Hot Touch

by Deborah Smith

  “Wolf likes you. Be happy with that.”

  “Wolf is smarter than his master. He’s willing to give me a chance to do my job.”

  He turned around and shook the kettle at her. “You talk too much.”

  “Probably. I was an only child. It’s a habit.”

  “Break it.”

  He busied himself at the stove. She ogled him shamelessly. He had a great rump, and the thin tank top didn’t hide much of his magnificent back and shoulders.

  This man would age well, adding a little more weight to his torso perhaps, but keeping the solid look of a boxer’s physique. His shoulders moved fluidly, stirring his black hair where it brushed them.

  His height and sturdy build fit the big table and oversize kitchen, she decided. His dark good looks made an intriguing contrast to the bright yellow floor tiles and white appliances.

  The kitchen told her a lot about him. He looked comfortable, as if he spent a great deal of time there.

  It was a plain but homey place, full of gourmet gadgets, many of them hanging from a wrought-iron rack over the stove. Cheerful yellow curtains covered a large window over the sink. Newspapers and science journals were scattered on the countertops.

  A small cappuccino machine squatted on the counter that ran next to the refrigerator. Alongside the cappuccino machine sat a coffee grinder and glass canisters full of coffee beans.

  “Dr. Blue, you’re a confusing man,” Caroline noted bluntly. “Practical and impractical at the same time. Your kitchen table looks like it was designed with a chain saw, what I saw of your beloved upstairs was spartan, and yet you indulge in gourmet kitchen toys.”

  “Don’t talk to me,” he ordered. He went to the refrigerator and began stacking breakfast items in his arms.

  Caroline gazed hungrily at an uncut cantaloupe, a carton of eggs, and a chunk of cheese. “How kind of you,” she said sweetly. “To cook for me.”

  “I’m not cooking for you. Go eat with Frank.”

  She should do that, she knew, but she rebelled at the thought of giving up Paul and Wolf’s company.

  “I can’t,” she told him. “I’m studying Wolf.” That was true, at least. Wolf slumped on the floor, his dark gray head resting on his paws, his ears drooping.

  After his momentary, misguided excitement over his master’s new friend, he’d become melancholy again. “Is this typical?” she asked Paul.

  “Yeah. He’s been like that for a week.”

  Caroline propped her chin on one hand and gazed at Wolf, hoping to pick up information. But he was a blank. She sensed a deep sorrow within him, but couldn’t pinpoint the source.

  “After breakfast I’ll give him a massage. Frank can plan to start using him again this afternoon.”

  Paul cracked eggs into an stoneware bowl with angry force. “Scrambled,” he announced.

  “Undoubtedly. Yum.”

  “Thought you were a knee-jerk vegetarian.”

  “A moderate. I eat chicken and seafood on occasion.”

  “How noble.”

  “I just don’t like to eat anything that might have been a client. So far I haven’t trained a hen or a fish.” She sat down on the floor by Wolf and stroked his broad head. “I’ll get you back to top form, sweetheart.”

  Wolf licked her hand. She glanced up and caught Paul watching them with chagrin. She stuck her tongue out at him and his expression darkened even more.

  “All right, so Wolf likes you. But he’s going to be more trouble than you expected.”

  “Everything here is more trouble than I expected. Complicated.”

  “No, chère, it’s simple. I need Frank’s money, so I’ll put up with you. Wolf will snap out of his mood whether you work with him or not. You’ll go back to Beverly Hills and leave me alone.”

  “Gladly,” she muttered.

  “It’s nothing personal. I have a helluva workload around here, not enough help, not enough money, and the last thing I need is a complaining houseguest.” Paul turned to face her and spread his arms in an encompassing gesture. “Simplicity. My life-style.” He pointed to the cappuccino machine. “Simplicity makes small luxuries more enjoyable.” He jabbed a finger at her. “Even you’re simple.” He swept a taunting gaze over her clingy blue maillot. “Easy to understand in all the important ways.”

  “Or so you’d like to think.” Caroline leaned back warily and felt her heart pounding. He was remembering what had happened last night, and so was she.

