was stifled by dust rolling in the open windows. “Could we have the air conditioner on, please?"
"We're in the hot backwoods of a foreign country on our way to a land where primitive people sell their wares. It wouldn't be right."
Easy for him to say. He wore shorts, but he'd suggested she wear a gypsy skirt he'd unearthed in his rusty trailer. She didn't know whether to believe it belonged to his cousin's girlfriend or not. But it did look becoming with the gauze blouse she'd brought from home. She rattled the tinny bracelets on her arm. In her fantasies, she was a gypsy fortuneteller who could read palms. Maybe if she pretended hard enough, she could read his. Or better yet, his mind.
He wheeled into a rutted field filled with cars. “Smile, sweetheart. We're here."
She eyed the banner at the entrance. “Metropolis Flea Market?"
"Trust me.” He helped her down from the Explorer and took her arm.
She was trying and doing fairly well at times, particularly when she looked into his mesmerizing eyes.
Inside the gates, straw was strewn on the ground to hold down the dust. A variety of sounds, aromas, and colors flooded her senses. Cee's pulse quickened. This might be fun. Nick bought her an iced herbal tea from a vender wearing a fez. A long, drawn-out sip soothed her dry throat. Her skirt fluttered in the breeze, cooling her ankles. Nick took her hand, warming her heart. With him, she might be able to let go. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. He cast a worried glance her way, and she laughed lightly. “Just letting go,” she said.
He nodded in apparent satisfaction, and she motioned him forward. “Carry on, Mr. Freedom."
In the first row of stands, the spicy aroma of tacos drifted on the wind, tantalizing her taste buds and tickling her nose. Vendors called to them in Spanish. Nick bought himself a cheap, straw sombrero and set it rakishly on his head. She laughed, and he dragged her by the hand to a booth where he bought a red rose from a señora in an embroidered dress. He tucked the rose in Cee's hair, and leaning close, inhaled its sweet smell while she breathed in his masculine one. He was weaving a spell like a spider spinning a web, and she wanted to be drawn in.
"You look beautiful.” He tipped her chin, and she longed for him to kiss her, but he started walking again.
Deep in the aisle, she stopped to finger a shawl. Black with sprawling pink roses, it was soft as dew on a blossom and edged with silky fringe. “It's lovely."
"Want it?” he asked, hugging her to his side. “Nothing is too good for my señorita.” He nuzzled her hair. “That means ‘babe’ in Spanish."
Cee laughed up at him, shaking her head. “It's too expensive."
Nick began bargaining with the vendor in Spanish. The bidding became animated. The man's face darkened in a scowl as Nick's pleasure mounted. Giving a final shout, he whipped out his billfold and laid three ten-dollar bills in the vender's palm. The man raised his hand in salute, looking almost as pleased as Nick. Cee smothered a smile as he wrapped the shawl about her shoulders. “You are a man of the world,” she said, posing, one hand held high over her head.
"And you are ze woman of ze hour."
She tucked her hand in his arm. “Thank you for the shawl,” she said softly, knowing without a crystal ball that this was a gift and moment she would treasure.
"My pleasure,” he said, just as seriously.
Excitement mounting, she bought herself some big, gold-colored hoop earrings. Slipping her diamond studs in the zippered compartment of her shoulder bag, she admired her new look in a hand mirror. With the rose, she looked like a gypsy, except for the color of her hair. She flashed Nick a wicked grin, and he looped his arm around her waist. “You are no longer ze classy lady, but a gypsy woman. For sure."
Laughing, they moved on to the next row where she looked through a table of Italian leather sandals. It was difficult finding the right size in the style she preferred. Nick shifted from one foot to the other and, catching the aroma of some food on the breeze, she thought he was probably hungry again. “I'll take these,” she said, picking up a pair.
He looked down at those on her feet, which were similar, and she remembered he'd called them predictable. “These aren't for me. They're for—” She caught herself before she said Susan. It was hard not to tell anything about your life. “Someone else."
"Gypsy woman, you are not responsible for anyone else."
