by Nancy Warren
He’d never been so pleased to see his apartment building. Trembling with fatigue and hunger, he dragged himself in the door, hauled himself into the shower, shaved and decided he’d take himself out for a good dinner before hitting the sack.
In the steamy bathroom mirror his eyes were bloodshot, but he didn’t care. The lost sleep and skipped meals had been worth the sacrifice. He’d never felt as excited about anything he’d written.
The phone rang while he was heading for the door debating steak versus pasta. He intended to ignore the call, until he saw who was calling him.
Shari.
“Hello?” His voice sounded rusty and he realized he hadn’t spoken in more than twenty-four hours.
“Luke” She sounded odd and, after spending all night with a twisted, sadistic murderer, Luke’s system began to jump.
“Is everything okay?”
“I need you to come up here. Now,” was all she said before cutting the connection.
“Shari?” he yelled into his cell, already heading out the door at a run. But the call had ended.
He tore up the stairs faster than he’d ever run in his life, reaching her door in less than a minute from the time she’d called. “Shari?”
He pounded on the door and it opened slightly. His panicked brain realized there was a shoe stuck in the door holding it ajar.
He shoved through, wishing he had something other than his bare hands to use as a weapon. Somehow, in his fatigued brain, he’d known the killer would go after the psychiatrist as the surest way to destroy the cop. Luke had to stop him.
It took a second or two for panic to recede and amazement to take its place.
Shari Wilson stood in the middle of her apartment living room. There were candles scattered around the place sending dancing flames and some kind of exotic scent into the air.
Soft music played, but all of that registered only in the haziest fashion.
For Shari was spectacularly, gloriously, naked.
8
THERE WASN’T ENOUGH fuel in Luke’s body to power both his brain and his groin. Since he was a man with his priorities straight, all the blood rushed to his cock as he stared at her candlelit flesh, which looked pink and gold in the dancing light.
Sadly, the rush of blood to his groin caused immediate energy-rationing elsewhere. Even as he took a step toward her luscious, naked body, spots danced in front of his eyes, then started connecting until his vision faded like a computer screen once the off button was pushed.
“Luke,” Shari called as his face paled and he staggered. “Luke!”
His eyes rolled up and he dropped to the ground like felled timber.
Luke woke with nausea in his belly and a blinding pain in his head. It took a few moments for his vision to clear, so he simply lay very still on Shari’s floor.
“Are you okay?” she asked, dropping to her knees beside him. His eyeballs hurt, but he moved them, anyway, only to discover she’d donned a bathrobe while he was unconscious.
He didn’t know which of them was the more embarrassed. “I’d be just as happy if I’d fallen right through the floor into my next-door neighbor’s suite.”
She smiled and her blush receded a little. “It was my fault. I guess I gave you a shock.” She pulled the belt of the robe tighter.
He couldn’t lie there on the floor any longer staring up at her. Hoping he wouldn’t humiliate himself again, he struggled to his elbow and sat up. “Whew. Sorry. No sleep last night. I haven’t eaten all day. Only coffee and then I went running and…well, sorry.”
She’d called him for a reason, and even as muddled and thick as his head felt, he didn’t have to be a genius to realize the lady had had seduction in mind. A quick glance showed that was now off the agenda. Goodbye forever had most likely replaced it.
Still, she looked sympathetic, and vaguely guilty as though she’d behaved inappropriately. “Of the men who’ve seen me naked, you’re the first one who ever fainted. Do you faint often?”
“Faint? I didn’t faint! I…passed out. First time. I’m going to crawl back to my apartment now, eat, then think about throwing myself out the window.”
“You’re only on the second floor.”
“Good thing. I could kill myself if it was higher. I’m going for the grand gesture here, not the afterlife.”
She smiled, and seemed to struggle with herself. “You really look pale. I’ve got some pasta I could feed you. Would that help?”
Gratitude filled him. She wasn’t going to throw him out on his sorry ass. He’d embarrassed her, made a fool of himself, and she was going to feed him.
He rose shakily to his feet. “You are a rare and wonderful woman,” he said, lifting her left hand and kissing the knuckles.
Shari had no idea what had possessed her to offer the man on her floor dinner. Maybe it was the mortified expression on his face as he stared up at her, and some feeling of guilt for staging a blatant seduction act before he’d graduated from chapter two of the sex manual. Talk about information overload. No wonder the poor man had thrown a breaker.
If it weren’t so damned humiliating, it would be sort of funny. Well, if it happened to someone else, it would be pretty funny.
Knowing she couldn’t possibly spend any more time in her bathrobe when both of them must be keenly aware she had nothing on beneath it, she put the lasagna she’d assembled earlier in the oven and then, with a barely coherent excuse, dashed to her bedroom to dress. She hoped Luke would never suspect that she’d intended him to eat lasagna all along, only when she’d prepared it, she’d imagined them eating it after making love, not after she’d scraped him off her broadloom.
She threw on jeans and a loose cotton sweater and emerged only to realize her apartment was still lit by candlelight. Trying to act casual, she flipped on lights, noticing that Luke still didn’t look all that hot.
