“Who said anything about relevance? I just think Donna Reed is hot.”
Marty couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing. “Okay. You win. Help me up.”
She held out a hand, and when she was on her feet, Ben cocked his head in the general direction of the house. “You know, Allison arranged for a baby-sitter. We’re going out dancing after this party winds down. Why don’t you come?”
“I don’t know. With my mom and the whole fiasco with Eli, the idea of spending a night on the town has lost a lot of its appeal.”
Ben nodded, his face a perfect mask of calm. Marty knew the mask was for her benefit. Ben had been the one to introduce her to Eli. And her cousin had taken it very personally when the boyfriend of eight months had suddenly up and left one morning five months ago, citing no more of a reason than “he needed to find a different groove.”
In retrospect, Marty had decided he was no great loss. A new groove? What kind of a freak talks like that, unless he’s the lead llama in a Disney movie? Even so, she hadn’t exactly been up for tripping the light fantastic for some time now.
“Come on, Marty. Maybe you’ll meet someone. Push Eli that much farther out of your life.”
“Not interested,” she said. “I decided after Mom died that I needed to take a widow’s year.”
“A what?”
“A widow’s year. You know. No big life changes. Status quo. Just to get my bearings again. No moving to a new house, no getting a dog. And absolutely, positively, no getting a boyfriend.”
“In that case, just come because I’m your cousin and you love me and I’m inviting you and it’s my birthday.”
Great. The guilt card.
“Come on, kiddo. The night is young.”
“Some people have to work tomorrow.”
“But not you.”
“Maybe I’m on the trail of a hot story.”
“Are you?”
She frowned. “Sadly, no.”
“Marty…no birthday cake for you unless you agree. And it’s yellow cake with chocolate icing….”
“Now you’re just playing dirty.”
Ben smiled. “I like to win.”
Marty summoned a self-sacrificing sigh, even while trying to hide her grin. “Fine. It’s your birthday. I’ll go if only to humor you.”
“Great. I’m thrilled. Allison will be thrilled. She’s been worried about you, you know. Ever since Eli left. And then with your mom… Well, she worries.”
Ben’s wife had become one of Marty’s closest friends. Since the breakup, though, Marty hadn’t confided much in her friend, and she wasn’t surprised Allison was worried. But there really wasn’t much of anything to confide. By Marty’s own design, her life vis-à-vis the opposite sex was dry as a bone, and she intended to let it stay that way for a full twelve months. Which meant she still had nine Y chromosome-free months to go.
“Marty?”
She looked up with a start, realizing she’d gotten too lost in her thoughts to answer. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Really.”
“Allison thinks you need to start dating again.”
“Except I’m not interested in dating,” she said, probably a bit too sharply.
He held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “Hey, hey, don’t take it out on me. I’m not trying to force you to date.”
“Good. Great. I’m glad to hear it.”
He turned to her just long enough to flash a wicked grin. “Personally, I think your no-relationship plan is right on. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go out and get laid.”
CHAPTER TWO
GO OUT AND GET LAID. BEN’S EARLIER WORDS seemed to float in the air. They hovered over the bar, drifting across the wide selection of scotches, tequilas, gins and bourbons. They danced on top of the hunky bartender and bounced from cute guy to cute guy as Marty stood there, her mind in a muddle.
What on earth was she doing? She gave herself a little mental slap and once again shook her head, determined to ignore not only Ben’s words but the images they provoked. She was not interested in “getting laid.”
She took a long sip of her Cosmopolitan and mentally corrected herself. Actually, getting laid sounded pretty appealing. But she had no interest in the whole meeting-dating-small talk ritual that necessarily preceded the going-to-bed thing.
She took another sip and pondered the conundrum. Her widow’s year plan required that she remain relationship free, and she intended to stick firm. After all, it was a smart move. Wasn’t a full year off what all those shrinks and investment advisors and grief counselors advised widows and lottery winners?
But just getting laid… That wasn’t the same as a relationship. A fling wouldn’t break her self-imposed rule.
However, the truth was that the question was entirely moot. Recently, she hadn’t met anyone she wanted to have coffee with, much less sleep with. Her overall attitude to the world had changed and, with it, the way she looked at men.
The realization was both startling and a little bit sad. When her intellect had imposed the widow’s rule, apparently her libido had decided to take a breather, too.
Wasn’t that something?
She twisted around on her barstool and started to scan the male faces in the room, wondering idly if one would inspire her to jump his bones.
Nope.
She wasn’t certain if she should be relieved or disappointed, and she finished off her Cosmopolitan as she pondered that question.
Allison came up just as Marty slid the empty glass away. She held up a finger to the bartender. “Another, please,” she said, then smiled at Marty. “Having fun?”
“Oh, sure.”
Allison’s smile was knowing. “Liar.”
Marty laughed. Her friend knew her too well. “Well, it wouldn’t be my first choice, but I’m glad to be here for Ben.”
“This is so not his scene anymore. But we actually met at this club, so he thought it was fitting.” She laughed again, then shrugged. “Well, it was that and the fact that it’s his thirty-fifth birthday and he already has a three-year-old. I think he’s trying to recapture his youth.”