"I like buying gifts.” Shrugging off the uneasy feeling he'd aroused, she took pleasure in buying beaded slippers for Marianne from a Hindu vendor. She then doubled back to buy herself some huaraches.
"You are shopping for ze centipede?"
Cee, cracking up, wondered how many times she'd laughed since she met him. She wanted to buy Nick something; when he took off to buy himself spumoni, she got her chance. He'd lingered over some quartz pieces, and she'd spied a tiger that reminded her of him. Sinuous and sensual.
She'd just returned to the spot where he left her standing, when he came striding her way. Hat on the back of his head, an eager smile on his face, he sent her heart into a series of cartwheels.
He gave her the last bite of his spumoni; she'd declined a dish of her own. “Did you miss me?"
"Have you been gone?” She smiled devilishly, handing him the small bag.
He dropped the paper dish in a trashcan, eyeing the package in his other hand all the while. Laying back the tissue, he held the tiger in his palm. It was a moment before he spoke, his voice husky. “Thank you, C.J."
He tucked it in his tee shirt pocket carefully.
They were quiet as they walked the last two rows of booths. Her sandals were full of dust, and her legs had begun to ache. It was too warm to wear the shawl, and she'd been carrying it over her right arm. She switched to her left. Could the magic of pretend last only so long?
Nick took the shawl from her, and arranged it over his shoulder like a serapé. “Ready to travel?” She nodded, and tugging his sombrero down, he broke into a run. One hand was over his pocketed quartz tiger while a bag containing her footwear swung from the other.
Laughing, Cee held her skirt up and ran. With Nick, the magic went on and on. “Wait for me,” she called.
* * * *
IT SEEMED MORE like night than late afternoon inside the German Beirgarten. The lights were dim inside the big wooden building on the other side of the lake. Cee sat across from Nick in a wooden booth. He'd ordered dark beer and a Reuben, and she'd chosen iced tea and a warm pretzel. The coolness of the room and the quiet companionship soothed and renewed Cee. “Do you treat every woman you meet to such exotic adventures?"
"You're the first and only one.” He said it so seriously, she believed him. Then he chuckled. “That question wasn't allowed by the rules, you know."
She winked. “You can ask me one in return."
"I'm not a cheater."
"And I am?” Cee pretended indignation.
"Roll out the Barrel” brought a young couple wearing ethnic costumes out of the shadows of the dark-paneled room to dance, feet slapping on the hardwood floor. Nick clapped hands in time to the music, as did some of the others. The couple broke into a second number, and some of the patrons joined in. “Are you game?” Nick asked, pulling her to her feet.
She didn't hesitate and couldn't believe she remembered the polka, or that her feet would come alive after a
ll that walking. “I haven't had so much fun in years,” she panted, when the number ended. She hadn't danced, even a slow number, in so long she couldn't remember.
They sat down, winded but smiling, and Nick drew her close to him in the high-walled wooden booth. She ran a finger over the stubble that had begun to form on his jaw. He was handsome, even with five o'clock shadow.
"The fun isn't over yet,” he promised, rubbing noses with her. “If we were in a foreign country ... we would see lions and tigers and bears."
"Oh, my,” she said, widening her eyes and returning the nose rub. If he didn't tell her anything else about himself, she knew he watched Wizard of Oz. “I watched the movie on TV every year when I was a kid and again with Suz—” Cee stopped short. “So we're going to follow the yellow brick road?"
Nick, smiling mysteriously, led her from the booth, and outside. Taking her in his arms in the gathering dusk, he kissed her nose. Her forehead. Her lips. Lightly. She wished he'd kiss her harder. Deeper. “Nick,” she whispered, raising her lips again.
"Our world tour isn't over yet,” he said, rubbing a thumb across her lower lip, and causing her to tremble.
He could lead her along the yellow brick road, down the primrose path, or wherever. Sitting beside him in the Explorer again, excitement sparked her body when he laid his hand on her leg. She closed her eyes, fighting for control. Freedom was one thing. Desire for a man she barely knew was another.
Gravel crunched beneath the tires, and she opened her eyes to a decrepit amusement park with no more than a dozen cars in the lot. But it didn't matter. She already knew he could make magic.
