by Rita Herron
Great.
"And then you had two calls from that dating service. Both guys sounded like possibilities." Lucy referred to the tiny notebook she'd extricated from her purse. "I went ahead and accepted on your behalf; hope that's okay—"
Sophie opened her mouth to argue, but Lucy rattled on in excitement.
"You're meeting date number one at Wet Willie's at six for cocktails." She paused and giggled. "He had some kind of science degree that I didn't recognize, so to be on the safe side, no dinner. Then at nine, you're meeting date number two, a yummy-sounding lawyer, at Windows on the River."
Sophie gaped at her sister. "You fixed me up with two men in one night?"
"Yeah, isn't it wonderful? You might meet Mr. Right tonight and be able to forget Lance."
She could only hope.
"Don't worry, though. I'll call midway through both dates, so if you need an out, I'll be your emergency excuse to leave."
Sophie grimaced. "I hate playing games like this."
"Hey, it's a great code. Heaven knows it's saved me from millions of horrific evenings." Lucy chewed her nail. "Oh, and Soph, I talked to Deseree. She wants to come and see us together."
Panic tightened Sophie's chest. "I'll call her tonight. Sounds important."
She was probably shacking up with a new man. The producer motioned at the time, so Sophie ushered Lucy toward the front of the stage to get seated. Over the next hour she suffered through the episode on speed dating. Each person essentially had five minutes to talk to someone before moving to the next. In that short time, they had to decide if they wanted to date the other person. She felt as if they were cattle being moved through a slaughter house. Scant seconds into the dating interviews, she wished for a crash course in marketing, since success with the service seemed to depend on the ability to sell yourself in a five-minute pitch to a stranger.
The bell dinged and she watched as the men chosen to participate in the session played musical chairs between the tables of women.
Guy #1: "Hi, Sophie. Evan Wainscott."
His smile was dazzling, his suit imported, his posture confident. She exchanged greetings and listened to his spiel, vying for optimism.
"I'm a stockbroker, own a house here in Savannah as well as one in Naples, where I vacation three months in the winter. I play tennis and golf every weekend, work late hours, and entertain business clients most nights. I enjoy spending time with a wide variety of women. I've been married twice, but neither worked out. I'm still open, though, and want to share my wealth with a companion who likes to travel."
Okay, he was wealthy—but cocky, to boot. A workaholic. Probably a womanizer. It was a plus that he'd been married, meaning he wasn't opposed to the institution, but he obviously couldn't make it stick. The womanizer part no doubt interfered....
Guy #2: "Hey, Sophie, hon. Name's Billy Bob Waddel." He looped his thumbs around his suspenders and patted himself. "What you see is what you get."
What she saw was an overweight, uneducated man with smoke-stained teeth and a habit of adjusting his genitals.
"I'm an honest, hardworking man, drive a truck for a hospital, haul away wastes. You know, it's pretty specialized work when you deal with body parts that could be contaminated...."
Sophie coughed and tuned out the rest of the gory details.
Guy #3: "Hello, Sophie. My name is Edward. I'm a talent scout. Visiting Savannah on a recruiting trip, doing auditions, combining work with a little sightseeing. I'd love for you to show me around."
They chatted about Savannah for a minute or two; then Sophie commented, "Your job must be interesting. Do you represent anyone I might recognize?"
He shrugged his bony shoulders. "Not unless you're familiar with the Vegas showgirl scene."
Sophie pressed herself back into her chair, the need to run flooding her. She'd thought the man's name seemed familiar when she'd seen it on the program.
He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. "As a matter of fact, you remind me of a dancer I used to watch out there, had this great act at the—"
The buzzer dinged, cutting him off. Thank God.
Five more minutes and the man might have recognized her. And that would have been disastrous.
* * *
Lance had worked all day finishing the cabinets in Sophie's kitchen. McDaniels hadn't accepted or returned his calls.
Sighing in frustration, he tried the man's office again, but the recorder kicked on. Damn.
