Ask Me

by Laura Strickland

  “We left it in the living room.”

  “Why don’t you read it first? Let me know when you’re done. Here.” He juggled his clothing and reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet. Extracting a card, he laid it very carefully on her pillow. His gaze held hers. “My number.”

  “Okay.” And what did that mean? Just that she should call him when she finished their book? Or that he wanted to see her again, and she should call him when she desired another night of wild passion?

  She wrapped her arms around herself. “I’ll keep the book; you take the candy hearts.”

  He shoved the little red bag into one pocket.

  “And the—” She indicated the box on the bedside table; he snatched it up with a half smile, donned his shoes, and got to his feet.

  “Well, I’d better go. Thanks, Miss Webb.”

  “Gerri.”

  “Gerri. It was—well, magnificent.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” A high—or, rather a series of them—superseding all previous highs. Then why, watching him go, did she feel as if she crashed to an all-time low?

  She didn’t know what she should say to keep him from leaving, or even if she wanted to keep him from leaving. She’d lowered her guard often enough, in the past, only to have it bite her severely.

  No, she needed to let Leo Rankin walk away. They were just two souls who’d paired in passing to keep one another from a single night of loneliness.

  He went out into the living room, where he collected his glasses; she followed to the door. There he paused, and she caught her breath.

  Ask me, she willed him again.

  “See you,” he said, and leaned over to kiss her cheek. The scent of him enfolded her, and she had to close her eyes against the exquisite accompanying rush of desire.

  When she opened them an instant later, he’d gone out so quietly she might almost believe last night had never been.

  ****

  Leo trudged through two inches of slush, back up Gerri’s street, past the drug store on the corner, to where he’d left his car in the library parking lot. His mind raced through a thousand thoughts as he went, alternate realities: he’d taken her up on her offer of a shower; she’d shed that damned sexy robe (was that steampunk?) and joined him beneath the pelting water, her lean, limber body adhering to his even as it had last night… He’d stayed for breakfast, only they’d fed off each other, something far more satisfying than food.

  His keys dropped into the slush from suddenly nerveless fingers. What a fool he was! He’d given her his card but failed to get her number. What if he wanted to call her? What if she never called him?

  No question he wanted to see her again—taste her again, be with her again.

  Savagely, he tore his car door open and got inside. That hadn’t been the deal, and she’d given him no real indication she wanted to change it.

  God, he was in deep shit.

  ****

  Hours later, when he should have been grading essays, he instead trolled online for tattoo artists—something he’d certainly never expected to do. Surprising how many there were in the city, none of them named Geraldine Webb. Did she perhaps work under a different name? Rent space in someone else’s premises? That seemed a common practice.

  Ruthlessly he plumbed the websites of artists in the immediate area and—bingo!—found her at last, listed as working in a parlor called the Golden Dial. Tension drained from him, replaced by victory.

  He could get in touch with her if he wanted to, could even turn up there, if necessary. But what constituted necessity? Right now the taste of her lingered with him, her scent, and the way she’d laughed when he’d eased her slender legs apart on the bed and…

  He had to stop thinking about it, about her. Either that or he needed to go take yet another shower.

  What if he went in and inquired about getting a tattoo—made an excuse to see her? Lame. It sounded like a plan hatched by a fourteen-year-old. She knew he wasn’t the kind of man to get tattooed. Not that he wouldn’t suffer any discomfort to have her touch him again.

  And to see the light in her deep blue eyes.

  Get to work, he growled, and applied his attention determinedly to the next essay.

  ****

  It took Gerri three days to admit she wasn’t getting over her night with Leo Rankin and another two to think up a good excuse to call him. During each of those five days, nothing went right. Customers seemed hard to please, and one of her colleagues—Roman, who’d been trying to date her for weeks—became more annoying than ever.

  She had no intention of dating Roman; he felt too much like an incarnation of all her past mistakes. Besides, he didn’t have a lean, supple body or chocolate-brown eyes.

  When she got home from work on Thursday, she didn’t hesitate. Instead she punched in the number from Leo’s card and listened to the rings.

  She nearly gave up after six rings, unprepared to leave a message. Then she heard his voice, breathless.

  “Hello?”

  “Leo? It’s Gerri.”

  A moment of silence ensued, so total Gerri could hear her own heartbeat, before he spoke. “Hi. Don’t tell me you’ve finished our book already?”

  “No.” She eyed the still-wrapped book, which she hadn’t touched since he left. “Not that. But I had an idea, a sort of challenge. Don’t know if you’ll be up for it.”

  He laughed a little. “Ask me.”

  Her pulse leaped.

  “Well, you know that whole genre-widening thing—?”

  “Worked pretty nicely for us, didn’t it?” His tone sounded warm as the bed they had shared.

  “I thought so. What if we exchanged for real? I’ll read one of your historical naval adventures and you read a steampunk.”

  “Then?”

  “Then we share opinions.”

  Again he hesitated. “In person?”

  Was that really what she suggested—that they see each other again? Well, of course it was. She might as well be honest about it. “If you like.”

  He drew a breath. “When?”

  “When do we exchange books, or when do we meet?”

