Flirting with Disaster & Fanning the Flames

by Victoria Dahl

  “My tits. And my sparkling personality, I’m sure.”

  “No, it’s your tits. They’re gorgeous.”

  Isabelle actually felt her cheeks go pink. “Shut up,” she said halfheartedly.

  “Did you show him that painting?”

  “He doesn’t like my work.”

  Jill snorted. “He’ll like that. Now get out of my way so I can finish the pastries.”

  Isabelle moved quickly to her bedroom to put on her party clothes, waving at Marshal Jones through the window before shutting the blinds. Thank God she didn’t have any neighbors. She could rarely be bothered with closing curtains, and she often ran around in nothing but panties and bedhead. It was only her, after all, and half her day was spent remembering something she’d left in the other room or forgotten to do. Sometimes it took her two hours to finish getting dressed.

  But not today. Today was easy, since she’d already laid out her clothes, mostly because she’d just taken them from the dryer. Black leggings, a long sage-green tank top that covered her ass and swooped low over her breasts, heeled boots and her nicest black cardigan. The cardigan would come off once the sangria kicked in.

  She smiled as she wrapped a long silver chain around her neck three times. The longest loop dipped to touch the rise of her breasts. She hoped Tom would notice. She hoped he’d look at that warm metal touching her skin, and he’d want to touch it himself.

  Thank God Tom’s story had turned out to be true, or she’d never have let herself feel attracted to him. Not that sex with Tom was a sure thing at this point, but it was nice to have the interest. To look at a live, in-the-flesh man and feel her body say, Yes. The last time had been over a year ago and that had been more of a Sure—why not?

  She hadn’t been this casual about sex in her youth, but she’d been a very different girl then. As the only daughter of an overprotective, anxiety-ridden mother and a father who was a cop, Isabelle had walked the straight and narrow.

  She’d done well in high school. Really well. She’d spread her wings a little in college, taking all the premed classes she’d meant to, but using all her elective hours on art. She’d saved her virginity for a boy she’d fallen in love with during her sophomore year of college. She hadn’t quite waited until they’d gotten engaged, but that had come soon after. Her world had been knitting together into beautiful conformity, the way the bones of a child’s skull slowly grew into the perfect protection.

  During her junior year, she’d come to a realization that she could combine her love of painting with her love of medicine, but it had terrified her. She’d always known that she would be a doctor. Her parents had always known. Her fiancé, by then an up-and-coming attorney working for the state prosecutor, had considered marriage to a doctor a perfect match.

  She hadn’t wanted to let him down. She’d been afraid to shake things up.

  Yes, that had summed her up nicely back then. Afraid to shake things up. And then an earthquake had hit her life and shaken everything to pieces.

  Isabelle traced a hand down her collarbone then onto the warming silver and down to the tops of her breasts. Yes, she’d changed after that, thank God. She’d had her first orgasm, and it had been with a drunken one-night stand, of all things. She’d needed a man to show her what her body could do. A stranger. That had horrified her. She’d been so passive her whole life that she’d waited for someone else to reveal her own body to her.

  That had been the end of passivity. It had been the end of a lot of things, and the beginning of so much more.

  She knew it was a bad idea to sleep with Tom Duncan. It was a bad idea to even draw his attention. But she resented her fear and caution. She wanted to kick and scream and push against it. She wanted him.

  After a quick brush of her hair, she pulled it up in a French twist that she hoped would hide any pigment she might’ve gotten on the ends during today’s marathon painting session. Shampoo wasn’t exactly effective on oil paint.

  By the time she came out of the bedroom, the smell of butter and cheese had bloomed through the house. Isabelle turned on the stereo, got the first pitcher of sangria from the fridge and smiled at the sound of a car door slamming. A woman’s laugh preceded the knock at the door, and Isabelle was laughing in response before she even opened it.

  Girls’ night was here.

  * * *

  SOPHIE LOOKED THE SAME. Somehow Isabelle had expected her to return looking like Sandy at the end of Grease: leathered and eyelinered and big-haired. But she still looked like a postwar librarian, her red hair curled under in an elegant chignon and her little black glasses doing their best to hide her naughty thoughts.

