by Nancy Warren
He ran a hand across his stubbly chin, ignoring the tiny warning voice whispering in his ear that he ought to confess to Shari that he’d written Sex for Total Morons before revealing his identity to daytime-TV-watching America. But she worked all day and had too busy a life to spend much time in front of the television. She’d never know he and Lance Flagstaff were one and the same unless he told her. And he would tell her, in his own time and in his own way. Sure, it would be available on the internet, but why would Shari see the interview? It would be like her finding he needle in the haystack she wasn’t even looking for.
He’d only discovered a couple of hours ago that he was in love with the woman. He needed time to digest the idea and work out what he was going to do with the information before blabbing the truth about his little experiment. For Shari’s sake, now that he knew he was in love with her, he should run like hell in the opposite direction. But, selfishly, he wasn’t certain he could.
He hadn’t been able to provide Jenkins, his cop hero in Prisons, with a happy ending, and that was fiction. How on earth did he think he could craft a happily ever after with a real woman, given that his own temperament and DNA were against him?
Luke shook his head. He needed more time. He’d tell Shari he was the author of Total Morons. When the time was right, he’d tell her.
SHARI SNEEZED for the seventh time in a row. Her eyes were running and her nose sore from blowing. Too much sex and not enough sleep must have weakened her system or something, but she’d caught the flu that was going ’round the school, and caught it hard.
Therese, who’d jumped back at the first nasal explosion, eyed her with disfavor. “This behavior may be putting you in the running for martyr of the year, but it’s not doing our relationship any good. Go home before everybody gets sick.”
Shari nodded miserably. “I will. I need to pick up the essays from my next class, then I’ll go home.”
“Good. Your boyfriend’s home all the time. Get him to make you some hot soup or something.”
Shari shook her head. “He had to go out of town on business.”
“Business? You mean, for an article?”
In truth, Luke had been kind of vague. He told her it was connected to the novel she’d encouraged him to submit to his agent, but somehow she’d never ended up with the details.
She wished Luke was home. He wouldn’t have shunned her like Therese. He’d have made her tea and tucked her into bed. Their love wasn’t conditional on perfect health.
Her gasp of shock turned into a coughing fit that had her almost driving off the road.
Their love? They’d never said the word to each other—she hadn’t even allowed herself to think he might return her sentiments—but she realized it was there, hovering like the invisible germs that had snuck into her body and turned into a full-blown cold. She loved him. And maybe, just maybe, he loved her right back.
She stopped at the drugstore on her way home and stocked up on cold remedies and tissue. On impulse, she bought herself a bunch of tulips from the flower vendor next door. If Luke were home, he’d bring her flowers.
When she let herself into the apartment, she went straight to her bedroom and changed into her warmest, snuggliest sweats, slipped into her fuzzy slippers and wrapped herself in Luke’s terry-cloth robe. It had somehow ended up at her place and it was bigger than hers, so would be warmer, she told herself, bundling into it and letting it hug her. She wished she hadn’t lost her sense of smell; she wanted to catch a whiff of Luke’s scent from the garment.
She schlepped back out to the living area, glanced at the essays that needed marking, sniffed, felt her forehead and decided she was probably too feverish to work. She then looked at the television and figured she really needed rest.
Grabbing a pillow off her bed and the purple chenille throw from the back of her couch, she snuggled up and flipped on the TV.
A rerun of “Friends.” Flip. Some kind of home blender on the home shopping channel. Hmm. Earrings coming up later, maybe she’d check back. Flip.
Cooking show. They were making a cream soup with lots of garlic. She wished somebody would offer her a bowl of homemade soup. If Luke were here he’d make her soup. What was the point of having a boyfriend who lived in the same apartment block and worked from home if he was going to go out of town the one day she came home sick and needed him? Flip.
“Ginger.” Ah, Shari wasn’t much into talk shows. Maybe she’d go back to see what Ross and Rachel were doing. She’d pop some meds, drink some herbal tea and go to bed.
She was about to flip back to “Friends,” when Ginger said, with a knowing glance to the camera, “Is your man a total moron in bed? Don’t give up hope. Maybe he can be trained to become a to-die-for lover. Our next guest is Lance Flagstaff, author of Sex for Total Morons: A How-To Guide.”
Huh. Shari forgot the meds and got comfortable. This, she had to see. Who was this man who’d brought her and Luke together? His book might have been the thing that got Luke on the path to self-improvement, but she liked to think she’d had a lot to do with teaching him how to please a woman.
Smiling smugly, and wishing Luke were in town so they could watch this together, she grabbed the remote so she could set the DVR and pushed the record button. It was a special book for them, she’d record this for Luke. With eager curiosity, she got comfortable on the couch and waited through the commercial break until Ginger’s guest appeared.
He walked onto the stage, smiling broadly, giving a diffident wave to the bunch of hooting and clapping women, who seemed to make up the bulk of the audience.
He shook hands with Ginger as though they were old friends, then sat at ease in one of her pink armchairs.
“So, Lance,” Ginger said with a let’s-us-girls-have-some-fun glance at the audience, “you must be quite an expert in bed to teach other people how to be good lovers.”