“I’m only twenty-six,” Marty said. “But it’s not my scene anymore, either.”
Allison’s smile was soft. “Do you think it will be again?”
Marty cocked her head, considering. “No,” she finally said. “I really don’t.” Even after her status quo year was up, she didn’t intend to go back to the bars and clubs, searching for men in smoke-filled corners. Events had changed her, and only time would tell if it was for the better or for the worse.
Allison squeezed her hand. “In that case, I’m extra glad you came tonight.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” Marty said with a grin.
“Liar,” Allison said again, then laughed.
“Actually, now that I’m here, I am glad. I just wish I’d known I’d end up at a dance bar before I got dressed for the party.” Ruefully, she lifted her foot, revealing a red Stuart Weitzman stiletto. “First time to wear them, and they’re killing me.”
“Blister?”
“At least one.”
Allison—toddler mother that she was—started rummaging in her purse. When she came up for air she had a little package of Band-Aids. She passed them to Marty. “Go fix your feet.”
“Thanks.” Marty took the package, hopping off the stool with a wince. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
As it turns out, the little package wasn’t quite enough. It had two bandages. But when she pulled off her shoes, three blisters stared back at her. Great.
She was sitting there frowning—wondering if she should pop them and bandage the worse ones—when the light in the narrow hallway seemed to dim. She looked up, startled, and saw the cause—six foot something of positively gorgeous male anatomy stood sideways at the mouth of the passageway, his regal profile effectively blocking most of the light from the dance floor.
Marty shivered. She wasn’t entirely sure why she shivered. In fact, at the
moment the only thing she was sure of was that she couldn’t take her eyes off the man…and would love to have her hands all over him.
Stop it! Stop it, Marty!
She shook her head and concentrated on her blisters. She wasn’t going to look at the gorgeous man. She wasn’t going to look at the gorgeous man. She wasn’t going to look at…
Oh, heck.
She looked up. Why not? She hadn’t been attracted to a guy since Eli. Before, really, since Eli’s looks had grown on her. They hadn’t knocked her off her feet like this man had.
And now—
Uh-oh. He turned and looked in her direction. She jerked her foot back up onto the bench and started inspecting the blisters in earnest.
“Really,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder. “I just need to make a quick phone call.”
As Marty focused on her feet, he came over and picked up the handset for the pay phone. It crossed Marty’s mind that he was probably the last man on the planet not to have a cell phone surgically attached to his belt, but when he picked up the handset and pretended to dial, she figured she understood.
She waited a second, debating whether she should say something, then decided what the hell. “Skipping out?”
He turned to face her directly and stared, his eyes penetrating and dark and utterly sexy. “Pardon me?”
“The phone call,” she said. “It’s just an excuse, right? To get away from someone in the club.”
For a moment, she thought the man wouldn’t answer her. Or, worse, that he would answer her and tell her to mind her own business. But no, instead he smiled, and when he did, Marty felt a trill that started in her toes and sent fire all the way up to her nipples, now hard under the lace bra she wore beneath her sleeveless black T-shirt.
“Shall I assume you have some experience in these things?”
“A bit,” she admitted.
“This kind of place not your style?”
She shrugged. “It’s not that as much as this.” She ruefully held up a shoe. “They looked great in the Galleria, but they hurt like hell. And I sure can’t dance in them.”
He took it from her and held it up to the dim light. “Hmm. I’m not sure I could do much better.”
A burst of laughter bubbled through her. His easy familiarity surprised and delighted her, and the fact that she couldn’t seem to stop looking at him was certainly a plus in the overall appeal department.
She cocked her head a bit and smiled back at him. “They look fabulous on me. But looks aren’t everything.”
“No, they’re not.” He looked her up and down, his slow heated gaze starting at her bare toes and moving all the way up to her face. By the time their eyes met, she was sure she was blushing. She swallowed, stifling the urge to press her hands against her cheeks. “Looks may not be everything,” he went on. “But I’m sure you’ve never had a problem in the looks department—or ever will.”
“I…thank you.”
He inclined his head just slightly. “You know, I was planning on sneaking out that door back there—”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” A wave of embarrassment crashed over her. She’d presumed too much. She pulled her feet up and turned sideways on her bench, widening the space for him to pass.
He didn’t move, but his smile broadened just a bit and his eyes seemed to dance in amusement. “Ah, what I meant was that I’d been planning to leave. Now I’m thinking that I might want to stay a bit longer. Maybe do a bit of dancing.” His eyes flashed with mischief. “I’m Ryan Kinsey, by the way.”
“Martina Chamberlain. Marty.”
“Well, Marty. Care to take a spin around the floor with me?”
She lifted an eyebrow and dangled the shoe by its strap from her forefinger. “I still have my little problem of sore feet. Remember the impractical shoes?”
“Then leave them here.” He held out his hand, and without thinking, she reached out and took it, letting the shoe on her forefinger tumble to the ground. Before she knew it, she was in his arms, and they were on the dance floor and she was in her bare feet. He was holding her close and they were slow dancing despite the fast beat of the music and the rhythmic thrum of the bass.