  “Both.”

  Now Gerri hesitated. Did she really want to embark on what could easily end as another disappointment?

  “Listen,” he said quickly when she didn’t respond, “I’ve got this thing tomorrow night, a function.”

  “Function?”

  “Of the history department. It’s a reception for someone who’s retiring. I hate going to these things on my own.”

  Gerri’s heart thumped double-time.

  “Uh—you could save me from being alone again. We could exchange books then.”

  Gerri closed her eyes, teetering on the edge of refusal. Trouble was, when she closed her eyes she could feel the way he’d touched her—slid those warm hands down her body and coaxed that miraculous response—all over again.

  A function of the history department sounded like the last place she wanted to be. But Leo Rankin’s arms might well be the first place.

  Like a fool she responded, “Sounds good. What time?”

  Chapter Five

  I should have known better. Gerri stood outside the restaurant waiting for Leo to unlock his car and drive her home. She had known, and had defied her instincts. For her, that rarely ended well.

  Leo had picked her up at seven; her vintage, gear-driven watch now read no later than nine-thirty. The intervening time had been pure, unmitigated disaster.

  So this is why you don’t date men like Leo Rankin. She slid into the passenger seat. Not that his colleagues, to whom he’d introduced her, had proved unwelcoming. Sure, they’d looked at her askance, unable quite to hide their surprise, each of them marking the tattoo on her cheek before shooting sharp glances at Leo. But it had felt like stepping through the looking glass into a world less fantastical than boring, where she could barely comprehend the conversations and patently did not fit.

  Maybe she should have dressed dow
n, she thought now, ruefully—not worn the ruffled blouse and corset or the earrings with the golden gears.

  But she’d wanted to impress Leo.

  How had that worked for her? He got into the driver’s seat and just sat there, not attempting to start the engine. Trying to think of a polite way to say they shouldn’t see each other again. Leo—like all his associates—was nothing if not polite.

  Trouble was, here in the dark confines of his car she could smell him, and that triggered memories that made her want to disregard all the differences between them.

  He spoke at last. “You look so beautiful tonight, Gerri.”

  “Oh?” Not what she expected.

  He seemed to fish for words. “Exquisite. Beguiling. Seductive. I’ve never met a woman like you.”

  She laughed, suddenly feeling unsteady. “Neither have your associates. I think, Leo, you might have lost some standing with your colleagues in there.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “No?”

  Very gently he reached out and ran his fingers through her hair, which she wore loose. “I’ve been longing to do that since I picked you up.” He cradled her face tenderly. “And this.”

  She sat frozen while he kissed her, his lips hot in the chilly dark. At least she started out frozen, the mere receiver of his caress. But hunger came leaping, and before it ended she had her arms twined around his neck, only the gear shift between them.

  “My God,” he breathed then.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t imagine it—how I feel when I touch you. Tell me I can see you again—and again and again.”

  A few threads of sanity returned to Gerri’s mind. She shook her head. “Not a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, we have nothing in common—beyond the bedroom and a penchant for reading. I don’t know about you, Leo, but I haven’t been able to float a successful relationship with someone from my own world, let alone one so different I barely recognize the language.”

  “But I have to see you. You’re like no one I’ve ever known.”

  “Of course I’m like no one you’ve known; I’m a raven in a parliament of owls. That old gentleman, Dr. Younger—he’s influential to your career, right?”

  “Well, yes,” Leo admitted. “He’s the department chair.”

  “You must have noticed the way he looked at me.”

  “Gerri, Gerri.” He caressed her cheek where her tattoo perched. “The old ‘gentleman,’ as you call him, looks at everyone that way.” Leo drew a ragged breath. “Come home with me. Please?”

  Gerri’s heart bounded with desire before sinking sickeningly. She shook her head once more.

  “Please,” he pressed.

  Carefully she drew away from his grasp and fished in the back seat for the book she’d brought. She held it out to him, making a barrier.

  “We don’t have to go through with this if you’d rather not. It might be better just to end it now, have no reason to see each other in the future.”

  He took the book. “I want a reason to see you. I want a thousand reasons.”

  “Leo—”

  “But of course I’ll respect your wishes.”

  He fished in the side pocket on his door and produced a book he laid in her hands. “Promise you’ll read it and call me when you’re done.”

  Gerri hesitated. Would it be healthy for her to keep such a promise? Yet this had been her idea. She couldn’t beg off now.

  “Okay.”

  He turned away and started the engine, drove her home in silence, and drew up in front of her apartment.

  Hastily, she unbuckled her seatbelt and prepared to climb out.

  He touched her wrist very gently. “This isn’t over, Gerri. You’re in my blood now—I can’t be done with you.”

  Clutching his book, Gerri fled.

  ****

  Leo stayed up far too late the next two nights reading the book Gerri had loaned him, entitled The Clockwork Lover. He couldn’t sleep anyway. Every time he tried to do anything beyond reading or course work, thoughts of Gerri ran rampant. Lying in the dark, alone in his bed, proved fruitless, so he read instead, sublimating his restlessness in an alternate, fantastical Victorian world.