The camera zoomed in for a close-up shot of Lance’s face.
A horrible gurgling sound came out of Shari’s mouth.
Luke—her Luke—was on television. Promoting the book that he had written.
Sex for Total Morons: A How-To Guide. Ginger was holding it up for the world to see, that lurid red-and-black cover.
Oh, it had worked, all right. She wondered how many other naive women he’d conned with that teach-me-to-love-you crap.
Hot color scalded her face as she thought about the way she’d guided him in the ways of pleasing her, guided him right into her body. And worst of all, into her heart.
She ought to slap the TV off, but she couldn’t tear herself away. With horrified fascination, she watched this man she’d thought she’d known and discovered she didn’t know at all.
Women in the audience were asking him questions, eager for their turn to ask him—Luke, Lance, whatever his name was—for advice.
Oh, he was charming, he was smooth, she’d give him that. She only wished Ginger had a phone-in line, because Shari had a question or two she’d like to ask Mr. Lance Flagstaff.
She was sniffing faster than her box of tissue could keep up and realized it wasn’t just the cold; she was crying. Sobbing, damn it.
He’d betrayed her in the most basic way possible. Stolen her trust, posed as something he wasn’t. He’d lied. Every time they’d climbed into bed and he’d hesitated, or had asked her what she liked, he’d been lying. He probably laughed himself silly every day at her expense.
“So, I have to tell you. I’m skeptical,” Ginger said. She picked up the book and flapped it once more in front of the camera. “Can a book teach you how to be a good lover?”
The camera closed in on Luke, and the grin he sent Ginger was both teasing and self-deprecating.
“I wasn’t sure of the answer to that myself when I wrote the book, to be honest with you, Ginger. But I actually conducted an experiment in the last few weeks.”
“No,” Shari whispered, curling into a fetal ball. “No.”
“I’ve learned a lot since getting together w
ith the woman I’m with now. I learned that every time you make love with someone new you have to learn their particular likes and dislikes, their unique responses. A caress that sends one woman straight to ecstasy may leave the next woman wishing she had her nail file handy to pass the time. Am I right?”
Here he glanced at the audience and was rewarded with delighted giggles and nodding heads.
“I think any book about making love and learning to give and receive pleasure is great. But it’s only a guide. It gives some suggestions, some techniques and positions that might work. Try them out. But the most important thing is to talk to your partner. She’s the expert on her own body. She knows what she likes and she’ll help you become the best lover of her body that you can be. That’s all that matters in the end.”
“So, Lance,” Ginger said, “what’s the number-one tip for being a knock-your-socks-off lover?”
Luke sighed, and appeared vaguely uncomfortable with the question for the first time since the interview had begun. Shari waited, barely breathing, for his answer, certain he was about to share some detail about their love life that she’d thought was private.
After a couple of seconds of silence, he said, “I know this sounds corny, but the very best, most mind-blowing sex happens when you’re in love with your partner. I guess I wasn’t much of an expert at all, because I just figured it out.”
“The best sex happens when you’re in love with your partner. What do you all think of that?”
More hooting and clapping.
“Lance,” said Ginger, “I think you might be on to something.”
A soggy tissue hit the TV screen in Shari’s living room and bounced off, hitting the floor in a limp, white heap. Love? Did the man have even the most basic inkling of the concept?
Love was about sharing and honesty and support.
She blew her nose, turned off the television, turned her cell off and unplugged the landline.
Love was about openness and trust. It wasn’t about deceit and lies and experiments.
Luke was coming home tonight. The very last thing she intended was to see him.
LUKE WHISTLED as he approached the apartment building by cab from the airport. The scent of roses filled the air. He’d made the cabbie stop so he could buy the flowers from a street-side vendor.
He smiled wryly at his own symbolism. Everything was coming up roses in his life.
His agent was beside himself. The show had gone well, watched, Luke later found out, by two of the editors who were interested in his novel. Matthew had hinted at some competition among publishing houses interested in acquiring Prisons of the Mind.
Roses might be old-fashioned, but they had “proposal on bended knee” written all over them.
And he was feeling old-fashioned enough to drop at Shari’s feet to ask her to be his wife. For he’d finally realized that he wasn’t like his dad at all. If Luke had only loved once in twenty-eight years it seemed fair to assume his was the forever kind of love.
He couldn’t wait to tell Shari.
He had a feeling he’d been using his father as an excuse all these years to avoid long-term relationships and anything that smacked of permanence. Now he’d fallen in love with Shari and he wanted her forever. Maybe his father had never grown up, but Luke felt as though he’d finally become an adult and accepted his adult feelings.
He’d sensed the truth of his emotions, then been manipulated into admitting them on television. Which should have freaked him. But the opposite had happened. Ever since he’d said the words on network TV he felt as if millions of viewers knew about his love before he’d told Shari, and that wasn’t right.
In fact, a lot of his recent behavior wasn’t right. He knew he had to explain it all to her. He didn’t want to wait another minute.