  “Where’s your bike?” Isabelle asked after giving Sophie a third hug and pressing a glass of sangria into her hand.

  “We left the bikes in Texas for now. Alex has a quick contract in Alaska, and I decided winter in the Alaskan oil fields was not the adventure I’m looking for right now.”

  Lauren dropped onto the couch beside them. “Does that mean you’re home for a while?”

  Sophie winced. “For a little while.”

  “Shit,” Isabelle groaned. “Just spill it.”

  Sophie cleared her throat. “I’m turning in my resignation,” she said softly, reaching out for Lauren’s hand. They worked together at the library, or they had before Sophie had taken a leave of absence four months before.

  “You’re really leaving,” Isabelle whispered.

  “I’m leaving. Finally.”

  “Okay,” Isabelle said. “That’s good.” Neither of them wanted to lose Sophie, but she’d lived her entire life in Jackson, and it was time for her to see the world. On a motorcycle. With her delicious new man.

  Isabelle touched her glass to Sophie’s. “I’m proud of you.”

  Lauren sniffed a little, but she smiled. “Me, too. As long as you promise to ride through here every year and see us.”

  “Oh, come on!” Sophie cried out, her eyes watery. “My dad is here. I’ll be back all the time. A lifetime of crippling family dynamics can’t be magically overcome with the power of one penis. Not even Alex’s.”

  “Are you sure?” Lauren drawled. “What about when you throw in the tattoos and the bike?”

  “Okay, it’s close.”

  Isabelle nudged her a little less than gently. “Shut up already. Everyone in this room except me has access to a penis.”

  Jill barked out a laugh from the doorway. “Bite your tongue, woman. None of you need one anyway. You can order high-quality substitutes from the comfort of your own home.”

  Sighing, Isabelle sank back into the oversize couch, letting the first flush of sangria wash over her. “I know, but there’s nothing like the real thing. Warm skin and that velvety texture and the smell of a man’s body. God.”

  Silence fell, and Isabelle knew why even before she leaned forward and looked toward the front door. “Hi, Tom.”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, his voice as neutral as a court stenographer’s.

  Isabelle hopped up with a grin. “Nonsense. Your arrival was utterly apropos.” Once she was standing, she saw the young woman behind him. “Veronica? I’m Isabelle. Welcome!”

  “Thank you so much for inviting me!” When the woman pasted a smile on her face and stepped forward with an outstretched hand, she looked a little less young and uncertain, but only a little. Her short blond bob swung forward against round cheeks that gave her a sweet, youthful look. The pretty blue eyes didn’t hurt much, either, though they were darkened with smoky gray shadow and black eyeliner.

  Lauren sprang up from the couch. “You’re here!” she called out, rushing forward to give Veronica Chandler a hug. “Everyone, this is Veronica. Of the infamous Dear Veronica page.”

  Sophie gasped. “Oh, my God, I was in your column! You wrote about me!”

  The blonde’s eyes widened. Isabelle could imagine the stories flashing through her brain. She’d been writing the advice column for only a year, but there’d been some do
ozies.

  Isabelle tried to keep the grin off her face. “Sophie is the one who had a fling with her stepbrother.”

  Sophie howled with laughter. “That’s a lie. I was the man-eating whore who corrupted that poor woman’s son with free sex.”

  “Oh,” Veronica said. Then, “Oh!” more brightly. Her surprise slowly faded into a small frown of worry. “I hope I didn’t say anything terrible about you.”

  “No, you were great,” Sophie said with a wave of her hand. “I was cheering you on.”

  A small smile turned the girl’s mouth up. “So was it true?”

  “That I corrupted him with free sex? Absolutely. Every chance I got. Damn, that man is gorgeous.”

  “I’m glad it worked out.”

  Sophie’s gaze slid to Tom, and her eyebrows rose in question. Isabelle touched his shoulder. “This is Deputy Marshal Duncan. He’s here to watch over Veronica.”