  “You’ve had the scar since you were a little girl. You hated it, so you became preoccupied with hiding behind an image. You’re always on guard. Especially around men.” He smiled knowingly, his eyes confident. “But let you get close to a lion tamer like me, and you purr.”

  Caroline kept a neutral gaze directly on him while her stomach shuddered from the fear that he was right. “I’ll admit that we have a love-hate relationship.” She tilted her head jauntily. “You love to think you’re irresistible, and I hate to destroy your fantasy.”

  To her surprise, he chuckled, a low, sexy sound. Respect filtered into his eyes. “Be glad I don’t feel like proving you wrong.”

  “Thank you kindly for the reprieve. I’ll be too busy with Wolf to mope with disappointment. All I want is to finish this job and get as far away from magnolialand as I possibly can.”

  “Why do you dislike the South?”

  She sighed grandly. “Sir, behind my sweet and innocent manner rests a story too tragic for words.”

  “Uh-huh. Sweet and innocent. Like a lady ’gator.”

  Caroline placed a hand over her heart and shut her eyes. “I shan’t share it with a man of your sensitivity. It’s too, too sad.”

  “Let’s see. You had a Southern beau. He dumped you in favor of someone more docile, like maybe a Hell’s Angel.”

  Caroline dead-panned, “And that broad wore the tackiest brass knuckles.”

  Paul stared at her in surprise. It was hard not to like a woman who could make fun of herself. It wasn’t what he expected. They traded a look of tentative amusement until finally she coughed and looked away.

  Paul noticed abruptly that her face was chalky. The color had begun to fade from her complexion when he’d asked why she didn’t like the South.

  “Do you feel all right?” he asked with more concern than he’d intended. “Does talking about this subject really upset you?”

  Her eyes became wary at his gentle tone. “No. You’re incredibly nosy.”

  “I’m always curious to learn about new forms of wildlife.”

  Paul picked up a dark red tomato from a wooden bowl by the sink. He leaned with deceptive laziness against the counter and bit into the tomato slowly, his eyes never leaving Caroline’s.

  His actions were so slyly seductive that she studied him in silent disbelief, her lips parted. She’d never seen anyone eat a tomato this way before. He delicately sucked the pulp into his mouth and licked juice from the palm of his hand, using just the tip of his tongue.

  He took another bite—no, it wasn’t so much a bite as it was a tugging motion that involved every inch of his lips. He didn’t just eat the tomato, he enjoyed it.

  Caroline felt a relaxed, damp sensation spread outward between her thighs. The man wanted her to imagine his lips on something besides a tomato, and he’d succeeded.

  She stood up, straightened her fringed skirt with quick little jerks of her hands, and frowned at him. “That’s indecent. And hardly original.”

  He nodded, his blue eyes crinkling merrily.

  She scanned him from head to toe. “Your weapons are grand, doc, but this is one warrior who’s seen it all before. Tomatoes are overrated. So is sex. I’ll eat with the movie crew. Have Wolf at Frank’s trailer in forty-five minutes.”

  She turned on one heel and walked out of the kitchen. For the first time since they’d met, she heard him laugh, really laugh, as if he were having a fine time. It was a hearty, wonderful sound, and the only thing that made her teeth grind was the realization that
he was laughing at her.

  Wolf was like putty. She couldn’t penetrate the privacy of his mind, but she knew he loved having a massage. He lay on his side on the floor of Frank’s trailer, taking up all the walking room, his eyes closed blissfully. He weighed close to two hundred pounds and was at least six feet long from nose to tip of tail.

  “So give me some background on the beast,” Caroline told Frank, who sat on a couch nursing a glass of Perrier and antacid.

  “Wolf? Well, in the movie he—”

  “Not Wolf-beast. Dr. Belue-beast,” Caroline corrected him. “Since you and he seem to be friends, I thought you could tell me about him.”

  “Oh. What do you want to know?”

  “Was he born around here or did he just crawl out of the swamp fully grown?”

  Frank smiled. “His family settled this land more than two hundred years ago, when the British drove the French Acadians out of Canada. A ne’er-do-well ancestor lost the land to a rice planter in a card game. The planter built the mansion, but that glorious avenue of oak trees that leads to it was planted by the first Belue owner. Paul grew up not far from here, on the coast, where his family fished for a living. After he worked in New Orleans as an equine specialist for a few years, he came back home. I think he bought a couple thousand acres.”