A hissing sound broke the quiet, and he paused. It was the third time today he'd heard a strange noise from upstairs, almost like soft footsteps. The ghosts?
No, he didn't believe there were star-crossed lovers trapped in this house. The noise was probably Sophie's cat creating havoc somewhere. As if the little devil sensed Lance's thoughts, she appeared, perching herself at the doorway, her big, furry tail swishing back and forth, her eyes beady as if she were monitoring Lance's every move. His nerves tingled. Sophie's pet was a damn watchcat.
Speaking of nervous, he checked the clock. He had an appointment at the sleep clinic at seven, and had wondered all day what kind of tests he'd be forced to endure.
He'd best clean up for the night and face it. He didn't like leaving a mess behind him, especially in the kitchen. The clutter would make it difficult for Sophie to cook dinner, and what would he do if she tripped over a board or nail and injured herself? The rest of her house was so neat and orderly, the renovations must be driving her crazy. She'd be happy with the Victorian hardware, though. At least she should be; when the original stuff she'd ordered hadn't arrived, he'd managed to upgrade the hardware. In fact, he'd simply written it in at the same price, knowing a few cents here and there wouldn't make a difference to him, but the higher-quality materials would add to the house's value and appearance. And he could always use Sophie's house and Sophie as a reference.
He gathered the loose nails and his tools, nearly tripping over that silver case of Lucy's as he hauled things out the back door. Lucy obviously didn't believe in picking up after herself. The door swung back, though, and his foot hit the end of the case, sending it careening down the back steps. The lewd contents spilled everywhere. Shaking his head at the menagerie, he gathered the items quickly and stuffed them in the case, embarrassed to touch the cucumber-shaped dildo. A chocolate-scented pair of pasties lay at his feet. He bent to retrieve them when Sophie rushed around the corner. He jerked up and they bumped into each other. Her gaze fell to the pasties in his hand.
Heat seared his face. "I... they fell out of the case. I was picking them up."
She smiled and nodded as if he'd invented an excuse.
He dropped the pasties as if they were a hot potato, but his foot knocked the case and an odd buzzing noise reverberated from the inside. Blast it all to hell, what in the world was making that sound? "I'm cleaning up, going to get out of your way."
Her bright green eyes locked with his. "You're not in my way, Lance."
He focused on her mouth. "I... I have somewhere to be." He refused to tell her he had an appointment at a sleep clinic because visions of her were keeping him awake at night.
Her mouth tightened. "No problem. I have a date, too."
A date—he hadn't said anything about a date.
The buzzing continued, vibrating from the case, adding to the tension between them. Probably that ridiculous cucumber.
Disappointment momentarily flickered on her face; then she brushed by him. "I'd better get changed."
He nodded. "I guess I'd better go."
"Lance?"
He hesitated. "Yeah?"
"You're doing a wonderful job on the house. I can't tell you how much your attention to detail means to me."
He nodded. For some reason this project meant more to him than any in a long time. Maybe because the house was old and had fallen into disrepair; maybe because it held so much potential.
Certainly not because it belonged to Sophie.
* * *
An hour later Lan
ce lay in a hospital bed naked save for his boxer shorts, socks, and the hospital gown the clinic had given him, several electrodes attached to his body. The clinic was sophisticated and his room wasn't nearly as sterile as he'd imagined it would be. They had given him a nice blanket and tried to make him cozy and comfortable, but Lance still couldn't relax. Maybe it was nerves, but he was freezing his balls off, and the bright lights pierced his eyes, giving him a headache. He had no idea how anyone could fall asleep knowing they were being filmed and monitored. And there were other staff members behind the glass window, making notes, hooking other patients up to the electrodes....
Earlier he'd filled out paperwork, and had to admit the humiliating truth; that he was not only sleep-deprived but sex-deprived, and that the woman he wanted to sleep with but wouldn't allow himself to bed was the reason he couldn't sleep.
