Light Me Up

by Isabel Sharpe

  The icing on the cake? Dimitri was also very handsome.

  But handsome doesn’t always equal hot. And enjoying being with someone definitely doesn’t always lead to physical heat.

  She sighed deeply, wishing that little voice in her head would shut up, even while acknowledging the words were true.

  But it didn’t matter—handsome was enough. Handsome was movie-star good looks, good manners, holding the door. Handsome was every hair in place, jaw smoothly shaven and a nice suit. Handsome was self-confidence borne of being admired by everyone who knew him, and inspiring fantasies of Prince Charming in just about every woman who saw him. Handsome was a good-night kiss with enough tongue to be provocative but not enough to be impolite.

  Handsome was Dimitri.

  Hot was…something else.

  Hot was sexy, rugged and edgy. Hot was unpredictable. Hot smelled sweaty and male, not doused with expensive cologne. Hot had thick muscles that gave proof of utter strength and could make any woman feel feminine by contrast. Hot had an edge of danger, wasn’t always courteous, didn’t treat a lover like a fragile object. Hot had a deep voice, knowing eyes and a stubbled jaw that every woman wanted roughing up her inner thighs. Hot would ensnare a woman…mind, body and soul.

  She fanned herself, acknowledging the truth. Handsome she had. Hot she hadn’t seen in a very long time.

  More importantly: handsome she should have. Hot she should stay away from.

  She shook off the mental images. Enough with the hot fantasies. Handsome reality was bringing her a glass of wine, drawing the appreciative stares of every person with a uterus.

  He was hers if she wanted him. And you want him. Damn it, you’d be crazy not to want him!

  But she was beginning to wonder. Heck, she hadn’t even been the one to invite him here tonight. Anna had bumped into him at the store and extended the invitation. Mimi had no idea why he’d accepted, considering he didn’t know anybody here except her. Since he’d said yes, he’d naturally expected Mimi to be his date, which should make any woman extremely happy.

  “Okay, Miss Smarty-Pants, if you’re not about looks, care to explain your date over there?”

  “You invited him,” she pointed out.

  “Only because you’ve gone out with him a few times.”

  “I know, my family swears he’s perfect for me. And he is very good-looking,” she admitted. Then, speaking more to herself, she voiced the concern that had been niggling at her. “But there’s also something called chemistry.”

  “Hate to break it to ya, but you two ain’t got it.”

  She sighed. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Only to an expert like me.”

  And to Mimi. She’d already figured out that good looks didn’t always inspire sparks, and dating someone wasn’t the same as wanting to go to bed with him. If it were, she and Dimitri would probably be sleeping together, or perhaps even engaged, which was what her father was pushing for. Pushing hard.

  Dimitri was a new executive with Burdette Quality Foods, the family business. He was also her Dad’s right-hand man. Cultured, handsome, well-educated. The perfect guy in every way.

  But perfect for her?

  Anna shook her head and tsked. “Honey, it’s obvious you’re experiencing a small sexual dry spell.”

  “Small? Try Sahara-sized,” she admitted, wondering, not for the first time, if there was something wrong with her.

  “So, sex camel, what are you looking for, a Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp oasis?”

  Dimitri would probably be considered every bit as handsome as those men. Still, there was no fire. When he kissed her, she always thought, well, that’s nice. But she never had the urge to rip off his pressed shirt, shove him against a wall and thrust her tongue down his throat. And they’d never done anything more than kiss. He hadn’t pushed, and she hadn’t wanted him to. Because, for a sex camel, nice sex wasn’t an oasis, it was just the last few drops of water from a nearly empty canteen.

  If she really wanted an oasis, she needed hot.

  Forget it. Heat burns. A lukewarm canteen is good enough.

  “I honestly don’t know,” she finally admitted. “He’s everything I should want.”

  “But not what you need? Not what you crave?”

  Needing and craving didn’t begin to describe what she felt for Dimitri. Respecting and appreciating did. “Like I said, there’s more to life.”

