Every time he’d fiddled with the strap, she had been intensely aware of him, or rather her body had been aware of him, of how fresh he smelled, even above Justine’s wall of perfume. She breathed in his scent. Her heart kicked up a notch and filled her ears with a steady beat that sounded like man-man, man-man, man-man. Instead of his hands fiddling with the seatbelt, she had flashes of his hands fiddling with her, checking all her gauges and pressure. Then she’d imagined him wearing nothing but a five-point racing harness.
Her body’s very natural response was ridiculous. It had been a long time since she’d felt an undercurrent of attraction to a man so intense her panties became damp just by looking at him, and she wondered why it had to be this particular man her body instantly responded to.
Obviously a good dose of sex was a perfect solution, but having someone ring her bell for the sake of satiating horniness seemed cheap.
Why did she have to be so rigid? Couldn’t she just sleep with a man for sheer pleasure? So what if it hadn’t been a year since the divorce, did lovemaking have to be all wrapped up in some kind of emotional connection and not just be about sex? Had Karl spoiled that for her for good?
Olivia liked to think she’d been discriminating in the men she chose to go to bed with, but then look how far fine discrimination got her, look how both of those prudent relationships wound up not so prudent after all. So why on earth did she hold out for a lover who actually loved her?
When she’d caught Maxwell’s profile lit up by the blue glow of the van’s dashboard, her heart flickering like the shorting red tail lights of the old bucket of rust in front of the van, she wondered if it was possible Maxwell could be a love her, not a lover.
Of course, he opened his big fat mouth, and she knew it was completely a chemical response.
So why was she still trying so hard to hold on to the lingering cardamom and autumn leaves fragrance of his? Why was she still imagining him naked under that five-point harness?
She breathed in and out in a series of slow controlled breaths and went to find a seat with the bridal party.
Finally free of the Twist, Emerson watched Olivia move across the front of the restaurant and dance floor with quick steps. She was in time with the music playing as she approached the table. A waiter with a serious James Dean squint passed out tiny organza bags and glasses of water as soon as she took a seat beside Craig’s dad, across from Pete. She’d maneuvered into a position to shut him out. If he wanted to talk to her, Emerson realized he’d have to lean back and stretch sideways.
Dinner unfolded in a leisurely manner. The party favor coin bags were a novelty and selections of ’50s and ’60s classics spun on the jukebox as they ate. As Olivia had hoped, Ella relaxed in the slightly kitschy atmosphere, going as far as telling her father to go outside and smoke a cigar. The setting was glitzy and tacky and utterly fun. The food was great. The music added an extra kick to the experience. People sang along and tapped their toes throughout the evening.
The opening bars of Ritchie Valens La Bamba played. With a whooping yee-ha, Tex and Mimi made their way out to the dance floor. They did a stomping two-step, with Tex making the most of his cowboy boots. He let out another yee-ha and that seemed to be all the enticement the others at the table needed. Ella scooted out with Craig. Justine grabbed Jason, and Martin pulled Addie along. Suzanne danced with rhythmless husband Al.
Olivia knew he was there before he said a word. “Would you like to dance, Olivia?” Maxwell held out his hand.
“I’m about to catch up with Pete. It’s been all work and wedding crap since I got back to town, and we really haven’t had a chance to talk about anything else. I’m waiting for him to get back from the bathroom.”
Maxwell cut his eyes to the dance floor. “Pete’s out there with his wife.”
“Oh.”
“You afraid I’ll step on your feet?”
“I saw you out there doing the Twist earlier, so yes, I’m terrified you’ll tread on my toes.”
“I just might surprise you.”
“I thought you had a bum knee.”
“It’s all better now, but thanks for caring.” Emerson offered his hand again and was a little surprised when she sighed and took it. “Does this mean I’m forgiven for this afternoon’s ice cream effrontery?” He cocked his head as she rose.
“I understand the overwhelming power of ice cream, but you still have a long way to go to make up for that you wanted children comment. It was like I told you I was Luke Skywalker’s father, or that the planet in Planet of the Apes is actually Earth.”