  “Not many Cajuns have that kind of money. Even a veterinarian.”

  “He and his brothers were ambitious.”

  “Big family?” She said the words sarcastically, to hide her envy.

  “Yes. Five kids. Pretty scattered now, I understand. But very loving. Anyhow, when Paul was a teenager they found oil on a little strip of land they owned. Before oil prices went bust, they made a small fortune. Paul used his part to go to vet school. Like I mentioned the other day, he built up a pretty nice practice in New Orleans working with Thoroughbreds at the tracks. Gave it all up a couple of years ago to come down here and save the endangered whatever.”

  Caroline frowned thoughtfully. “He’s dedicated. It’s obvious.”

  “This place is his life. He nearly kills himself trying to keep it going. If he acts like a pain, it’s because he’s worried about it.”

  “Hmmm.” Caroline’s fingers slid under Wolfs thick hair and stroked his neck. “Wolf adores him.” Plus the panther had shown respect when Paul came in his pen that morning, and the respect was genuine, not based on fear.

  She was impressed with the quality of care all the animals received. He cared for them and about them.

  “So are you ready to make friends with Paul?” Frank asked hopefully.

  Friendship was certainly an important issue in her life lately, she thought. Caroline shook her head. It had never sounded so dangerous.

  Caroline pushed a pair of blue-rimmed sunglasses higher on her perspiring nose and watched Dabney—no last name, just Dabney, for reasons of creative impact—hiss her way through a scene inside the mansion’s main study.

  Music connoisseurs under the age of eighteen had made her a minor rock star. She looked like a young female Elvis in a leather miniskirt. In The Legend of Silver Wolf, Dabney played a villainess.

  Elvis was probably spinning in his grave, Caroline decided.

  “I want the map for the gold, you little brat,” Dabney told Toddy, a cute redhead who’d first made his name in bologna commercials.

  Toddy, looking frightened but determined, just as the script demanded, wound his little hand into Wolf’s ruff. “No.”

  In the tense silence that followed, Wolf looked up at Dabney with all the animation of a rock. Caroline winced. “Growl at her, dammit,” the director commanded, clutching her punkish orange hair in distress. “This is the fifth take.”

  Caroline stood slightly behind Paul and to his right, where she could be effective but unnoticed. “Speak, Wolf,” he ordered.

  Caroline closed her eyes and concentrated. Please, Wolf. For Paul’s sake.

  “Urrf,” Wolf offered without enthusiasm.

  Groans of dismay rose in the room. “Cut,” the director said in disgust.

  “Well, at least he’s progressing,” Frank noted, rubbing his temples. “He made a sound.”

  Toddy’s mother stormed onto the set like a large red-combed hen and grabbed her son’s hand. “We’re going to our trailer and channel for a while, and try to get some insight from our spirit guides,” she announced. “Toddy can’t deal with these delays. The wolf is brain-damaged.”

  “Lunch, one hour,” the assistant director called.

  Paul walked to Wolf and knelt down beside him. Caroline followed. Wolf looked from Paul to her mournfully. Sad. Friend hurts. I hurt. Sad.

  Caroline inhaled sharply and removed her sunglasses so that she could look at him closer. What friend, Wolf?

  She-friend.

  I’ll help. Show me.

  Gone now. Hope she come back. Wolf cocked his head to one side and lifted his ears. You help?

  Yes.

  “The secret is your eyes,” Paul interjected brusquely.

  Caroline glanced over and found him staring at her almost as intensely as Wolf was. “Pardon?”

  “Your eyes are unusual. Animals are fascinated by them.”

  She blinked rapidly, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “That must be why you’re so intrigued.”

  He made a gruff sound of amusement. “Yeah.” Then he pointed to Wolf and asked dryly, “Got him wound around your little finger yet?”

  “Ye of little faith, shut up.”

  He stroked Wolf under the chin. “It’s okay, mon ami. You’ll get it right the next time. Don’t pay any attention to Toddy’s mother. Let her go talk to her spirit guides. When she channels, she probably picks up reruns of The Gong Show.”

