For the first time in years, I cried.
Read on for an excerpt from DOGGONE, Gabriella Herkert’s next novel, coming in September 2008.
Forty-seven minutes to naked. I looked at the text message again. I’d never been the sort to turn my cell phone on the second an airplane landed, but then again, my messages were getting better. At least my propositions weren’t coming from strangers anymore. I caught my seatmate glancing at my screen. She was a grandmother in a housedress who’d spent the journey showing me pictures of gap-toothed adolescents and waxing rhapsodic over their amazing achievements.
“Porn,” said grandma, sighing. “I miss it.”
I tried to cover my choke with a cough and reached for my carry-on.
Where? I typed, lining up in the airplane aisle behind the harried parents of screaming twin toddlers.
Anywhere?
I shook my head and tapped. Where r u?
Security.
Safe sex?
Flirt!
U started.
I shuffled off the airplane and into the terminal. The airport was bright, the tinted windows blocking the brutal glare of the San Diego sun. I walked beside the moving escalator, too impatient to stand and wait to be transported. I saw Connor through the plexiglass at security, the sun streaming behind him giving him a sort of halo. He looked up from his cell phone to watch a twenty-something Lucille Ball in a tight, short dress walk by him. I snapped my phone closed and moved past the checkpoint.
“I can come back if you’re having a guy moment,” I drawled.
Man, he looked good. Really good. An Adonis with a navy haircut. I tried to smooth my hair. No man should look that good when static electricity was turning me into a jeans-wearing Medusa. He grinned, amused. Fine. I’d just be cool. Oh, what the heck. Amused could be done naked.
Connor pushed a loose curl behind my ear and kissed the skin beneath my lobe. He whispered, “Forty-three.” Then he grabbed my hand and steamrolled toward baggage claim.
“That’s it?” I asked, half running to keep up. “I don’t see you for three weeks, fly for hours behind hyperactive five-year-olds, and I all I get is a peck? I must look really bad.”
He stopped. Turned. Let his eyes wander from the top of my head to my toes and back up, stopping at his favorite parts.
“Or not,” I said weakly, covering my cheek with my hand.
“Not.” He started pulling me again but I balked under the baggage claim sign.
“Um, Connor?”
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t actually check any luggage.” I half turned, showing the carry-on bag I had draped over one shoulder.
“That’s it?”
“Yep.”>
“One overnight bag for a week?”
“Well, um, yeah,” I shrugged.
“You are the weirdest woman. But I like that. One suitcase. Thirty-eight.” He took my bag and herded me out the door into the bright sunshine.
“Because I can fit my jammies in one suitcase?”
“You’re not going to need pajamas.”
An older woman in a gray suit looked over her shoulder at us, silver eyebrows raised. What was this, shock a senior day?
He stopped next to a convertible. Black. I couldn’t help smiling. Honestly, sometimes the guy thought he was James Bond. The convertible was at short-term parking, which was half the distance and twice the price. Money well spent. He tossed my bag into the car before backing me up against the hot metal and really kissing me hello. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him back. Connor could kiss.
“Get a room.” An old guy muttered as he climbed into a Buick in the next slot.
“Great idea.” He whispered, reaching behind me to open the door.
“You are a bad influence.” I slid into the passenger seat, fanning my face with one hand. “But we have a great car.”
“We?” he asked, getting behind the wheel and reaching across me. I felt the tingle slide all the way down my spine. I swatted at his hand, but he just opened the glove compartment and took out the parking ticket, holding it up for me to see with his most innocent expression. An angel he was not.
“We. California is a community-property state. I never thought I’d own even half a BMW.” I looked over at him. “Impressive as it is, if you boosted this car I never saw you before.”
The engine roared to life and Connor drove toward the exit. He moved his hand to my thigh and I could feel his heat through the denim. I gave him my best what-are-you-up-to look—like I didn’t know—but didn’t move his hand. This flirting thing was fun.
“What’s the new case about?” He yelled over the rush of wind. Once in fifth gear on the freeway, he returned his hand to my thigh, migrating just a little north.
“Fraud. One of those identity theft things.” I yelled back, stroking the back of his hand. “Except that my thief is bolder than most.”