“I see you speak Movie Geek as well as German. Impressive.”
“Do you want to dance or talk movies?”
“How about both?”
“Great. Come on, let’s get it over with,” she said, jerking him toward the dance floor.
Emerson let himself be led. Summertime always allowed women the opportunity to show off more of their figures. It was a seasonal event he had enjoyed since he was twelve and noticed that Amelia Capra, the neighborhood tomboy, looked better in a bikini than a parka. Yet, there needed to be something else to make a man really take notice of a female. And Olivia had it.
Confidence. She radiated confidence. She oozed confidence in whatever she did, sure of herself, certain about everything, and it was a huge turn-on. Confidence was sexy as hell and he thought self-assured Olivia looked as sexy in a rather boxy red fire-proof racing jumpsuit as she did in two-inch heels and a deeper red, form-fitting, knee-length dress held up by dainty straps that showed off the porcelain-fine curve of her shoulders, shoulders he noticed now, were dotted with a few freckles.
By the time they made it to the floor, the jukebox music shifted from Ritchie Valens to Johnny Mathis and Chances Are.
“Oh, great,” Olivia muttered. She let out an impatient huff, rolled her eyes…and kept hold of his hand.
Emerson tugged her forward, drawing her into his chest. One strap of her dress slipped down her shoulder. He kept an arm around her waist and let his hand trail along her arm. His fingertips inched up to the bared part of her shoulder, sliding up the thin strap and tracing over the satiny skin that warmed beneath his touch until he reached the hairline at the back of her head. Her temple dipped against his chest as his fingers ran through the loose, baby-fine wisps of hair at the nape of her neck.
Olivia had lost the argument she’d had with herself. Hormones won over oxygen. Slow, steady breathing had given way to primal urges—all because Maxwell had mentioned the damned ice cream cone. This afternoon, when he snatched her wrist and dragged her so close, only to gobble up her ice cream, she’d had a primitive yearning for him to devour her mouth the same way. And she’d been disappointed when he’d sat back and wiped the smear of chocolate from his lips.
Yes, she understood the tricky aspects of nature and how it could fool you, and how she’d been fooled by it before. But this was not about being foolish. When the light touch of his hands kicked her pulse up a notch, she knew it was simply the romantic aspect of dancing and the pleasure of an attractive man’s hands on her. She knew she needed it and because she needed it, she gave in to the enchantment, and the edge of her forehead nestled a little deeper into his chest.
The way he tickled his fingers along her spine created tiny eddies of excitement that swirled up and out the top of her head. His touch was as thrilling as driving two hundred and twenty miles an hour, and just as addictive. But her common sense hadn’t mutinied completely. As curious as she was about him, as pleasurable as his touch was, and much as she would have liked to have been the kind of woman who could jump into bed with a man without a thought of the next morning, the fact remained this man had a big mouth—a big, kissable, bragging mouth he couldn’t keep shut. She’d been the foolish little wife who’d stood by philandering Karl Abenteuer and if she didn’t get back on track she might really be the naked elevator chick who boned Maxwell. “Maxwell—” she began.
“Emerson,” he whispered at her
ear, the breath of his lips teasing, barely skimming the curving edge. “It’s a nice song isn’t it?”
Olivia licked her lips. “Maxwell, cut it out.”
“Emerson, my name is Emerson. My friends call me Emerson.”
“This isn’t supposed to be that kind of friendly and Pete calls you M.”
“No he calls me Em, as in Emerson, not M as in Maxwell or the guy in James Bond. I think this has been a friendly day.” His lips moved over her neck, floating above the delicately scented skin there with a whispery softness. “Didn’t you have fun this afternoon? I did. We had a fun, friendly time, even with The Incredible Mr. Comb-over.”
Olivia felt goose bumps rise on her skin and her voice came out as breathless as Justine’s. “A pleasant afternoon where you were nearly normal doesn’t change anything. I work for you. Remember?”
