Heat Me Up

by Julie Kenner

  Kyra hid a smile. Maybe she’d been right about the surfing. “You’re a long way from home.”

  He shrugged. “My grandparents live in Tampa, and it’s a great job.”

  “Are you studying art?”

  “Nope. Drama,” he said. “I’m an actor.” His blush resurfaced, amusing Kyra. If he had hopes of being a celebrity, he’d have to get over that shyness.

  They cruised down a driveway lined with palm trees that were strung with paper lanterns. Though just barely twilight, the lanterns were already lit, and they glowed a faded orange against the pink and purple sky. Up ahead, a converted Spanish mission rose majestically, dwarfing the nearby trees.

  “That’s the restaurant,” Stuart said.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah, it’s modeled after an historic landmark.” He brought the Jeep to an abrupt halt, then picked up a clipboard with What’s Your Fantasy? stenciled across the back. “Well, we’re here. You’re scheduled for dinner with Ms. Weston. The hostess can take you to her table.”

  A valet opened her door, and she stepped out. “Thanks, Stuart.”

  “Have fun,” he said, then shifted gears and took off down the caliche drive.

  She followed the hostess through the elegant restaurant to a secluded table set with fine china and silver. Ms. Weston smiled as Kyra approached. “Hello, dear.”

  “This is a beautiful place, Ms. Weston.”

  The older woman gestured to the chair opposite. “Please, call me Merrilee. I hope your accommodations are suitable,” she added, as Kyra sat down.

  “Fabulous. The cabana is wonderful, and the beach is, well, it’s perfect.”

  “I’m so pleased you think so,” Merrilee said, as the waiter silently approached and poured two glasses of red wine. “We try our best to make sure every aspect of our guest’s stay is to their liking.” She lifted her glass. “A toast. To fantasies.”

  “To fantasies,” Kyra repeated. The clear tone of fine crystal sang out as they clinked glasses. Kyra took an experimental sip. “Chateau du Maurier, 1992. My favorite.” And extremely hard to find.

  “I know.” Merrilee said, the corner of her lip curling into a smile.

  Kyra took another sip, remembering just how much Merrilee did know about her. The application had been long and detailed, and Kyra had spilled her soul for the first time in her life. To do her job right, Merrilee Schaefer-Weston needed to know her clients’ deepest desires.

  Right now, Merrilee knew more about Kyra than anyone in the world, including Evan and her father. Even more than Mona, and certainly more than Harold.

  The thought was both unnerving and reassuring.

  She took a roll from the bread basket and tore a piece off as she looked around the well-appointed room. There were only a few tables, each lit by the glow of sconces secured to the stone walls. The small number of patrons wasn’t surprising, really. The island was an exclusive resort. At any one time, there weren’t that many guests, and surely a good number of those chose to dine in privacy.

  Across the room, Kyra saw C. J. Miller moving through the dimly lit restaurant, one of the guys she’d seen at the dock by his side. He still wore his cap, but the aviator glasses were gone. The two men were deep in conversation, but when C.J.’s eyes strayed her way, Kyra waved. He waved back, then quickly returned his attention to the clipboard the other man held.

  Merrilee turned, then, seeing who Kyra had recognized, immediately faced forward again and took a long sip of wine. She still looked perfectly calm, but Kyra thought she might be a shade paler. The lighting, perhaps? Then again, Merrilee had seemed distracted at the dock when she’d introduced herself to the new pilot.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “That transparent, am I?” Merrilee’s mouth curved into a smile, but it seemed a little sad. “No. Our new pilot just reminds me of someone. Someone I lost years ago.” Instinctively, Kyra’s eyes searched for C.J., but he’d already disappeared through the back exit.

  “Even his last name…well, never mind.” Merrilee shook her head and took a sip of water, as if determined to push the memories away. “We’re here to talk about you, not to dredge up ghosts from my past.”

  “Of course,” Kyra said. She was curious, but if Merrilee didn’t want to talk about her lost love—and Kyra was sure it was just that—then she’d respect the other woman’s wishes.