“Bolder?” He slid his fingers up two inches of denim.
I pushed him back to the relative sanity of my knee. Crashing wouldn’t be good here. “Yeah, bolder. My guy isn’t just in it for the money. He wants the fame, the attention, the invites to the swankiest parties in town.”
“I’d pretend to be somebody else to get out of one of those things.”
“I bet you look great in a tux. Sort of James Bondish.”
“I’d look like a waiter.”
“Well, a waiter at a nice restaurant, anyway,” I laughed.
Weren’t we the normal married couple? Recently married, with the flirting and sexual tension—normal. Half the time it felt like I was pretending to be married and Connor was just a figment of my imagination. A very good, very vibrant imagination, but make-believe nevertheless. It was probably the Las Vegas thing. Knowing him a week and then getting married. The long delay before he showed up in Seattle. His casualness about the whole thing. If this were the real world, there would be a lot more panic. Hyperventilation and hand-wringing followed by drunken excuses and annulment. What the heck? If I was going to hallucinate a hot husband, a hot car, and the promise of hot sex, I might as well enjoy it.
“Or you could wear your uniform,” I suggested. “Sort of a blond Tom Cruise. Now, he’s cute.”
He squeezed my leg and I squirmed with a laugh. Now he knew I was ticklish. Another late-to-the-party discovery.
“He’s short. Besides, you wouldn’t throw me over for a midget actor in an ice-cream suit, would you?”
“I would if he’d give me a deal on chocolate-chocolate chip. Men are great, but they’re not dessert.”
He lifted my hand and kissed my fingers, and then my palm. “Depends.”
I curled my fingers over the spot. “Watch the road.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So, anyway . . . my identity thief gave this interview to some right-wing radio guy, all about how he had amnesia for years and wandered around homeless. Then, one day, he just woke up and remembered who he was.”
“Rich and famous. That’s handy,” he said, pulling onto the San Diego-Coronado Bay Bridge. I grabbed at his arm, craning for a better look at the view.
“Amazing.” I leaned back in my seat. “What? Oh, yeah. He remembered he was rich. Not so famous, though. My guy, the real guy, he’s practically a hermit. Makes Howard Hughes look like a party animal. Which is why John Doe—that’s what I call my mystery man—why John needed to do interviews. He wanted to raise his profile. Become Time’s Man of the Year.”
“Gutsy,” Connor said.
“Maybe, but definitely not genius material.”
We were pulling onto Orange Drive, heading toward the Hotel del Coronado. I wanted to go see the old hotel, maybe check out the ghost stories. I looked at Connor. Maybe we’d do that later, but at the moment we were on our way to his place. It was weird. I never thought of myself as half of a couple before. Planning little adventures for the two of us. It was amazing how quickly I was adjusting to this new two-person configuration.
Connor
pulled in front of a condo, parking in a red zone. Apparently he was also seeing some advantages in the relationship. I smirked.
“Welcome home, Mrs. McNamara,” he said.
I giggled. He yanked my suitcase off the backseat and sprinted around the car. We laughed and chased each other into the building, stopping for a mind-blowing kiss just inside the door. Seven floors in the sluggish elevator and he had my shirt mostly unbuttoned, sending tingles down my back. Ten floors and we could have been arrested.
His apartment was at the end of the hall. We kissed and touched and he fumbled with his keys. I leaned back against the door, pulling him closer to me as the door collapsed behind me. I grabbed for him to keep from falling backward.
“You must be Sara.”
Connor pushed me behind him with enough force to make me stumble, and I grabbed for my open shirt. I struggled with the buttons, peering around his shoulder to gape at the intruder.
“Either that or you got some ‘splainin’ to do, Lucy.”
A younger, darker version of Connor waggled his eyebrows at me. I stood horrified as the Norman Rockwell portrait of mother, father, brother, and sister stood framed in the open doorway, all assessing me and my state of undress. Oh my God. They had to be his family.
“You ever think of calling first?” Connor asked harshly, sexual frustration evident in his voice.
Great. Terrific. Now, not only was I seducing their firstborn in a public hallway, but he was openly resenting his own family. Family. As in stuck-for-life relationships. I’d barely considered meeting his family. If I had, I wouldn’t in my wildest, darkest dreams have imagined this nightmare.