“You’re not sick, are you?” She contemplated placing her hand on his forehead to check for fever, but the way their evening was going that might throw him into anaphylactic shock.
“No.” He rolled his shoulders. “I’m just tired. I told you I didn’t sleep last night.”
“Right.” She strode into the kitchen, hoping at least that what she was doing was striding and not flouncing. “You mentioned that already.”
And just what—or who—had kept poor Luke up all night when he’d summarily rejected her advances halfway up a mountainside? Instead of feeding him lasagna she should probably be dumping it on his head.
Some of her thoughts must have communicated themselves to him for he followed her into the kitchen and said, “I was working.”
She’d read his articles in the local paper. He wasn’t meeting secret sources at midnight and bringing down governments; he wrote about local politics, and soft news features. She recalled him telling her that he also wrote speeches and penned annual reports. She couldn’t imagine any of his subjects keeping him up all night. None of her business. She’d stupidly said she’d feed him, so she’d feed him. Then she’d send him back downstairs with a full belly and a suddenly free Friday night this week because there was no way she’d see him after this. “Right.”
He drummed his fingers on her countertop, then reached out and placed a hand over hers. “Look. If I tell you something, will you keep it to yourself?”
She taught teenagers for a living. Did he think she was that gullible? “That would depend on the big secret.”
He stared at her, indecision written all over his face. She couldn’t tell whether he was making something up on the spot or working out whether he could confide in her. She pulled away and turned to slice the fresh loaf of Italian bread she’d bought earlier. She stuck a basket of sliced bread in front of him and he devoured a piece.
“I’m writing a novel,” he said as he worked on his second slice.
“A novel.”
“Yes. And you are the first person I’ve told about it.”
She remembered when Joe Stegna had told her he
couldn’t finish his Shakespeare essay because he was building a rocket ship in his basement. He’d worn just that look. She crossed her arms and gave Luke that don’t-mess-with-me-I-can-give-you-an-F look. “And what is it called, this novel?”
He squirmed beneath her gaze. Ha! Gotcha.
“Prisons of the Mind.” He moved around the kitchen counter behind her, opened her cutlery drawer and got out two knives, two forks and two spoons. “I know that title sucks, but it’s just something to work with for now. What do you think?”
Anybody could pull a title out of the ether, was what she thought, remaining unconvinced that Prisons of the Mind didn’t wear a D-cup and moan a lot. “What’s it about? Your book.”
She opened the drawer beneath the one with the cutlery in it and passed him two place mats and two napkins. He lumbered back over to her small dining table and took his time setting it. “It’s hard to talk about, you know?”
“I’ll bet.”
He set the table as though barely aware he was doing it. “I thought it was going to be a straight mystery. In fact, I didn’t even start out to write a whole novel. I was only playing with some ideas. Then I got into this cop’s head. He’s the hero. But he’s losing it. This case is sending him over the edge. He starts having difficulty finding the line between fantasy and reality, and meantime the killer starts messing with his mind. I haven’t worked that part out yet. Nils is no dummy.”
“Nils?”
“That’s the killer’s name.”
“Nil. Nothing.”
He grinned at her as though she’d said the smartest thing he’d ever heard. “Exactly. At some point Jenkins, the cop, isn’t even sure of the villain’s real.” His eyes were burning with enthusiasm and she now saw that she’d misjudged him. He was writing this novel.
She put the bread on the table between them and—what the hell, he already knew she’d planned to seduce him, he might as well know everything—pulled out the salad from the fridge. She handed him the bottle of Chianti, a corkscrew and a couple of wine-glasses.
He flicked a glance at her but didn’t say a word, for which she could have kissed him. He also turned off some of the lights and dragged a couple of candles over to the table so casually, she barely noticed.
“I know it sounds stupid. Everybody and his uncle thinks they can write a book, but—”
“I think it’s fantastic. What a great way to stretch your mind and your creativity. And besides, you never know. It could be great. It sounds interesting already. I love psychological thrillers. Have you read…”
By the time the lasagna was ready they were well into a lively discussion about the books they liked, the writers they preferred, and he was admitting what he’d never told another soul, that he’d always dreamed of writing thrillers.
“How about you?” he asked as they dug into gelato. “Did you always want to be a teacher?”
She gazed at him across the table. Candlelight danced across his face, creating shadows and ridges, and reflected in his eyes. The ice cream was cold and sweet on her tongue. How amazing that after the complete debacle of her seduction plan, she should feel so utterly relaxed and able to talk about her life plans with this man. But, she found she could. “Yes. Always. I was the eldest child and we played school often, and I, of course, was always the teacher. My brothers and sister could all read and write by the time they started grade one.”
“You must be a natural.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know about that. I’m pretty much learning as I go, but I do my best to keep it interesting. If I don’t know anything about a subject I try to bring in an expert.” She stopped and gasped, eyes widening as the obvious answer to her current dilemma stared back at her. “In fact, I’m doing a unit on journalism right now. I was planning to bring in a real live journalist. How’d you like to be our guest speaker?”
He glanced up and raised his brows. “Me?”
“Sure, why not?”
“I’m not a regular reporter, I work freelance.”