  Veronica cringed. “It’s not that big a deal.”

  “It’s a pretty big deal,” Sophie said, looking Tom up and down. “And definitely the most adventurous girls’ night in we’ve ever had. Marshal, did you bring your pj’s?”

  “I did not,” he said drily, but Isabelle could see red high on his cheeks. He could pretend to be all “Just doing my job, ma’am,” but he was paying attention to everything.

  Isabelle leaned a little closer and spoke low. “Can I interest you in a sangria? It’s going to be a long night without it, in case you can’t already tell.”

  “No, thanks. I’m just going to head out and talk with Mary for a minute. One of us will be back.”

  Judging by the deepening red of his face, it would be Mary. Tom probably wasn’t used to a roomful of drunk women willing to talk about anything. Too bad for him. He was going to miss all the fun.

  CHAPTER NINE

  TOM SPOKE BEFORE he got even halfway to Mary’s car. “We have to trade places. You go inside.”

  “What?” she bit out. “What are we even doing here? Veronica’s request to come to this party should’ve been turned down flat. Or hell, the most she needs is an escort to the door. Nobody is coming to invade the sorority house, Tom.”

  Tom was a bit taken aback by her anger. “It’s not a sorority house. Did you meet the women? Jill’s really nice and—”

  “Did you assign me to this bullshit protection because I’m female?”

  Tom blinked and shook his head. “What are you talking about? I’m here.”

  “Yes, you are.” She crossed her arms and looked him up and down. “And that makes even less sense. Are you fucking her?”

  “What?” His face flamed. “Who?”

  “That Isabelle. She called you Tom. Well, so did the other one, but I don’t think you’re her type.”

  “I’m not fucking anyone,” he snapped.

  “Then what the hell are we doing here? The truth!”

  Tom took a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping to expel some of his frustration and guilt, too. He glanced back toward the house, but no one was listening. In fact, the music leaking from inside was louder than it had been earlier.

  “Shit,” he muttered, turning back to find Mary watching him through narrowed eyes. “I need discretion here, Mary. This isn’t official.”

  “What isn’t official?”

  He spared one more look for the cabin, hearing the snow squeak and crunch under his feet when he shifted. “When I first showed up, Isabelle West seemed...not nervous, exactly. Hostile. Jaded. Enough so that I looked into it.”

  Mary’s eyebrows flew up. “A fugitive?”

  “No. I’ve checked. It’s not that. There’s nothing there, honestly, but I’ve got a hunch, and I figure they’ll be talking tonight.”

  “Are you sure you’re not just confused? She likes you.”

  “You’ve always trusted my hunches.”

  “Yes, but I also know how you are about playing savior. She doesn’t seem like a person who wants or needs help.”

  “Look, I just wanted the chance to follow up.” He shrugged the tension from his shoulders. “And it’s possible I don’t mind that she might like me.”

  “Oh,” she said, looking a little more open now. She glanced toward the cabin with curiosity instead of resentment. “Well, then.” She smiled toward the sound of the women laughing. “Tom Duncan has a crush.”

  “That’s not what this is about.”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  “I mean, I was checking her out before I was interested in her. And I can’t move on either way until I’m sure about her.”

  Mary nodded solemnly. “Well, you’d better get in there, then.”

  He cleared his throat. “I thought, um... It’s girls’ night. I thought maybe you could be the one...”

  “Me? Hang out with a bunch of drunk mountain women I’ve never met? No way. This is all you. I’ve got nothing in common with any of them.”

  He wanted to say “But I thought you might like Jill,” but he was evolved enough to know that She’s a lesbian, too! wasn’t a reasonable introduction. Still, he really liked Jill. And Mary had spent all of last year caught up in a drama-filled relationship with a thirty-year-old who’d jerked her around. She needed someone nicer. More stable. Someone kind and open enough to see past Mary’s formidable defenses.

  But that would go over almost as well as She’s a lesbian, too, so Tom kept his mouth shut. Plus, girls’ night intimidation aside, he really should be the one listening in. Still...they were already talking about sex.