The doctor had given him a skeptical look, then described their standard procedure, although he'd admitted that Lance's condition might not warrant a complete study. He had given him a physical exam though, to rule out any obvious health problems, like a cold or fever.
They would test his breathing, his physical condition, heart arrhythmia, then determine whether his insomnia was related to physical problems or, as the doctor had subtly put it, some kind of psychological disorder.
Or perhaps he was worried about impotence.
Not his problem, he assured the doctor, although again, the doc had looked at him skeptically as if perhaps he'd been defensive and had reacted a little too quickly.
He closed his eyes, and was grateful the assistant dimmed the lights. Simply thinking about trying to go to sleep exhausted him.
What was Sophie doing while he lay here tormented by wanting her?
Chapter 12
Sophie had met date number one at Wet Willie's, an inexpensive but charming bar/restaurant. The outside temperature soared to record highs, yet her attitude about her upcoming date was chilly at best. She reminded herself to give the guy a chance. Sure, she'd shared one incredible kiss with Lance—well, maybe more than one—but he hadn't made a move since.
Maddie's rules flitted through her head: Make him chase the bait.
Trouble was, Lance wasn't chasing.
"The first thing you do when identifying spiders and insects is to determine their order," Tad Jeffries, an entomologist, said in a high-pitched voice that sounded as if he were passing through puberty. "Actually, most insects and spiders are nearsighted, so if you move slowly you can get a good look."
"I guess they've never heard of Lasik surgery," Sophie said.
Tad didn't get the joke. He merely squinted over his bifocals with a dour expression—the same one he'd been wearing ever since she arrived at the bar. She had almost ordered the house drink, Sex on the Beach, but opted not to give Tad any ideas.
"The buffalo treehopper is one of the most interesting visually; it feeds on plant juices by drilling their bark with its beak, and looks like a miniature green buffalo."
Sophie twirled the swizzle stick in her martini, trying to pretend interest. Did this guy really think talking insects was romantic?
"Now, take the praying mantis; some people think it should be named preying mantis with an e because it really is a predator."
"Makes sense."
"Spiders actually are sexist, too," he said, drawing her head up for once. "The wolf spider doesn't live in a web, but she's a devoted mother, so she carries her eggs in a ball of silk on her back."
How odd that a spider would have more maternal instincts than Sophie's own mother.
"After they're born, they ride on her back until they're ready to fend for themselves." He sipped his Scotch. "They have to hurry, though, because the mother sometimes forgets they're her own babies and pounces on them as prey. Probably what happened to the male."
So maybe mama spiders weren't so devoted. "The poor babies."
"In fact, once the black widow female mates, she normally kills the male because he's served his purpose."
Yikes.
"I wrote my dissertation on the subject."
"Really?" Why wasn't she surprised?
He flexed his fingers. "It's important to know the different types of spiders; recognizing which ones are poisonous and how to treat their various bites is an essential survival skill."
"Yes, it would be." Not that she planned to go trekking off into the unknown with this man.
"We could go camping sometime. I know a very remote spot on Tybee Island." His tone sounded somber. "Wouldn't you feel safe knowing that I could take care of you?"
God. She'd been safe and bored to tears. And what a line.
Trying for a slick move, he slid his hand over hers, but he overcompensated for her short fingers and knocked over her glass, spilling her drink in her lap. Sophie jumped up, pouncing on the accident as the perfect excuse to escape yet another horrendous date.
One down, one more to go; then she could call it a night.
Outside, she wiped her skirt and made a mental note not to run any more singles series—unless she focused on the joys of being alone. Maybe the black widow was the smarter species after all....
* * *
Lance finally dozed off for about an hour. Unfortunately he dreamed of Sophie. They were stranded on a deserted island wearing nothing but loincloths, her porcelain skin sun-kissed and dusted with a faint line of freckles, the ocean lapping at the sugar-white sand in the background. He had finally overcome his anxiety about being trapped by her—or with her, as the present case was—and given in to primal instincts.