“I couldn’t stop her,” Connor’s father offered. “You know how your mother is when she gets an idea in her head.” He shrugged, turning up his palms and not seeming even a little embarrassed. “Ryan, Siobhan, come into the living room. You, too, Liss. Let’s let them have a minute.”
His mother looked like a Madonna. All serene and unnerving. His sister seemed to share my mortification. Ryan gave me a leering wink before he turned away.
Grimacing, Connor looked at me. I kept one hand over my mouth to keep from retching. The other hand clutched my blouse closed.
“God, Sara, I’m really sorry. I didn’t know they would be here.” He reached for me but I jumped away. His family. Half-naked. Hallway. God.
“It’s okay,” I choked.
It was so not okay.
“I’m sorry.”
“No big deal. I just met my in-laws while stripping their eldest in a public area. At least I assume that’s who those people were. I mean, maybe they’re just voyeuristic burglars or we interrupted the plumber fixing the sink.” I concentrated on buttoning my blouse. Maybe he’d confirm one of my wild suggestions. Even a lie would be good here.
He shook his head.
“I’m sure I’ll be able to look them in the face again. In about a hundred years.” I put more room between us, rubbing at my arms. When did it get so cold? “Could you fix yourself?”
He looked down. His T-shirt was half-untuckled and the top button of his jeans was undone. He looked . . . mauled.
“They know we’re married, Sara.” He straightened his clothes.
“There’s knowing and then there’s knowing, Connor. This would be an overshare.” With a groan, I covered my face with my hands. A phone rang behind me as he tried to pull me into his arms, but no way was I going for that.
“They’re grown-ups, babe. I don’t think we’ve shocked them. Endangered, yes. Shocked, no.”
“Oh God,” I moaned.
“Uh, Sara?” The younger brother was back. “The phone’s for you.”
Exactly five minutes too late for premortification intervention. Timing was never my strong suit.
“Thank you.”
“I’m Ryan, the younger, smarter, better-looking brother.” Ryan flashed dimples at me.
“Hi.”
“Hi. You’re nothing like I was expecting.”
“Ryan, shut up.” Connor snapped. He moved to steer his younger brother back toward the interior of the apartment, but Ryan didn’t budge.
“I’m not sure I want to know,” I said.
“No, it’s good.”
“Why don’t you take it in the bedroom, Sara?” Connor suggested as Ryan reached for my hand.
“Particularly since the hall has gotten so crowded,” Ryan choked.
Ryan grinned and shifted his weight to avoid being moved. With his green eyes, he could pass for the Cheshire Cat. Well, if the cat had been a surfer dude. Connor was flushed, finally sharing my embarrassment. Served him right.
“I could distract the ’rents for you, but you won’t have time to get that shirt off a second time. Which is too bad, because that’s a sexy bra,” Ryan assured me.
“Uh, thanks.”
“Any time.”
“Ryan, get the hell out,” Connor snapped, closing the door in his brother’s face
“Sara, this isn’t as bad as it seems.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure it’s every bit as bad as it seems.”
“I’ll get rid of them.”
“Permanently?”
Connor looked shocked. I held up a hand. “Kidding.”
“I’ll send them out to dinner or something. Then, when they come back you can meet them normally.”
I stared at him. Yes, please, new in-laws, if you could just give me an hour alone with your sex-starved son and his unbuttoned jeans, I’ll be ready to exchange personal chitchat over coffee for the rest of the evening. Honestly, for a smart guy . . . I took a deep breath.
“I’m going to answer the phone. If I’m lucky, it’s an emergency that requires my immediate attention. If I’m really lucky, I’ll fall and smack my head on a table lamp and wake up having lost my own identity.”
“Honey . . .”
“Don’t honey me. Just”—I pointed toward the apartment—“deal. I’ll be right back.”
Connor opened the door and held it. I walked past him and toward the bedroom I could see at the end of the hall. Toward the phone, and if I was really, really, really lucky, an unlocked window and a fire escape.
About the Author
Gabriella Herkert currently lives in Seattle, where she works as an attorney. Catnapped is her first novel.
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