by Shirley Jump
It was exactly the kind of move a city girl would make. And exactly the kind of thing shy, predictable Meredith Shordon would never do.
That knowledge sent a fire rushing through her veins and yet at the same time, it was chilled by a chaser of a question. Would changing herself so drastically leave her even more lost in the end?
From behind her, she heard the whispers of the other diners, the gasp of some woman a few feet away and knew she'd gone a little too far. At least in a public place.
Before she ended up straddling him in the middle of the restaurant, Meredith pulled back. Her mother's words, "Indiana girls are good girls," echoed in her head, like drums beating a warning of impending danger.
"Now who's not thinking straight?" she said to him, determined not to let her mother's warnings or her Indiana roots show. Her voice sounded husky and sexy, filled with everything stirring deep inside her.
"My, my," said a voice over her shoulder. "Most people do that after they have the oysters."
Meredith's the-Heat-Is-On Steamers
1 tablespoon butter
1 teaspoon garlic, minced
1 pound clams, soft-shell, cherrystone or littleneck
1/4 cup white wine
Clarified butter for dipping
It's already steaming in the kitchen, so be sure to get a bite to eat to keep up your stamina. Start by rinsing the clams thoroughly in cold, running water. Soft-shell clams can hold onto that sand like some mothers try to hold onto their daughters, so scrub well. You may even need to soak them for a while in salted water to encourage them to let go. Drain, rinse again, then it's time to cook.
Preheat the saucepan, melt the butter and cook the garlic—but don't burn it. It's hard to lose track of what you're doing, especially with a man who looks like him around, but pay attention, just for a few minutes. Add the clams, just enough to cover the bottom. Too many and they'll stack up on each other and make it hard for each one to open up. Give them a stir, then add the wine. Cover and let it steam.
If you have nothing else to do, feel free to kick up a little steam in the kitchen yourself with that gorgeous guy who's doing everything in his power to resist you. I'd put a timer on, though, because those clams will be done in four minutes. Take out any clams whose shells are open .. .just begging to be eaten.
Any stubborn ones that didn't open should be discarded.
Serve with clarified butter and a little of the leftover juice. The best way to eat them? Dip, take a bite and then kiss him ... then repeat.
Many, many, many times.
Chapter Eight
The waitress's interruption had been both a blessing and a curse for Travis. Meredith was making it impossible to stick to his resolution and yet at the same time, he wanted nothing more than to forget the whole damned plan, especially when she had her lips on his.
Wasn't that where all his trouble had started, though? Between the beer and the women, Travis Campbell had somehow lost his way. The best answer to finding the path back was to suspend all bad behavior until he got his head clear.
Of course, his head was reeling now, filled with lusty images of Meredith Shordon and the education she wanted him to give her.
The waitress left after they placed an order for a large basket of steamers. Meredith, now safely on her side of the table again, asked for a glass of wine, Travis stuck to Coke. And stuck to his side of the white table top, keeping his thoughts on everything but the woman sitting across from him, the curve of her breasts teasing him through the V of her pale pink T-shirt and her unbuttoned leather coat.
Work. He'd think about work. And how getting to know Meredith—and probing into her thoughts— could help him get that promotion he was after.
Yeah, that worked. Sort of.
"Tell me about Indiana," he said.
"You don't need to get to know me. I'm not interested in a relationship."
"It's small talk, Meredith, not a marriage proposal."
"Well. .. good." Was it his imagination or did she look a bit disappointed?
The woman was a contradiction, that was for sure. Clearly, as desperate as she was to shed that Midwestern upbringing, a part of her still clung to those values like a security blanket.
Despite his baser self, that intrigued him.
"It's good for me, too," he said. Kept him on track and reminded him he'd made a thirty-day deal not to get involved with a woman, if only to prove to himself that he could live without wine, women or both together.
"If you're uncomfortable with me using you for sex—"
"Not at all," he lied.
"Good." But her storm-blue eyes seemed to send a very different signal.
Who was Meredith Shordon? And why did she keep saying she wanted one thing when she was so clearly not that kind of person?
"Tell me about where you come from," he asked again.
"Indiana is boring," she said after a moment "Lots of green nothing and a few farms."
"There are cities there, I hear." He grinned. "Even a state capital."
She chuckled. "There are, but not where I live. My town boasts a whopping three thousand people, and that's only in the summer."
"When all the snowbirds return?"
"Exactly."
"So what do you do for fun out there?"
She toyed with the stem on her wine glass, sending the zinfandel swirling a little against the clear goblet. "Well... compare our hogs."
He blinked. "As in Harleys?"
"No." She laughed again. "In Heavendale, we're strictly interested in the four-hooved kind. Virtually everyone is a member of 4-H," she explained. "The height of excitement is a blue ribbon at the state fair for having the honor of owning the world's biggest, and laziest, hog, or managing to get your sow to give birth to a record-breaking farrow, meaning a big litter of piglets."
He took a sip of his soda. "You don't seem the piglet type."
"I'm not."
When she didn't elaborate, curiosity nudged him closer. He leaned forward, waiting until her gaze met his a second time. A pretty shade of pink that mirrored her wine bloomed in Meredith's cheeks, like lightly dusted apples. "What type are you?"