  He hadn’t expected to like the book, yet he devoured it with real enjoyment. Not so different after all from the naval adventures he favored, it centered on a damaged hero bent on upholding a personal brand of honor and a heroine who reminded him of Gerri with her unconventional beauty.

  The night he finished it at three in the morning, he lay a long time wondering why she’d chosen this particular book for him. Just because it was one of her favorites? For some deeper reason? To Leo, the story echoed their own situation: the hero—a clockwork automaton—had to take a risk in order to be with the heroine forever.

  Leo, of course, could claim no “hero” status. He knew he led a staid, academic life that must seem utterly dull to a woman of Gerri’s creativity. Was that why she couldn’t see them together, why she refused him?

  Then why give him The Clockwork Lover?

  No matter; having finished the story, he could now call her. Well, not now, perhaps. Peering through his specs at his phone, which lay on the bedside table, he marked the time. Tomorrow.

  His heart picked up rhythm at the prospect. They could meet somewhere to exchange opinions of the books. He’d be able to talk to her, look at her, glory in all the things that had haunted him: the way her deep blue eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled; the delicate way she moved, like a dancer; the gleam that shone from her silken-smooth hair. He just wanted to be with her—sex or no sex—and hear her laugh.

  He wondered what she’d made of the book he’d lent her, Sails of Fire, and whether she’d finished it. Maybe she hadn’t—maybe she’d yet to start it, and that meant they couldn’t meet after all.

  Leo slid down into his blankets with a groan. He simply had to apply all his intellect and find a way to persuade Gerri Webb she belonged in his life.

  Chapter Six

  The flowers arrived half way through Gerri’s shift while she put the finishing touches on an intricate design for one of her best customers, a young woman called Meg. The parlor hummed with activity and low conversation. Patrons filled all four stations, and for the first time in days Gerri had managed to drag her thoughts away from Leo Rankin.

  She heard a commotion at the door but paid little attention till someone called her name.

  “Geraldine Webb?”

  No one called her “Geraldine” except her grandmother. She lifted her needle without haste and turned to look.

  A giant bunch of flowers—with legs—approached, directed by her boss, Max. Well, the bouquet didn’t have legs. It traveled in the arms of a delivery boy, who peeked around the blooms at her as he came.

  The entire parlor went silent, or as silent as it ever got, and people stared. Flowers never appeared here. And such flowers!

  They might have come straight from a steampunk dream. Not only the size but the color of the blooms impressed her, for they had the deepest and most velvety petals: ink-dark iris and black knight delphiniums, blossoms she couldn’t hope to name, along with trailing fronds of exotic, fragrant vine.

  Everyone looked from the enormous display to her face.

  “For me?” she squeaked. “There must be some mistake.”

  “Geraldine Webb,” the delivery guy said again.

  Meg sat up, her eyes wide. “Who are those from?”

  “I have no idea.” But she had a suspicion, and her heart began to thump double-time. He wouldn’t. She hadn’t even called him yet, though she’d finished Sails of Fire two days ago. She knew she needed to return his book, she just didn’t know how or when.

  “Hey, Gerri,” Roman called. “What did you have to do to get those?”

  “There’s a card,” Meg pointed out.

  So there was—perched on a pick in the middle of the gorgeous blooms.


  She accepted the bouquet from the delivery boy and set it at her station. Max tipped the boy and, along with a number of others, gathered to stare.

  “Who is he, Gerri?” Max asked.

  “I told her there’s a card,” Meg pointed out.

  “Well, read it!”

  Like a woman in a dream, Gerri reached for the crisp white envelope, her name written on it in deepest black ink. She drew the card out and read, These are neither as exotic nor as beautiful as you. Leo.

  “Well?” Max prompted.

  Cheeks flaming, she slid the card back into its envelope. “It’s personal.”

  “Whoever he is,” Meg breathed, “he must have money. Have you ever seen such flowers?”

  Phil, who rented the next station over, tipped his head. “They suit you, Ger. Whoever he is, he gets you.”

  “That is, hands down, the biggest bouquet I’ve ever seen,” Max pronounced. “You didn’t tell me you were seeing somebody new.”

  “She didn’t tell anybody,” Roman put in.

  “I’m not.”

  “Well, he must want to start seeing you—bad.” Max went lumbering off to, rather surprisingly, find a vase and help Gerri arrange her flowers in water.

  She really should call Leo and thank him, she thought later that night when she bore them home and settled them in her apartment, a lingering reminder of him. Their delicate, elusive scent soon perfumed the air, piquing her senses.

  She picked up her phone not once but three times, and set it aside again. What to say to him?

  This is a fabulous gesture, but I don’t think it changes our situation…

  She had never before received flowers, certainly not delivered to her place of work. They made her feel oddly cherished, but that didn’t turn seeing Leo Rankin again, dating him, or sleeping with him, into a good idea. This just proved how far apart their worlds remained: he might be the kind of man who sent flowers; she had never been the kind of woman who received them.

  Until now.

  That thought stole into her mind like a single ray of sunshine.

  She could call him, thank him, and suggest they return each other’s books. She had a ready excuse. But, as the flutter of panic in her stomach argued, not yet.