  Merrilee cleared her throat. “Well then. You’ve read the materials, of course, but I like to meet personally with all new arrivals. At Fantasies, Inc., we don’t provide the traditional resort vacation. I find the guests appreciate the opportunity to ask questions before their fantasy gets underway.”

  The memory of Michael was still fresh in her mind, a man who’d certainly struck a chord with her. He was the very epitome of adventure, a chivalrous knight determined to protect the innocent…and, perhaps, to fulfill her not-so-innocent fantasies?

  She pictured him as a romantic recluse who lived by nobody’s rules but his own. A man who knew what it was like to feel alive and in control, to feel like he was moving through life instead of being pushed along by an uncontrollable current.

  She felt a twinge of envy and considered asking if the mysterious man was there on a fantasy of his own. Even more important, did he play any role in the fantasy Merrilee had designed for her?

  With a bit of effort, she quelled the urge. The woman had managed to find her favorite wine, for goodness sake. Kyra had no doubt about her ability to provide an equally impressive fantasy man.

  But how? And who? Michael? She hoped so, but she didn’t dare ask.

  “Kyra?”

  “I don’t think I have any questions.” None other than the big ones—What’s going to happen? And when? She toyed with her salad fork. “Really.”

  Merrilee took a sip of wine, then put down her glass. “Forgive me for being so blunt, but I don’t believe you.”

  Kyra’s cheeks warmed. “It’s just… I…” She took a deep breath. “I just wondered—”

  “You want to know what’s going to happen,” Merrilee said gently. “What type of adventure is in store for you. And who you’ll share it with.”

  Kyra nodded, silently admiring the polished woman across the table.

  “There’s only one rule here, my dear, and that is that there are no rules.” A smile touched her lips. “When one trades in fantasies, it’s best not to be too pragmatic.”

  “I can see that,” Kyra said, her curiosity piqued even more.

  “I can’t tell you how your fantasy will play out any more than I can tell you exactly what’s in your heart. Only you can do that.”

  “But…” she paused, unsettled. “But the forms…all the questions… I told you so much about what I want, what I feel.”

  “And I assure you that all your information has been analyzed and put to good use.” She pushed her bread plate aside and took Kyra’s hand across the table. “Remember that this is your fantasy. A large part of it must come from you. I’m merely—” she cast her free hand about as if searching for a word “—the director of an improvisational drama. The framework is there, but much of the story comes from the players themselves.”

  Her smile was soft and reassuring, but did little to calm Kyra’s nerves. “What if I miss my cue?”

  Merrilee squeezed her hand gently before releasing it. “You won’t.”

  Kyra nodded vaguely, wondering if, when she stumbled over her fantasy, she’d recognize it. Even more, after all her planning, all her worry, all her longing, would she actually have the courage to embrace it? To grab the life—the fantasy—that Merrilee had to offer?

  The answer came, insistent and strong—yes, oh, yes.

  “We’ve made a bargain, you and I,” Merrilee said, as if reading her mind. “My part was—is—to set the stage.”

  “And my part?” Kyra asked, a nervous excitement cresting in her blood.

  “It may be when you least expect it. But you’ll know when the time is right
. And that, my dear, is the moment to seize your fantasy.”

  CHAPTER 2

  ANTHONY MICHAEL MORETTI tucked the cell phone between his shoulder and his ear, trying to balance as he tugged on a pair of black jeans.

  “So, come on, buddy,” Alan insisted, his voice clear and strong despite being filtered through satellites and all sorts of digital technology. “Fess up. Was I right? Wasn’t some R and R exactly what you needed?”

  Tony chuckled, realizing how much he’d missed his best friend’s needling over the past week. For eight months, he’d been living in hell, and Alan had been the one bright spot in his life. Certainly Amy hadn’t been there for him. Despite sharing an apartment for two years, she’d run far and fast the day he’d come home from the hospital after the accident.

  “The R and R’s been great,” Tony said. “Really.” And it had. But the fact was, even though he’d come on this vacation for some rest and relaxation, he’d ended up getting a hell of a lot more than he’d bargained for.