“So?” Emerson tipped her face up and felt her fingers dig into his arm. Her breath puffed sweetly over his lips while her heart thrummed the same low, vibrating bass notes as his. He could feel the rhythmic cadence pressed against his chest. He hung onto the moment of her so near, savoring the delicious seconds of anticipation before she kissed him for the second time since they met, but her elbows jammed against his chest and her eyes were narrow slivers of maple sugar.
“Thanks for the dance.” Olivia took a few steps backward and made her way to the table, aware of just how fast her heart was thumping. She fought the impulse to pick up her napkin to fan her hot neck. Instead, she took a moment, inhaling and exhaling as she counted to ten. When she looked out at the dance floor again, Justine was reenacting a scene from Dirty Dancing. Her arms were looped around Maxwell’s neck and she had her hips thrust into his pelvis. Olivia was amazed to discover how irritating she found the sight.
Chapter 13
The best thing about having this room, instead of the one with the fabulous bathtub, was the cool air off the lake. She couldn’t bathe in luxurious claw-footed splendor, but she could bathe in a soft summer breeze. Dressed for bed, Olivia opened both sets of the tall French doors to let more fresh air flow in from the balcony and not just the windows. The right door had folded back freely, but the latch at the top of the left one was stubborn and the bolt was stuck fast. She could maneuver it back and forth, but it wouldn’t slide down. The door rattled as she jerked the latch. She opened the aluminum framed screen door on the outside and stepped onto the balcony to shove against the French door from the other side. Half inside, half outside, she stood on her toes, gave the door a whack and then practically hung off the pin.
Nothing budged, but something, or someone, moved behind her. Turning, she found Maxwell standing with his back against the balcony railing. He had a crystal glass in his hand, and he was barefoot, the hem of his trousers slightly bunched at his heels. His shirt was unbuttoned and hung open, providing a peek-a-boo view of his chest. He had hair on his chest, like Sean Connery had in his James Bond days. She liked Sean Connery, and James Bond and she liked chest hair. Jesus, she liked chest hair…and beards, and moustaches and most of all…chest hair. It was…manly. Nature intended for men to have hair on their chests, not chests that had been shaved or waxed bare as a baby’s ass. Men were supposed to have chest hair and Maxwell had chest hair…and a visible five o’clock shadow. She watched him lift the tumbler to his lips to drink and her mouth went dry.
Emerson had been on his darkened side of the balcony in a deck chair, taking in the stars over the lake, sipping a little cognac, waiting for Olivia to go to bed before he took his turn in the bathroom. “I startled you, didn’t I?”
She licked her lips and shook her head. “No.”
“Door stuck?”
“M-hm.”
“You want a hand?”
“If you don’t mind,” she said and when she turned around in the doorway, her pale blue nightgown was instantly backlit from the lights inside. Her figure on shadowy display made his stomach kiss his heart.
“The bolt is jammed,” she said.
He reached up over her head, standing very close. His arm brushed against her hair and the warmth of his skin singed her forehead. Olivia smelled the sweet, spirity scent of cognac on his breath as he shifted the brass bolt, and she wondered if her heartbeat was audible.
“There you go,” he said casually. Strands of her hair lifted in the breeze and tickled his neck. He took a step back and downed his cognac with one swallow.
“Thanks.” Olivia opened the French door, relieved he had finally changed position.
“No problem. You done in the bathroom?”
“It’s all yours.”
“Do you mind sharing the balcony as much as the bathroom?”
“No. How’s that cognac?
Emerson looked at the empty glass in his hand. “It was great. Don’t you have a bottle in your room? I thought everyone did.”
“No. I have Jason’s tequila and bedside basket of condoms. He has my Baileys and bath salts.”
“What? How’d that happen?”
“I had personalized all the rooms, but I had to switch with Jason at the last minute. He has allergies Ella forgot to tell me about.”
“And Martin was supposed to be in my room, right?”
“Yes, he was.” Olivia moved out of the doorway, onto the balcony and put her back to the curved balcony railing. “I guess Craig got mixed up when he put you in there. Martin was supposed to have the cognac, Jason was supposed to have the tequila, and I was supposed to be soaking in a huge bathtub with a glass of Baileys right now.”