He called her again, for about the twentieth time, but still there was no answer. Had her battery died? Had she lost her phone? Dropped it on concrete?
It had crossed his mind to spend some of the money his agent assured him would be coming his way between the imminent sale of his novel and the extra royalties from having his book promoted on television. He’d been tempted, after his stint on the show was finished, to wander into a fancy Hollywood jeweler’s and pick out an engagement ring. He shook his head at his foolishness. If he knew Shari, she’d want to pick out her own ring.
He was so excited, he didn’t even stop at his own apartment, but sprinted up the additional flight, his suit bag bouncing against his thigh, the roses clutched in his grip. He must look like the biggest idiot on two legs, but he didn’t care, he was filled with urgency to see her, to kiss her, to talk to her and to love her until morning.
Even though her phones didn’t seem to be working, she must be expecting him. They hadn’t spent a night apart, except last night, since they’d first made love two weeks ago. He wouldn’t have believed he could find love so quickly, but the truth was, he’d loved her before he even realized it.
As he burst through the fire door onto her floor, he wondered if she’d be naked and surrounded by candlelight when he got there. He really hoped she would be. He wanted to show her he was capable of other responses when confronted by her naked, sexy body than passing out.
By the time he got to her door he was already hard, ardently anticipating their reunion after a full night’s absence.
There was a note on her door, handwritten on hole-punched, lined paper. School paper, he thought with a grin. The note was in block letters, the lines wavy, as though she’d written them in a big hurry.
When he got close enough to read the words, the grin froze on his face.
Dear Lance Flagstaff
She’d underlined the name three times. He could feel the fury in the way the pen had actually scratched right through the paper in places.
He felt as if he’d swallowed all twelve prickly rose stems.
Do not attempt to contact me ever again.
19
LUKE CURSED softly and violently.
She must have seen the show. But how could she have? She’d been at school. Had someone who’d seen them together watched the show? Had she stumbled on it on the internet? That must be it. He was deep in it now, and he had a feeling a few roses weren’t going to smooth his way.
His erection drooped, tacitly acknowledging it wasn’t going to be seeing much action tonight.
Luke wiped a prickle of sweat from his forehead, fighting down panic.
She was mad. Fair enough. She deserved to be. He should have told her he’d written the damn book, and he hadn’t. But he bet whatever busybody had got on the hotline to tell her that her loverboy was on television promoting his book had neglected to tell Shari that he’d announced his love for her to all of America. Didn’t that count for something?
Determined to set her straight, he knocked softly on the door.
Nothing.
He knocked louder.
Nothing.
He banged his fist until it was numb and he was getting pins and needles up his arm.
Still nothing.
Dread was turning to irritation. Couldn’t she at least hear him out?
He put his mouth to the door and yelled, “Shari!”
A door opened, all right, but it wasn’t hers. Down the hall, Mr. Forrester, nosy old busybody, poked his head out into the hallway. “What is all this racket? At this time of night?”
Luke glanced at his watch. It wasn’t even eight o’clock.
“Have you seen Shari?”
The old man’s eyes narrowed, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen them together every day. “She’s probably in bed. Came home early with a cold.”
So that’s how she’d known.
Still, not all the cold medicines in the world would make her sleep this soundly.
He did his best to look like an anxious suitor. Hell, it wasn’t difficult. That’s what he was. “I only want to give her these.” He flashed the roses at the busybody. “And make her some tea.”
�
�Humph. Wish somebody wanted to make me tea,” said the old man, shutting the door with a snap.
“Shari!” he yelled again, as loud as he could, banging on the door once more. “Open up or I’ll—” What he’d planned to threaten if she didn’t open up remained a mystery, since the door did open. To the full three inches allowed by the security chain.
Shari was on the other side of the chain, and it might as well have been a thousand miles of uncrossable ice.
“Will you stop banging on my door,” she said in a furious voice, somewhat lacking in dramatic punch from the hoarse quality of her words, and the fact that she ended on a cough.
Immediately he forgot his own agenda. “You sound awful. Can I make you some tea? Or heat some soup or something?”
“There is one thing you can do for me.”
“What? Anything?”
“Drop dead.”
Fortunately, his reflexes were quick. He had his foot in the door before she could slam it.
“Please, listen to me.”
“What for? More lies?”
“No! Shari, I love you.” Okay, so it wasn’t said tenderly on bended knee, while tears of joy filled his beloved’s eyes. It was said while tears threatened to fill his own eyes—from the pain in his foot where she was pushing all her body weight and the door against it. If he’d had any idea he’d be in this situation, he’d have worn steel-toed boots instead of well-used sneakers.
“Will you please stop trying to break my foot?”
“Will you please go away?”
“I only want to talk to you. Just for a minute.”
She was a bright woman—he’d always liked that about her, and she must be able to work out for herself that he wasn’t going anywhere until she let him explain himself.
She undid the chain, let go of the door and turned back into her apartment so fast that he almost fell flat on his face when the tug-of-war ended.
The roses hadn’t retained any more dignity than he had from all the pushing and shoving. He stuck them in her general direction, anyway. “I brought you these.”