  Thanks to Merrilee, when darkness covered the island, he felt almost whole again. And about that, he couldn’t complain. But during the daytime…well, in the light of day he was the same old Tony, a scarred and broken man.

  “I told you an island getaway was just what you needed. Hell, Moretti. Beaches full of bikini-clad babes soaking up the sun…” He made a rough sound in the back of his throat. “No wonder they call the place a fantasy resort.”

  “True enough,” Tony answered noncommittally, shifting the cell phone so he could rummage through the clothes strewn about the floor of his secluded cabana. It seemed like everything he owned was either black or white, which made it that much harder to find what he was looking for.

  “Man, oh, man.” Alan continued. “I sent you to that island when I coulda sent myself. You’re not the only one who could use a little mindless vacationing.”

  “So come join me.”

  “Ha! And steal all the chicks away from you? No way.”

  Tony smiled, knowing full well that Alan was only ribbing him. More than anyone, Alan knew how badly the accident had shaken Tony. And when long talks, beer and bad movies hadn’t done the trick, Alan had moved on to other forms of therapy. Never in a million years would his buddy have given himself such a potentially peaceful vacation. But the second Alan had decided that Tony needed some therapeutic down time…well, once he got an idea in his head, there was no talking him out of it.

  At first, Tony had been hesitant. Even if he were healthy, hanging out on an island sounded duller than watching clothes dry. Considering he was scarred and on pain killers, the idea of basking in the sun seemed positively morbid. But Alan was convinced, and rather than disappoint his already worried friend, Tony had reluctantly agreed.

  “You still there?” Concern laced Alan’s voice, and guilt twitched in Tony’s stomach. This trip was on Alan’s dime, after all. He should make an effort to sound more upbeat.

  “I’m here. I was…uh…watching the beach. Some girls playing volleyball.”

  Alan let loose a wolf whistle. “Aha! I was right, wasn’t I? Hell, you already sound one hundred percent better.” He paused. “You are doing better, right?”

  “Yeah,” Tony said, not sure if the answer was the truth or a lie. Maybe a little of both. “I’m doing okay.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, buddy.” The line clicked. “Can you hold on a sec? That’s probably my date about to cancel on me.”

  Tony laughed. “Sure. Wouldn’t want you to miss that call.”

  With the silent phone pressed to his ear, Tony let his mind wander. What the hell was he doing? He’d come to Intimate Fantasy simply to calm a friend’s concerns. So how had he ended up living out a secret fantasy that, seven days ago, he hadn’t even known he had?

  Yet somehow Merrilee had known what he needed. Somehow she’d sorted through the mishmash of information on those zillions of forms, and managed to come up with his fantasy.

  And for that, he’d always be grateful.

  Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe it was all pretend, but somehow, in a small way, she’d given him his life back.

  The accident had been bad, true, but he could live with the pain. What he couldn’t live with was what had come after—the pitying looks when friends and strangers saw the freshly scarred flesh near his eye, then the damn suits saying he and his bad back couldn’t return to work. Permanent disability. Bile rose in his throat as he remembered the official yellow envelope that had come in the mail only three months after the accident.

  His whole life, he’d wanted to be a fire fighter, and he’d worked hard getting there. It was what he did, who he was. But after the accident, that was all ripped away. Instead of getting back into the saddle as he’d hoped, he’d spent the months after the hospital festering in his cramped apartment, splitting his time between watching bad daytime television and lashing out at Alan for lack of a better scapegoat.

  He could work a desk, or take a white-collar consulting job, but, dammit, that wasn’t the life he’d made for himself. No matter how he sliced it, filling out forms in triplicate wasn’t going to save lives.

  Through no fault of his own, his life had been ripped to shreds. He’d gone from being heroic, to being pathetic. From being needed, to being useless. He hated it.

  The city’s shrink had said the anger was normal. Maybe so, but Tony wasn’t angry at the building for burning or the arsonist who set it. No, Tony’d been angry at the world. And somehow Merrilee had understood.