Marty pressed close against him, hypnotized by the very beat of his heart. But before her thoughts lost their purchase and drifted away on the music, she caught one coherent idea: This was why she’d come tonight. She hadn’t realized it at the time, but now it was so obvious. This man. This moment. This night.
Surprising and abrupt and probably a little bit crazy. And, so help her, she didn’t want it to end.
RYAN HELD THE WOMAN in his arms, her body firm against him as they swayed to their own rhythm despite the soul-pounding rock beat that filled the large club. They’d slow danced to six songs now, and not one had actually been a slow song. People were beginning to stare, and Ryan really didn’t give a damn.
From the moment he’d first seen her, his body—actually, one particular part of his body—had been running the show. He couldn’t remember ever having been so affected by any woman before her. One look and he’d simply wanted her. Not forever, but for now…oh, how he wanted her now.
Maybe Meg and Edward’s ribbing had gotten to him. Maybe he’d just been too long in an empty bed. Whatever the reason, his body was primed, and this woman had started his senses humming. He wanted more. And he wanted it now.
As his hands stroked her back, he leaned in close, his lips almost touching her ear. “Any interest in getting out of here?”
The look in her eyes as she whispered “yes,” shot straight to his crotch, firing his blood and fueling an already red-hot desire.
He took her hand and urged her toward the exit door. They crossed the parking lot, making a beeline for his Mustang. “I hate to sound cliché,” he said, as he opened the passenger door for her, “but your place or mine?”
“Well, normally, I’d say mine since I’m just around the corner, but this car is awesome. Maybe we should drive far, far away.” She stroked the upholstery, then leaned forward and stroked the dash. Ryan made a concerted effort not to think about how those hands would feel stroking his chest, his thighs, his back, his—
“Did you restore her yourself?”
Her question pulled him back to his senses. “Yeah. Hobby of mine.”
“I’m impressed,” she said, her voice filled with flirtation. “And I do like a man who’s good with his hands.”
“Yeah? And I like a woman who lives just around the corner.”
“Looks like we’re going to get along just fine,” she said. Her smile lit a fire in her honey-colored eyes. Her light brown hair seemed almost golden, lit as she was by the overhead glow of halogen. The overall effect was both sensual and innocent…and damned appealing.
She pointed toward one of the three exits, and once he’d turned onto Westheimer, she directed him the rest of the way to her apartment, a tidy little second-story flat with a big yellow cat guarding the front door.
“That’s Killer,” she said, giving the cat a nudge with her toe. The cat mumbled something that was probably a kitty obscenity, but didn’t move. “He’s my attack cat.”
“I can see that he keeps you very safe,” he said, stepping gingerly over the yellow pile of fur.
“Oh, yes. I wouldn’t feel comfortable living alone without Killer.”
They moved through the darkened living room, the only light coming from the full moon shining through the sliding glass door.
She sat on the couch, but when he sat next to her, she bounced back up again, like some rubber toy. He took her hand. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, her smile wry. “Sorry. I just don’t usually… I mean, it’s just that you…”
He nodded. “I know. Me too.”
“I’m usually very sensible. I’m a journalist. So watch yourself or you’ll be all over the front page.” She flashed a self-deprecating grin. “Well, the front page of the Life and Arts section, anyway.”
“I’ll be good,
” he promised, then looked her up and down. “You don’t look like Woodward or Bernstein.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Good. That’s how I meant it.” He studied her, wondering what made her tick. “Do you like your job?”
She looked at him, clearly unsure whether he really cared. It was a fair reaction. After all, they’d come to her apartment with one purpose in mind. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to talk up the woman before ravishing her in bed. In Marty’s case, though, he realized he was truly interested. “I’m serious,” he said. “I’d like to know.”
For a moment, he thought she was going to argue. He might want to know her better, but for all he knew, she wanted to jump straight to the bedroom portion of tonight’s program. Surprisingly, the possibility depressed him.
After a moment, though, she nodded. “All right. If we’re going to share life stories, then we at least need wine. Would you like some?”
He followed her to the kitchen, nodding approval when she opened a bottle of merlot.
“So, do I like my job?” she said, as she passed him his glass. “I love it.”
“I sense a ‘but.’”
“You’re perceptive.”
“So?”
She took a sip of wine, possibly to enjoy it, possibly to stall for time. “So, it’s the age-old story. My dad doesn’t approve.”
“Ah, yes. Approval of the father figure. You’re right. I have heard this story.”
“Then you know how it ends. The earnest daughter can never quite make the old man happy. She tries, but she just doesn’t have the interest—or the skills, for that matter.”
“Skills?”
“Math, science, that kind of stuff. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps, but the first time I got an F in algebra, it became pretty apparent that wouldn’t be happening.”
“What’s he do?”
“Invents stuff. From his perspective, though, he changes the world. And he thinks it’s beneath me just to write stories as if I was in a train watching the world go by through the window.” She held up her glass as if in a toast. “Those are his words, not mine.”
The Hope Chest Page 11