He had to have her.
They had been on the island three weeks. Three agonizing weeks of watching her bathe in the crystal-clear waters, of watching those slender bare legs swim against the current, of watching her sleep beneath the makeshift cover they'd fashioned from palm leaves.
His body was so hard he thought it might explode from want. But he remembered the "Dating Game" show where he'd failed so miserably, and Sophie's comment that he wasn't romantic, so he gathered fresh flowers along the shore and picked ripe fruit, then peeled and squeezed the melon to prepare her a refreshing cocktail. Dusk had settled over the island, the sun slipping into radiant pink and orange lines, the early-evening shadows from the tropical trees offering a private sanctuary.
She had just emerged from the ocean, water droplets glistening off her skin and dripping from that raven-colored hair. He watched from the shadows, his body hardening and throbbing with desire.
Tonight she would be his.
She slowly walked toward the fire, and he smiled, then handed her the drink and retrieved the flowers from behind his back.
"What's this all about?" she asked in a soft voice.
"I want this night to be special." He stood and brushed her hair back with his fingers, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair mingled with the salty ocean breeze. "I want us to be together, Sophie."
A wicked gleam flashed into her eyes. Then she pushed the drink back into his hand. "I told you, Lance, I wouldn't go out with you if you were the last man on earth." She swept her hand across the darkening deserted island. "And I meant it."
With a final dismissive look, she turned and sauntered away from him.
Lance jerked awake and sat up, the electrodes pinching his temple, the monitor on the machine beeping into the silence.
* * *
Sophie met George Kirsch at Windows on the River, impressed by his choice. The Hyatt's adjoining restaurant served some of the freshest seafood in Savannah, and the atmosphere was unique. If a freighter passed by during dinner, you found yourself in a three-dimensional wonderland—the mirrored walls reflected the magnificence above, behind, and around you.
"Hi, you must be Sophie."
An impeccably dressed, handsome man stared down at her. He offered her a rose, and her stomach somersaulted. His accent was slightly Northern, his voice rich and deep. He was almost six feet tall, with deep-set gray eyes, dark brown hair peppered with streaks of blon
d, a kind face, and a sexy smile.
She was grateful she'd had time to dart home and slip into a cocktail dress.
"You look lovely."
"Thanks."
He slid a hand to her waist and escorted her to a table by the river. A bottle of fine wine sat chilling in a crystal decanter. She swallowed hard, realizing this man knew how to entertain a lady. Was it all for show? Would he be as full of himself as some of the others she'd met?
An hour later Sophie realized he was quite the gentlemen: intelligent, good-looking, and considerate.
"I'm a partner with Farley, Strauss, and Kirsch," he said.
Sophie tasted her salmon and smiled. "What kind of law do you practice?"
"The firm is a cross between business and corporate law. I'm a litigator." He shrugged and sipped his wine, his gaze intent on her. "I do take on a few pro bono cases."
"Really?" A generous, giving man to boot. Maybe he could help her forget Lance.
He shrugged again. "I came up through the trenches myself. Raised in Philadelphia, strictly working class." He leaned forward, an earnest expression in his eyes. "One should never forget where he comes from. Our past builds and shapes our character."
Sophie stared into her water glass, feeling a connection. "You had a tough childhood?"
"Somewhat." He cut into his steak. "But I don't dwell on it. A self-made man is far better off than one who is given everything and throws it away."
"I agree." Sophie wondered how much of what he said was an act, but sensed he was sincere.
He was too good to be true.
"Now, enough about me; let's talk about you, Sophie. I want to know your deepest desires."
Sophie tensed, her fingers brushing the stem of her wineglass. Her secrets rose to haunt her. What would he think if he knew the truth?
She wasn't ready to find out.
"I suppose you've seen the show."
"Yes, you're a natural on camera." He reached out and traced a finger over her knuckles.