Her merry-go-round zebra kept pace with his lion, and the park became a jungle with Nick at her side. They rode gondolas along a river that could have been in Venice, and as they passed through the tunnel of love, he kissed her deeply. With him holding her so tightly, she felt his heart beating wildly against hers.
"Do you see fireworks?” Nick whispered, dropping his head back, to look up at the sky as they glided out of the tunnel.
"I see shooting stars, hundreds of them."
"Stars,” he agreed. “Red and blue and gold, and they're exploding like crazy."
"So loudly you can hear them in Singapore and Antarctica."
"All over the world,” he said, kissing her as the boat slipped into the dock.
And out of it.
Looping her arms around his neck, Cee sighed into his kiss. Nick was romantic. Imaginative. And dangerously attractive. He was everything she'd ever want in a man, and more. She should be careful. No, she shouldn't. That wasn't what she was here for. She was making a new beginning.
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Chapter Three
HEAT BLASTED NICK when he entered his trailer, and he was already sweating. Leaving C.J. outside her door with only a kiss goodnight was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but it might also be the smartest. She reminded him of Moonstruck, a mare Uncle John bought. That baby would rear up and paw the air if you even tried to lay a saddle blanket on her. The commotion she raised scared Dell half to death. Nick, who refused to scare, had his arm broken by Moonstruck.
He wasn't afraid of C.J. but knew his limits. When they left the biergarten, she'd gazed into a reflecting ball set in the courtyard. “Every gypsy should have a crystal ball,” she'd said, sounding wistful. With their karma and a crystal ball, she'd see right through him. The karma alone might be enough, and that scared him. Not that he had anything to hide, but he'd rather keep family skeletons in the closet where they belonged.
"Hel-lo, Isadora.” Patting his mop lady on the head, Nick set his quartz tiger on top of the computer monitor. He couldn't remember ever receiving a gift from a woman. C.J. was different. She was ... real. She wasn't a body to hang clothes on with a pocketbook for a brain. He'd dated a couple of models built like flagpoles who wanted to go to the fanciest clubs on the planet and nibble delicately while drinking champagne. He'd taken a few other women out, ones who'd passed him their phone numbers on cocktail napkins. He would never have acted with them like he had with C.J. Hell, she probably thought he was crazy, but he'd wanted to protect their identities and all of a sudden, he was having a ball. He'd trusted her enough to let go and act like a nut, and he'd been caught up in it. She was really something.
The window on one side of his trailer caught the lake breeze, and he took off his shirt, letting the sweat dry on his skin. Looking out the window on the other side, he saw that her mobile was already dark. If he'd asked to come in for a nightcap, she would have freaked like Moonstruck, he'd bet anything. She talked a good talk. Smiled a teasing smile. And he could feel her passion, but she held a tight rein on it ... a good thing, because making love to C.J. would be addictive. He needed to be careful.
Sighing, he shed his cutoffs and sat down at his keyboard in his jockey shorts. He had to get this damned book written and move out of this hot box into a decent place. She wouldn't be around long, and there was no reason to stay, except the lake. He loved the water. That's why he'd crossed the ocean on a tramp steamer. One of the best things he'd done, but then he got tired of knocking around, and Dell's trailer sounded like a great place to spend the summer. Nick hadn't known what bad shape it was in.
The cabin Dell owned on the other side of the lake was in A-one condition. Nick had seen it before making the bet.
Opening Chapter Two, he read the few lines he'd written, with Isadora resisting John's advances and him asking “why."
Nick cracked his knuckles and closed his eyes. If he tried to make love to C.J. this early in their relationship—if it was a relationship—why would she refuse? Would she be afraid of possible involvement? Or would she have another reason?
Like someone else in her life.
Nick peered out the window into the darkness over the lake. C.J. wouldn't kiss him if she was married, he could tell that about her. She was too straight. Letting go wasn't easy for her, but she was trying. Maybe that's why he'd gotten so caught up in spinning a fantasy for her. Not married. Okay. So she was single, separated, or divorced. He rapped himself on the forehead. “No kidding, Einstein."