  When he’d arrived at Fantasies, Inc., they’d had dinner and she’d passed him a neatly wrapped box. “A possibility,” she’d said, in response to his questioning look. “If you want to simply relax in the shadows by the pool, that’s your business. But there’s a second chance in there. A chance to be someone else.” She’d shrugged elegant shoulders. “Or maybe even to be yourself.”

  For two days the box had sat unopened in his cabana, but then—

  “Yo! Tony! The babes still playing volleyball?”

  Alan’s irritated voice pulled him back. “Sorry. What?”

  “I asked if you’re looking forward to your last week?”

  “Yeah,” Tony said, absently, as his eyes scanned the floor for the object he’d been searching for. The sun was setting. Where the hell was it?

  “Well, I gotta go. Miracle of miracles, we’re still on for tonight. Dinner and a movie. Am I original, or what?”

  “You’re one of a kind.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll call you in a couple of days,” Alan said. “Check on your tan. See if you’ve hooked up with some island beauty. That would do you a world of good.”

  “Right,” he said absently as Alan hung up, even though what he wanted to say was not damn likely.

  The Tony Moretti who’d practically been the poster boy for the Cranston Township’s annual bachelor auction didn’t exist anymore. That was simply the cold, hard truth.

  Besides, Alan had it wrong. It wasn’t just a woman Tony needed. It was something bigger, yet somehow intangible, some primal need that Merrilee had managed to awaken.

  Of course, Alan didn’t know the full story, and Tony wasn’t inclined to confess all now. Easier to just let Alan believe that Tony was out and about, painting the town and getting it on with the ladies, healing his bruised ego with mythical women who didn’t care about his face.

  Alan was right. That would be any man’s fantasy. Why muddy the waters by letting Alan know it wasn’t his?

  Thanks to Merrilee’s package, Tony’d managed to become a familiar face on the island, so to speak. He was a hero again.

  It may not have completely filled the hole in his gut, but he damn sure liked the feeling.

  And he sure as hell didn’t intend to mess it up by getting involved with a woman who’d want to know the truth, then would run from it just like Amy had. Some things were meant to stay hidden. Some people were meant to stay alone.

  Alan would just have to look elsewhere for sordid stories of fema
le conquests.

  “There you are,” he whispered, finally finding what he’d been looking for—the single black eye patch that, along with a black cap and one vivid green contact lens, had made up the contents of Merrilee’s present.

  He stood in front of the mirror and nodded at his reflection, hating the hideous scar that edged his left eye. The flesh was no longer tender, but it still looked raw. To Tony, it was as raw as ever.

  A red-hot steel bar had fallen with the collapsing roof. He’d thrown his body clear, wrenching his back out in the process. As if that injury wasn’t enough, the rod had bounced up, cracking him in the face and gouging the tender flesh.

  Despite legions of doctors, his prognosis wasn’t exactly inspiring. His back was permanently screwed up, and his doctor had ruled out plastic surgery for his face, citing Tony’s allergies and some other mumbo jumbo from Tony’s medical history. Sorry, kid, but just remember how lucky you are to be alive. Count your blessings, boy.

  Some luck.

  Slowly, as if performing an ancient ritual, he lifted the eye patch to his face. The scars disappeared. He put in the single contact lens, then slicked gel through his hair, darkening it. When he put on the cap, he was a new person. A different person.

  Tony Moretti was gone. Only a hero remained.

  * * *

  STUART PULLED the Jeep up in front of the restaurant and tapped the horn, which wasn’t really necessary since Kyra was standing right there. “Ready to head on back?”

  She fidgeted on the stone steps. “I don’t know. I’m thinking about walking.”

  Frowning, he killed the engine, though the headlights stayed on, cutting a bright path through the dark. “You sure? It’s a long walk, and it smells like rain.”

  Sure enough, when she sniffed, Kyra picked up on a freshness in the heavy air, along with a hint of restraint. As if the clouds were holding back, waiting for just the right moment. She and nature, it seemed, had something in common. They were both about to burst from pent-up energy, near to exploding in a torrent of need and desire.