“So what? That doesn’t matter at all. In fact, you’ll have a broader experience. Oh, please say you’ll do it.”
He looked really uncomfortable, and once again she was forced to accept that for all his confident outward demeanor, he must be shy.
Luke stared across the table at Shari, wondering if she’d still be as eager for him to talk to her impressionable high school students if she knew he free-lanced for other publications under the Lance Flagstaff pseudonym. If she knew, for instance, that his last column for Men’s Monthly was titled, “Get Her Off Every Time.”
He took a deep drink of his wine, knowing if he weren’t so damned tired he could probably come up with a decent excuse not to speak to her class. His head was starting to feel as though it was full of thick, wet cement and the wine was making it set. He really needed sleep.
But, if there was a woman in the world he owed a favor, that woman was Shari.
Much as he’d been trying to push it to the back of his mind, the vision of her naked in candlelight would stay with him forever. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so beautiful. The way he was going, chances weren’t great he’d ever see her naked again, but damn it he was going to do his level best.
She was still looking at him expectantly and he knew he owed her. As long as no one knew he was also Lance Flagstaff there wasn’t any danger he’d be accused of corrupting young minds. So he shrugged. “If you really want me to, then sure. My schedule’s flexible. Let me know when the class times are and we’ll work something out.”
Her full lips parted on a warm smile. “Thanks, Luke. I really appreciate it.”
There was a pause and his eyes felt so heavy he knew he had to go before he added to his suave image by falling asleep in the dregs of his gelato. He stumbled to his feet. “Can I help you with the dishes?”
“No thanks, I’ve got it.” She rose, headed toward her front door, opened it for him and edged back into the no-goodnight-kiss zone.
He turned to her. “Thanks for dinner.”
“You’re welcome.” The atmosphere was suddenly strained and once more he could kick himself for his earlier foolishness. He didn’t want this promising relationship to end because of an unfortunate experience with low blood sugar.
Her lips were slightly pinched and he felt the weight of awkwardness pressing on him. There must be something he could say to relieve it.
“Well,” she said, “good night.”
Oh, hell. Being an idiot hadn’t killed him yet. They had to get beyond this. “So, am I ever going to see you naked again?”
Anger and a touch of hurt sparked in her eyes. “Not in this—”
He cut her off before she could finish, knowing he didn’t want her making claims that he had no intention of letting her keep. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to him, kissing her hard to cut off her words, then softening his lips until her squeak of protest turned into a sigh.
He took his time to savor her softness and to feel her body’s resistance slowly, slowly, melt. It wasn’t easy and it went beyond technique, to a deeper level of communication, where he was telling her how much he wanted her with his lips, his tongue, letting her feel his body’s arousal as he pulled her tight against him.
He pulled away slowly, enjoying the slightly stunned expression on her flushed face. If he weren’t so far beyond tired that he’d make a worse fool of himself if he attempted to take her to bed now, he’d do just that. She was so ripe and womanly and so exactly what he needed at this moment.
She whispered slowly, as though the word was a playing card she’d forgotten she was holding. “Lifetime.”
“Don’t count on it,” he said and left.
9
“AND THEN WHAT?” Therese was practically falling off her chair as she listened to Shari’s story. They were in the library, supposedly working on lesson plans, but in reality gossiping behind their books just as the senior girls were doing behind the stacks.
Sh
ari felt her face heating as she glanced around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. “And then he fainted.”
Therese’s shout of laughter caused instant silence as every student in the vicinity turned to stare at a teacher breaking the sacred silence of the library. It took her a few minutes to get herself under control so she could splutter, “Didn’t I tell you it was a bad idea to get involved with that man?”
“Yes. You did. But you should have seen how embarrassed he was after it happened.” In spite of herself she had to smile at the memory of him trying to insist he hadn’t fainted.
“Hmm. I hope you gave him a piece of your mind when you threw him out.”
“I gave him dinner.”
“What?” Therese’s explosive whisper sounded like a pot scrubber in action on the filthiest pot.
Shari lifted her shoulders helplessly, wishing she could explain the odd mix of feelings Luke inspired—lust, nurturing, eye-rolling at his cluelessness, feeling flattered by his obvious attraction and frustrated at his inability to get past first base. He was an awfully good first baseman, though, which gave her hope that in time…
“Tell me you’re ditching those stupid Friday-night sessions of yours,” Therese almost groaned.
“I am a great teacher, and he’s a student failing a really basic life skill. No, I’m not ditching the Fridays, I’m going to help him learn to be a great lover.”
“You’re crazy, woman.”
Maybe she was crazy, but she knew she had the patience and skills to help Luke. And a tiny selfish part of her knew she’d be teaching him exactly how to please her. What wasn’t great about that? “He’s going to speak to my juniors about working as a reporter. You could meet him.”
“Oh, there’s something to look forward to. A guy who passes out at the sight of a woman’s body.” Therese shook her head.
To get her friend’s mind off Luke’s shortcomings, Shari said, “Hey, I heard Mr. Masters is leaving the school.” Mr. Masters was the boys’ baseball coach and one of the phys ed teachers.