  “You tell yourself that the next time a gorgeous, hot, half-naked man lands at your feet.”

  “I think I’ll go for a walk during the next thunderstorm. I’d have a better chance of getting struck by lightning.”

  “Thunderstorm?” Dimitri asked. “It doesn’t look like rain.”

  Glad he hadn’t overheard their entire conversation, Mimi took the glass of wine he offered, murmuring, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. How about a dance when you’re finished?”

  Dancing under the stars with a handsome man. It should sound heavenly. But instead it sounded…just okay. As okay as everything else in her life lately.

  Okay is fine. Okay is better than wounded and lonely. Okay is better than wondering what the hell is wrong with you since the last few rounds of ring-around-the-relationship ended with you in the used-and-heartbroken seat.

  She’d been following her libido instead of her brain and had lived to regret it. So her brain needed to be in charge from now on. And her brain said okay was good enough.

  “Sure, thanks,” she said, lowering the glass.

  She let Dimitri lead her to the flagstone patio, which was being used for dancing. Mimi held her breath, looking up at his handsome face—all slashing, GQ-magazine-cover cheekbones, haughty brows, dark green eyes that watched her closely. She was waiting for a frisson of sensation, a spark at the brush of his tall, lean body against her own, but it just didn’t happen.

  Maybe it never will. Maybe acknowledging that he’s handsome and smart, and liking him will do.

  She did like him, and respected him. She doubted he’d hurt her—the fact that she wasn’t desperate for him should be enough to insulate her from too much pain if things went south. And it would certainly make things nice in terms of the business, not to mention her rocky relationship with her dad.

  In this day and age, no self-respecting woman would marry a man just to please her father, and Mimi wouldn’t, either. But considering her old man swore she’d said every word in the dictionary except “Dada” as an infant, just to spite him, she didn’t think extending an olive branch was such a bad thing. It wasn’t just wanting to keep things smooth at work. She also didn’t want to fight with him because she knew it upset her mother, who’d been playing the role of peacekeeper since Mimi took her first steps. So would it really be such a hardship to let herself drift into a relationship with a man most women would consider a Greek god, who was also rich, smart and nice?

  No. It wouldn’t.

  It was time to rid herself of the I-want-it-hot fantasies and move into the next phase of her life. The settle-down-and-marry-a-nice-handsome-man-and-have-a-family phase. Which meant maybe it was time to move her relationship with Dimitri up a notch…and closer to her bedroom.

  She thought about it. The party would wind down in an hour or two. Afterward, she could invite him into her apartment for a drink. They’d kiss. She’d move close, let her breasts brush against his chest. Tangle her legs between his. She wouldn’t resist when he slid his hand up her thigh, edging her dress ever higher. Until he reached her… “Oh, hell,” she mumbled.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she insisted, feeling heat stain her cheeks.

  Nothing except she was in no way dressed for seduction. Oh, sure, she was on the outside. But underneath her slinky, sexy dress, she wore what every other self-respecting American woman who didn’t want a single bulge showing wore: Spanx.

  She’d loved this dress the minute she saw it, though it had been a size smaller than she usually wore.
A pair of superstrong control-top panties had seemed a small price to pay…but they weren’t going to lend themselves to a romantic atmosphere. He’d probably have to get power tools to drag them off her.

  Only one thing to do. Ditch the drawers.

  The evening was getting late, it was dark, people were drinking. Who’d notice if she switched into something sexy and her dress suddenly fit a little too tightly? Nobody, that’s who. And maybe doing it—getting ready for seduction, feeling the silky glide of lingerie against her most intimate parts—would get her in the mood to act on her plan to seduce him.

  “Would you excuse me? I need to run inside for a minute.”

  To pry off my underwear.

  “Of course,” he said, releasing her. No argument, no suggestion that he go, too, so they could continue their dance in private. How—boring—refreshing.

  Thrusting aside those thoughts, she turned away from him toward the house. But she hadn’t taken one step when she heard a woman nearby whisper in a loud, tipsy voice, “Whoa, mama, who’s that?”