Celeste was an independent, contemporary woman who made him sweat, like Isadora. Picking up a magazine from beside his computer, he leafed through it. He'd fished Today's Hairstyles out of Dell's mess, hoping to find a woman who fit the heroine's image in his mind.
C.J. stopped with “Sus” when she talked about watching Wizard of Oz. Susan. Did she have a friend named Susan? A sister? A daughter? The Italian thongs she bought were larger than the beaded slippers. Damn. He'd insisted on anonymity, and now, he was trying to find answers.
It stood to reason a mystery writer would have a healthy curiosity.
He locked his arms behind his head. If C.J. had kids, she wouldn't leave them home so she could go off to reinvent herself. Or would she? Some women left their kids without a backward glance. Did his mother ever think about him? Obviously not. Maybe his curiosity wasn't healthy. Shrugging, he flipped a magazine page and gaped at the picture. If C.J. had short hair, she and the model could be twins.
He tore out the picture and trimmed it neatly with scissors before remembering that he'd been looking for a face like he visualized Isadora's. Shrugging, he removed the veil and half mask from the mop and added the face. This could work.
With his heroine and the woman next door becoming one, one might help him understand the other.
* * * *
CEE LEANED AGAINST the door of the RV, fingers to lips, eyes closed, the Spanish shawl held close to her heart. Nick made mundane events thrilling. A flea market, beer garden, and a tired amusement park breathed magic at his side.
She laid the shawl across the end of her bed and poured herself a glass of cold water. Her throat and skin felt parched and her feet tired. Nick reminded her of a light-haired Jean-Claude Van Damme. Handsome. Sexy. With the irrepressible good humor of Tom Hanks. Kicking off her sandals, she applied eucalyptus rub to the soles of her f
eet. She creamed her face, tissued off her makeup, and applied moisturizer, checking a magnifying mirror for tiny wrinkles that might have formed during the day. Her sister Margaret was only three years older and starting to get crow's feet. Cee could remember when she was Susan's age she thought thirty was ancient, and thirty wasn't quite a year away.
She did five minutes of stretching exercises followed by five minutes of relaxation techniques, the way she did every night at home. If Margaret hadn't been married with an adorable baby in a life that was storybook neat, Cee might not have married when she left Miss Shiveley's Finishing School. She was twenty and Harry was thirty, and when he found out she wanted to have babies, he said they should wait. Even after she'd learned about his first affair, she'd still hoped for a child of her own. But Harry kept putting her off, and after his parents were killed, he brought his thirteen-year-old sister home to live. Two years later, he was dead, leaving her to raise Susan alone.
Her picture stared at Cee from its gold frame on the bureau. She loved Suz, but was she the only “daughter” she'd ever have? When she'd thought of raising a child, she'd pictured a baby cuddled to her breast. The sweet baby fresh smell, the soft-as-velvet skin.
Taking a deep breath, she fluffed her pillow and fingered the silky fringe on the shawl, then turned away to pick the first book in line on her shelf. A mystery. She wished it was a romance. She loved romantic old movies, and her day with Nick had been like a scene from one. He was no Gene Kelly, breaking into dance in the park, but he'd done a mean polka at the beer garden. And when he bought her the shawl, he'd draped it around her shoulders with all the gallantry of Clark Gable. She'd wanted her life to become a sizzling novel. Maybe it was.
Catching a glimpse of her face in the mirror over the bureau, she leaned closer. Her face looked flushed, eyes bright. She felt her cheeks and her forehead. They felt warm. Her body felt hot, inside and out. Digging a thermometer out of her first aid kit, she sat on the edge of her bed and prayed. Please. Don't let me get sick now. Nick and I have plans for tomorrow. She couldn't wait to see what he had in store. She closed her eyes and captured his image. Strong jaw line, high cheekbones, thick lashes half-lowered over laughing blue eyes. Even his voice was sexy. If Nick made “Celeste” sound like a caress, he made “C.J.” sound like a quick, warm hug.
Finding Mr. Romantic Page 4