  Then again, they were already talking about sex.

  “Fine,” he conceded. “I’ll take it.”

  “Good. I already made the rounds. No tracks anywhere. I’ll take a drive up the road to those summer cabins, just to scope it out, and let you know when I’m back so you don’t shoot me through a window.”

  “I’ll do my best not to.” Tom squared his shoulders and faced Isabelle’s cabin. The curtains had been drawn at his insistence, but he could still see the shadows of the women as they moved around the room. One of them was dancing to the faint thump of the music, and he suspected it was Isabelle.

  His initial impression of her had been of a guarded person. Reserved. But that had been so wrong. Distrustful of strangers, maybe, and of law enforcement definitely, but she wasn’t reserved. She was...free. Bold. And honest about everything except her past.

  And judging by what she’d been saying when he walked in, she was also fond of penises. He really couldn’t overlook such an important aspect of her personality.

  Tom was a guy who normally walked the straight and narrow, even if he had to fight his baser impulses to do it. He knew how important that was. Knew what the risks of giving in to a mistake were.

  But what if giving in to the attraction meant that he could help Isabelle? What if he could get her to trust him? Still...baser impulses had a way of convincing people they were doing the right thing when they weren’t. He’d have to proceed with caution.

  That in itself was problematic, because Isabelle didn’t seem to know much about caution. Look at the way she’d leaned into his kiss. The way she’d teased him. The way she’d dared him to do it again.

  The woman was dangerous. Like a drug that could get into his veins and pull him deep under. A drug that smelled good and tasted even better.

  Damn. He wanted it. Wanted her. Bad.

  No. Tonight he needed to concentrate less on her cleavage and more on eavesdropping when her guard was down.

  A good plan. But when he stepped inside the cabin again, Isabelle was slipping off the sweater that had kept her mostly hidden, and now it wasn’t only cleavage. It was her arms, pale and so much softer than his. Her shoulders, strong from so many hours holding a brush at delicate angles. And her neck, naked and bare with the way she’d pulled her hair up again.

  That was another thing he liked about her: the careless way she twisted her hair off her neck, exposing her vulnerable spine to his gaze. He liked looking at the careful steps
of the bones as they descended to her back.

  Tonight she wore a necklace that wound around before dipping all the way down to the rise of her breasts, resting just where he wanted to press his mouth.

  Damn it.

  “I thought you were supposed to be watching Veronica,” Jill said from his side.

  “She seems fine,” he said without looking at her, but when Jill held a tray of little pastries out to him, he turned to face her before taking one. “She likes being out here in the woods,” he said. “Isabelle.”

  “She’s comfortable with solitude.”

  “Is that what it is?”

  Jill studied him for a moment before walking away to set the pastries on the living room table. The other women pounced on the food, but Jill returned to his side. He fought the urge to shift under her direct gaze. “What do you think it is?” she finally asked.

  “I think she doesn’t trust people.”

  “True. But people aren’t very trustworthy, are they?”

  He didn’t flinch at that, but he wanted to. “I’m the wrong guy to ask. I encounter a lot of bad people, so I’d definitely say no. But is there something more specific? Something I should know?”

  Her surprise seemed genuine. “About Isabelle? You’d have to ask her.”

  “You never have?”

  Jill shook her head. “Life is hard. I’m a black gay woman who was born in the South a long time ago. I’ve been hurt by more people in my life than I’ve been helped. By people I loved. If I had to guess, I’d say the people Isabelle loved hurt her, too.”

  Tom nodded and glanced toward the window, wanting to look away, but the curtains closed him off from distraction. “It’s always the people you love, isn’t it? Otherwise it wouldn’t hurt.”

  She touched his arm. “Ask her if you want. But if she won’t tell you, leave it be. She didn’t come to the mountains to be poked at.”

  He nodded, and she smiled.

  “I mean, I’m not saying that a little poking wouldn’t be nice, but that’s another thing you’d have to ask her about.”

  His face went hot immediately, and when Jill laughed in delight, it only got hotter.