  Curious about the comment, which sounded as though it should have been accompanied by a purr, she glanced toward the gate, and her breath caught in her throat.

  Anna stood there, and beside her was a stranger. A tall, dark-haired stranger, wearing low-slung jeans and nothing else.

  The jeans looked good. The nothing, fantastic.

  He was shirtless, shoeless, sweaty. His slick, tanned body gleamed under the twinkle lights, lines of oh-so-interesting skin striped with equally interesting shadow. His broad shoulders looked Atlas-size, and his thickly muscled arms flexed as he swiped a hand through his jet-black hair.

  She couldn’t make out whether he was as handsome of face as he was of body. But she definitely noted that his six-pack abs were so perfect they ought to be sold in a liquor store and come with a warning label.

  Whoa, mama, indeed.

  “Mimi? Are you all right?”

  She tore her attention off the stranger and glanced at Dimitri, who was watching her curiously.

  “I’m fine,” she told Mr. Handsome.

  But, heaven help her, she could not stop wondering about the identity of the new arrival.

  Aka: Mr. Hot.

  * * *

  TALK ABOUT MAKING a bad first impression on his new neighbors. Not only was Xander McKinley so not the garden party type, but he was also bare-chested, sweaty and probably stunk from having lugged boxes all evening.

  He had fully intended to stay inside tonight, to ignore the party going on in his new backyard. He was a stranger to these people, and while it had been nice of his landlady to extend the invitation, he hadn’t even considered intruding. He still hadn’t gotten his head wrapped around the whole Southern-gentility thing, since Georgia was like a different world from Chicago. But he knew it wasn’t mannerly to barge in on a party when the invite had only been extended out of politeness. So he’d planned to just finish hauling in the last of his stuff, which he’d picked up from the storage unit this afternoon, then unpack a few boxes and settle into his new home.

  Unfortunately, settling in hadn’t included hooking his new key to his key ring. So when he’d run outside to grab one last thing out of the truck—sans shirt and shoes—he’d also found himself sans key. And locked out.

  “I’m so sorry about this,” he repeated to his new landlady.

  Anna waved away his apology. “I should think you’d know how to get in without a key, being a dashing firefighter and all.”

  “I didn’t think you’d want me ramming the door down.”

  “Best not. Anyway, it’s just as well, since it forced you to come out and meet everyone,” she said.

  He gestured toward his sweaty, bare chest. “I’m not exactly dressed for a party.”

  “Well, I won’t let you back into your place until you promise to come back after you’ve gotten cleaned up.”

  “I don’t know….”

  “I do. No more arguments.” The woman led him to a row of chairs in a gazebo, grabbing an oversized purse that was covered with peace signs and jingled with every movement. “I don’t have a key to your front door with me, but I have a master that fits all the secret doors.”

  “Secret doors?”

  “You probably didn’t notice it—every unit has one. The one in your unit is inside what’s now your bedroom closet. It leads into the screened porch.” She grabbed a jangling ring of keys and removed a small, antique-looking one. “Here it is. Go through the porch and head for the door in the far right corner.”

  She gestured toward the porch, and he glanced over. There were about fifty people at the party, many of them milling around outside the back door, and he was going to have to go through all of them. Great. Wonderful. Note to self—don’t go out shirtless and shoeless unless you know you can get back in.

  He reached for the key, but before he could take it, something caught his attention. Or, rather, someone.

  He whistled. “Who is she?” he mumbled, not even realizing he’d said it out loud.

  There were a lot of women here. Attractive women. The South definitely had its share of them. But this one actually made him forget where he was and what he was saying. He could only stand there, staring, as she walked toward the screened-in porch.

  With her back to the decorated lawn and woods, she was almost haloed by the thousands of tiny lights. She looked like some kind of magical creature stepping out of a storybook, and he had to blink a few times to rid his mind of the imagery.

  He could shake off the magic, but no amount of blinking could change the fact that she was stunning. Or that she looked like she belonged to the night—to nature and the woods and everything mystical.