“Well I can’t do anything about the bath or Baileys, but wait here.” Emerson left her on the balcony and went through the door to his room. He refilled his glass with cognac and poured one for her. When he went back out on the balcony, she’d turned off the lights in her room and stood at the railing, looking up at the night sky.
He joined her, putting the glass in her hand. “Sorry there aren’t any soap bubbles.” He clinked his glass against hers and had a sip of the warm, sweet amber liquid. It was as smooth as the rich brown of her eyes.
She savored the taste on her tongue for a moment and gave him a nudge. “Okay,” she said, “this completely makes up for how you ate my ice cream.”
“Unlike you, I would have been happy to share mine with you. I learned to do that in kindergarten.”
“I shared the oxygen in the elevator with you, didn’t I?”
“Like you had a choice?” Chuckling, he bent forward and rested his forearms on the railing like she did.
“Oh, you can make jokes about it. Good. Maybe I really will cure you of claustrophobia.”
“And what can I cure for you?” Emerson groaned inwardly as soon as the words came out. Shit. What was he going to say next, Tell Dr. Love where it hurts?
Luckily, she didn’t say anything, but her head was cocked to one side, as if she were waiting for his next moronic comment. Then he realized she was listening to something. Intently.
He listened too, hearing chuff chuff chuff. “What do you think that is?”
“A raccoon?”
“Sounds bigger. Can you see anything?” He put his glass on the seat of a deck chair.
She watched him peer out over the garden and she tracked the strange noise. “I hope it’s not a bat.”
“Why, are you afraid of bats?” he murmured.
She shook her head. “Are you?” She put a finger to her lips because a soft, guttural groan was added to the chuff chuff chuff, and she pointed down, over the side of the balcony.
Emerson leaned out as far as he could, pushing himself up on the wide railing, stretching far over. He felt Olivia’s cool fingers brush against the small of his back when he overbalanced and she grabbed the waistband of his pants. He saw the very edge of shadows moving down below, near the hydrangea bushes beside the terrace. He slid back, settling on his feet. “It’s not an animal. There’s somebody down there on the terrace,” he said, close to her ear, “and I think they’re knockin’ boots.”
They both leaned forward slightly and quite clearly heard a feminine voice muttering, “Yes, oh, yes! Good! Oh, like that. It’s so good!”
Olivia stifled her half-snorted laugh and whispered, “Don’t they know we’re up here? Can’t they hear us?”
“Apparently not. The sound from up here must travel in a different direction.”
“Who do you think it is?”
“Jason.”
“Jason’s girlfriend won’t be here ‘til tomorrow. I think it’s Martin.” No longer whispering, Olivia peeked over the edge of the balcony. “But Addie doesn’t strike me as the outdoorsy type.”
“And you don’t strike me as the kind who wants to stand here and listen, but here you are. What did you put in her room that might make her so outdoorsy?”
“Martin and your Jack Daniels.”
Emerson smiled. He liked the fact she knew something about him. “How did you know I liked whiskey?”
“Pete told me.”
“Ah, Pete. Pete gave Ella a lot of personal details for this weekend, didn’t he?”
A quiet chirruping joined the leafy shuffling sound intermittently. Olivia chuckled into her glass. “Except for her, Ella didn’t know Martin was bringing her.” She pointed over the balcony.
“The invitation did say and guest.”
Olivia turned away from the railing and looked at him. “So how come you didn’t bring a guest?”
“How come you didn’t?”
Something between a sigh and a laugh slowly puffed out of her nose. “I have certain terms and conditions that need to be met in my life before I have room for a guest.”
“Sounds like you’re holding yourself for ransom.”
“I just know what I want and don’t want.” She raised her glass and swallowed down smooth brandy. “You know I almost went on a blind date with you once.” The words spilled right out because there was nothing quite as lubricating as alcohol to loosen up one’s mouth.
Driving in Neutral Page 14