  Caroline looked at Paul in wonder. She had expected him to rebuke Wolf, who was jeopardizing a lucrative project. Instead, this stressed-out, overworked, brusque tower of a man stroked Wolf’s head as if he were a sick puppy.

  Her heart melted into a puddle. “He’s doing better,” Caroline said softly, her eyes never leaving Paul. “He’s concentrating more than before.”

  “Yes, he is.” Paul gave her a reassessing look and nodded. “You helped. I don’t understand how, but you did.”

  She was probably making a mistake, but she didn’t care. “Let’s go someplace private with him and eat lunch.”

  “Oh, ho, you’ll put up with my company to help Wolf, yes?”

  “I’m a martyr.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, and she watched the way the black strands gleamed under the set lights. She’d never cared for longish hair on men, but on him it seemed appropriate. One didn’t clip the mane on a wild stallion.

  “All right, let’s go.” There was something sly about the sideways look he gave her. “We’ll catch our lunch.”

  “Oh, no. Lead me to a garden and I’ll corner some lettuce, but I’m not going to—”

  “Worthless, pampered—”

  “Domineering, uncivilized—”

  “Hi, Paul,” Dabney interjected smoothly. “Hi, uhm, Casey.”

  Caroline squinted up at the actress. “It’s Caroline.”

  “Right.” Dabney smiled at Paul. “I just wondered if you wanted to eat lunch with me again. I’m going to watch music videos in my trailer.”

  “We’ve already made plans to kill our lunch,” Caroline explained.

  The girl eyed her quizzically. “Excuse me?”

  Paul stood, took Dabney’s hand, bent over it gallantly, and kissed her fingertips. “I’m sorry, but I have too much work to do, petite. Believe me, though, it’s hard to turn you down.”

  “Hmmm. Okay, babe. I’ll be waiting.”

  Caroline rose casually, fiddling with her sunglasses as if they required all her attention.

  “You’re the dog person, right?” Dabney asked her.

  “Animal trainer,” Caroline corrected the young woman.

  Dabney studied her from under a tornado of black hair. “Oh, yeah. Listen, I want to ask you somethin
g. I’m real blunt, so don’t be offended.”

  “Oh, I don’t offend easily.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Paul arch one brow in disagreement.

  “Well, it’s just that … why don’t you do something about that scar? I could recommend a great plastic surgeon.”

  Caroline stared at her for a moment. Eat hot death, songbird. “No, I like it. Men think it’s sexy. Sometimes I wear a patch over the eye next to it. The mystery drives guys wild.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

  “Try wearing a patch. You’ll see. The sympathy factor alone is worth it.” Startled, Dabney stared at her. “Unreal.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Wolf picked up on her silent distress. He moved abruptly, bumping Dabney so hard that she stumbled backward. He effectively wedged himself in front of Caroline. Then he looked up at Dabney and bared his teeth.

  “Wolf, no,” Paul said in surprise.

  Dabney’s eyes widened in alarm. “What’d I do?”

  Caroline patted Wolf’s head. “I think it’s just your perfume. He’s sensitive to odd odors. Come on, Wolf, let’s get some fresh air.” She walked out of the room with Wolf beside her.

  In the kitchen Caroline grabbed a glass of water to disguise her shaking hands. She was used to comments like Dabney’s. Girls who based their careers on their looks were morbidly curious about the scar. But she wasn’t used to having Paul Belue around to enjoy her embarrassment.

  He ambled into the kitchen, his thumbs latched in the pockets of his khaki trousers. He sat down on the table, his booted feet swinging nonchalantly, and grinned at her.

  “Nice technique,” he offered.

  “I hope she’s smart enough to be insulted.”

  “She deserved it.”

  “Interesting taste in women you’ve got there, doc. How old is she? Twenty, twenty-one? Maybe Wolf just has too much class to work for you anymore.”

  “Thanks, Mom, for the lecture.”

  “You’re welcome. No wonder you weren’t desperate to take me to bed. You’re diddling a female Elvis impersonator. How intriguing.” Caroline put the glass down, adjusted her skirt, and glanced at him coolly.