  The woman was tall. Her silky dress was long and shimmery, the color of soft, springy moss, and it clung to a curvy body that would make a man drop to his knees and howl. Her thick hair fell down her back in a tumble of waves and was a mixture of earthy colors—mostly red, but with some gold and brown strewn in there as well. He couldn’t make out her features in this lighting and from this distance, but he saw a mouth curved up into a smile.

  He’d thought earlier how hot it was for a summer night. But he hadn’t even understood the meaning of the word until he’d spied her across the party. Because a blast of heat had hit him square in the chest just watching her cross the lawn.

  “That’s Mimi Burdette.” His landlady smiled, her gaze shifting back and forth between him and the redhead, who’d disappeared into the screened porch. “Would you like me to introduce you when you come back?”

  Oh, hell to the yeah. But something made him ask, “Is she here alone?”

  “She’s single,” the woman replied without hesitation. “Totally available.”

  Hard to believe, but everybody had a down spell now and then. “Interesting,” he said, more to himself than to Anna.

  He hadn’t even been thinking about meeting a woman; the idea of romance was so far down on his list it wasn’t on the first page. New job, new home, new state, fresh start—yeah, that was his focus. Having nothing left in Chicago, he’d moved south, determined to make sure he did what he’d promised his parents he’d do before they’d both died last year—go out and start over somewhere new. Find a life for himself. One that didn’t include sadness and loss and family responsibilities that had kept him close to home for nearly all of his thirty years.

  Hell, maybe a woman could be part of that new life. Just because he hadn’t been looking didn’t mean he should walk the other way if an interesting one crossed his path. And an interesting one had most definitely just crossed his path.

  “Mimi, huh?” The name was too cute for such a sensual-looking woman and he had to wonder if it was a nickname.

  “She’s fabulous,” Anna gushed. “Daughter to a grocery store magnate. Very wealthy and successful.”

  Oh, great. Just the type of woman he did not need. He stiffened, unable to help it.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like rich peop
le. He made it a point to never judge anyone based on their checkbook balance, be it written in red ink or in black. It was just that, working as a Chicago firefighter, he had met more than a few wealthy women who wanted to walk on the wild side with somebody who had a dangerous job. He’d once participated in a bachelor auction to benefit a kids’ charity. The Junior League set had treated all the men like meat in a butcher shop. The sixtyish cougar who’d bought a date with him hadn’t quite reached the level of sexual assault, but she’d come close, and he’d sworn he’d never date a woman with money. Rich, spoiled and young probably wasn’t too much different from rich, spoiled and old. So forget her.

  “Thanks, but I don’t think so,” he said, disappointment flooding him. Anna’s brow shot up, and confusion creased her brow. Not wanting to explain, Xander added, “And thanks for the key. I’ll return it soon.”

  “Okay, see you in a little while.” Then, clearing her throat, Anna added, “Remember, through the screen porch, to the small, old-fashioned door in the far left corner.”

  Left? Yeesh. Good thing she’d repeated herself—he’d been thinking right. Or, more accurately, he hadn’t been thinking right…not since he’d spied that stunning figure in green.

  Xander nodded, then headed for the porch. There were at least a dozen people inside. He didn’t see a reddish head, but he probably would once he stepped into the shadowy alcove. Despite having decided that some rich Southern belle whose looks clawed at his guts wasn’t on his shortlist of people to meet, he couldn’t deny he wanted to see her close up. Mainly he wanted to see her eyes. Were they green, the same mossy shade as her dress? Or a rich amber-brown?

  Or maybe they’re pinched, cold, bloodshot.

  That would probably be a good thing. Because then he would see she wasn’t as attractive as he imagined, but just a normal, rich, bored, jaded young woman. Not some magical fantasy creature spun out of summer moonlight.

  As it turned out, though, he didn’t get the chance to see her up close. Because, as he made his way across the screened porch, he realized she wasn’t inside. She must have slipped back out when he wasn’t looking.