She looked away, investing her attention in straightening her silverware. "The type that doesn't want to spend my Friday nights mudding in Bobby Reynolds's four-wheeler and my Saturday afternoons at Petey's Pizza Parlor serving pitchers of Bud to the men's athletic league."
"And so you came here to Boston, seeking more?"
"A lot more," she said softly, and the tone in her voice reignited the slumbering fire inside his gut.
The waitress came by and dropped off their basket of steamers. She checked on their drinks, asked them if they wanted another appetizer, and altogether lingered so long that the heat between Travis and Meredith subsided again from High to Low.
With that, Travis's better sense returned and he reminded himself he wasn't here to have sex with her—unfortunately—but rather to save her from making a reckless decision, something he knew way too much about, and to help him find a way to market the impossible to Middle America.
"What are these again?" Meredith asked, gesturing toward the covered basket sitting in the middle of the table.
"Soft-shell clams with drawn butter for dipping." He lifted off the bowl on top, picked up one of the opened clams and held it out to her. "Otherwise known as heaven on a plate."
Meredith gave him—and it—a dubious glance. "They look kind of... slimy."
"Not at all. Try one. You'll see."
She arched a brow and picked up the clam, careful to only touch the shell with the tips of her fingers, then put it back down into the pile, clearly not ready for steamers yet.
"What's the matter, don't you trust me?"
"Well... no."
He chuckled. "Good. Because I wouldn't trust me either, except when it comes to seafood." He reached for a second one, slipped the clam meat out of the shell with his fork, then dipped it into his dish of butter before popping i
t into his mouth. The taste of salt and fat hit his palate like a gift.
"I don't know ..." She gave the clams another uncertain glance.
"Here." He took his fork, scooped out the clam meat from the shell, then swirled the plump tan morsel in the warm, clarified butter. Then he moved forward, holding the fork outside her mouth. His gaze met hers and asked her to do the impossible.
Trust him.
The air between them stilled, caught in the crossfire of a budding desire and the first tentative steps each was taking toward the other.
Then Meredith smiled, leaned toward him and opened her mouth. When she parted those soft pink lips and took the bite with white, perfect teeth, Travis almost groaned. His mind flashed images of her mouth on him, giving his body the same delicate attention she had given to the ocean's finest.
Oh, damn. He was crazy if he thought he could keep his hands off her. If he thought some silly resolution he'd made while still in the throes of a hangover would stand up against a real woman.
A real woman who wanted him to go to bed with her. A virgin, no less.
Every man's fantasy—on his own personal queen-sized platter, anytime he wanted it.
Oh, boy. He was in trouble now.
"Oh God, Travis," Meredith said twenty minutes later, the words almost a sigh. "I had no idea it would be this good." A contented smile spread across her lips.
"I told you so."
"Mmm." She closed her eyes, clearly reliving the entire experience. "You were so right. I'll have to listen to you more often."
With her looking like that, satisfied and happy, and just waiting for him to take the lead, Travis nearly sprang out of his seat and finished what Meredith had started earlier, consequences be damned. Instead, he reined in his hormones, picked up his fork and speared the last steamer from their second order. He dipped it in butter before holding it out toward her.
"You're letting me have the last one?" she asked.
"I'm not hungry anymore." For food at least. For watching her give him that smile again ... That appetite he suspected would never be quenched.
Meredith opened her mouth, accepting the edible gift, and sighed again after she swallowed. "Nothing in Indiana tastes like this."
"Too many cows spoiling the epicurean experience." Travis grinned.
She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, then replaced it neatly in her lap, the primness of her actions—and all its contradictions to the way she'd behaved earlier—a turn-on he hadn't expected. "Does all seafood taste this good?"
"Everything I've had does."
She looked down at the dish, now just a pile of empty shells and leftover juice. "Can we do this again sometime? Soon?"
"Anytime you want." Tonight, in my bed. Tomorrow morning, after breakfast. Preferably naked next time.
Meredith cupped her chin in her hand and smiled at him. "Well, I guess that makes two things I'm craving in Boston now."
"Two?"
"Uh-huh." The twinkle in her eyes left no doubt what one of the two things was. "And I want to get as much of both as I can before I have to return to the land of beef and pork."
Oh God. Travis waved a hand at the waitress. "Uh, check please."
Around them, the restaurant and the marketplace plaza hummed with activity but Travis barely noticed. His attention stayed riveted on Meredith, on the woman he'd tried so hard to avoid and now couldn't seem to stay away from.
Her hair, now freed by the new cut to frame her face, trailed along her jaw and neck. He wanted to reach forward and brush the tendrils back, then lower his mouth to the delicate flesh along her throat, to taste the sweet skin there, working his way down along the edge of her breasts, taking first one in his mouth, then the other, giving each equal attention. Then he'd kiss a path along her waist, slipping past her hips, down, down, down to—
No. No. No!
That was not why he was here.
Hadn't he agreed to her crazy proposition to protect Meredith from herself? What was he thinking? That was like asking the Big Bad Wolf to be Little Red Riding Hood's Sunday school teacher.
"So, are we going back to your place now?" Meredith asked, moving her empty glass to the side.
Leaving more room for the wolf to come across the table and devour her in one easy bite.
"Don't you want to get to know me a little first?"
She shook her head. "Not particularly."
"Don't get me wrong, Meredith. What you're offering me is pretty much every man's dream ..."
"But..." she prompted when he didn't finish.
"But I can't quite figure out why you're doing it or why I'm even hesitating on taking you back to my bed and tearing off that little pink T-shirt right now." His voice dropped into a growl. "And everything else."
A flush of crimson showed in her cheeks. Miss Meredith Shordon wasn't as unflappable as she liked to think.
"You're not like any woman I've ever met," he said. "And I find that intriguing."
"What kind of women have you been meeting?"
"Not the memorable kind, that's for sure." He rubbed at his temples. Well, they'd been memorable, but not in a good way.
The waitress slid the bill onto the table. Meredith grabbed it before Travis could and slipped forty dollars inside the leather folio.
"Why are you paying?" he asked, covering her hand with his own.
"Because this isn't, technically, a date."
"It isn't? We're alone. Together. Talking about ourselves. Sounds like a date to me."
"Fine." She slid one of the twenties out and put it back in her purse. 'Then we can split the tab."
"Quite the modern woman, aren't you?"
"I'm trying." Meredith fingered the stem of her empty wineglass and looked at Travis. "Why aren't you dating memorable women?" she asked again.
Travis let out a sigh that seemed to weigh more than the cobblestones that paved the marketplace. "It's complicated."
She reminded herself that she didn't need to get to know this man. She didn't want to get close to him. But something about that sigh and the way he said the words touched a common thread inside her heart. "What do you mean?"
He rubbed his head again before speaking. "I know you think I'm some ... Well, I don't know what you think I am, but trust me, before a couple days ago, I wasn't that kind of man."
She circled the rim of the delicate goblet. "That makes two of us turning over a new leaf in our lives."
"Well, mine's more like raking out the dead debris and hoping like hell there's something better than a shriveled up pile of manure underneath it."
She laughed. "You couldn't be that bad."
"I'm not Exactly Clark Kent."
"Well, I'm no angel myself."
He shook his head, a smile playing at his lips. "I disagree. I look at you and I can practically see the halo glowing around your head."
She directed a finger at his chest. "That's because you haven't helped me shed it yet."
"And what if I said I thought it would be wrong to do that?"
"Wrong to go to bed with me?"
"Yeah."
There he went, throwing a huge cog into her plans again. Five minutes ago, he seemed ready to head off to the nearest flat surface and give her the tour of Boston no one talked about in the Dummies guide. But now, he had blocked those vibes, as if he'd thrown a switch to "off."
"I'm not underage or wanted by the FBI," she said. "I'm not a nun or a married woman. There's nothing wrong with sleeping with me."
"Oh, I think there'd be many things that would be right about us going to bed together," he said, his grin seductive and teasing all at once, the switch back at on, then just as quickly, flicking off, "but..."
"But I'm not your type?"
He let out half a chuckle. "You, Meredith, are as far from the kind of woman I usually date as lemons are from chocolate cake."
"I'm the lemon, I take it?"
"Oh no. You're the cake. And I'm not so sure I should be, ah, let's say ... lick
ing the frosting."
She studied him for a long moment. Here was a man who made no bones about his own checkered past and yet, he wouldn't sleep with her because he was worried about her honor? There was more to Travis Campbell than she suspected even he knew. More depth. More morals.
More man.
And for a girl who vowed she wouldn't get involved with him, she was suddenly feeling very tender and very involved.
He rose, slipping a twenty over the bill to accompany hers. "Let me bring you home."
"So soon?"
"I'd better do it before I forget all those pretty little resolutions I just made."
She stood and crossed to him, standing within an inch of his chest. "And what if I tempt you to throw those resolutions into Boston Harbor? Like our own little personal tea party?"
"Don't," he said, his voice low and hoarse. "Remember, I'm a weak man."
"Oh, I don't think so, Travis," she said, walking a finger slowly up his chest and taking a small thrill from the rise she saw in his eyes. "I think you've got all the strength I need."
Then she turned on her heel and walked out of the restaurant, leaving a whole lot of farm girl behind.
Travis's Not-Much-of-a-Cook Shrimp and Bacon Bites
16 cleaned, cooked shrimp, medium size
1/3 cup chili sauce
8 slices bacon
Hey, I'm a bachelor who lives on Cheerios and Papa Gino's pizza. What'd you expect? Crème brulee? This is as fancy as I get without calling for delivery.
Still, it's a nice way to tempt a woman, especially one who has eyes the color of a stormy sky. Start by mixing the shrimp with the chili sauce. Cover and refrigerate for a few hours. Can't think of a way to fill those hours with the woman by your side? Then you must be married.
Cut the bacon strips into halves and cook them until they're limp, not crisp. The bacon is limp. Don't be getting any wrong ideas here. Wrap each shrimp in a bacon piece, then secure with a toothpick. Broil until the bacon is crisp and the woman you want to impress is dying for a bite.
