In Bed with the Wild One & In Bed with the Pirate

by Julie Kistler

  Kate’s cheeks flushed. “Guess leather doesn’t always stretch.”

  “Well, at least I’m sitting,” Toby muttered, not adding that he was staying here forever because there was no way he was getting up and walking out of this place with his tiger-striped underwear peeking through the rip in the back of his pants. If one person—just one—called him “Tiger,” levelheaded Toby would become hotheaded Toby. And world, watch out.

  Kate touched her shawl. “We’ll wrap this around you when we walk out,” she offered.

  “Great,” Toby murmured. “The red shawl will match my shirt.”

  Mr. Caftan grew enthusiastic. With a twirl of his wrists, he said, “And hip-draped shawls are so in right now, especially when you let the silky ends hang ever-so-casually down your thigh.”

  Toby straightened. “I’m not hanging silky—”

  “Now that you’re seated,” the man continued, ignoring Toby’s testy aside, “I’ll call your wait person.” He lightly clapped his hands twice as he walked away.

  A curly-haired woman approached, wrapped in a bright orange-and-yellow caftan that matched the red-and-orange walls the hostess had explained was a painting of the California sunset. She dropped off two tiles, upon which were written a list of items. At the top was scripted, “Rick’s Place.”

  “‘Rick’s Place,”’ Toby read out loud. “Considering the Moroccan atmosphere, this wouldn’t be based on Rick in Casablanca, would it?”

  The waitress smiled. “You got it! Would you two care for something to drink before ordering?”

  “Does the California part of the theme mean you have zinfandel?” Toby asked. The waitress nodded, and he ordered a glass.

  “Make that two,” said Kate as she checked out the words on the tile. After the waitress left, she whispered, “Kefta Nasturtium? Chermoula Marjoram? These sound the way my sandwiches look.” She laughed.

  Toby laughed too, which he could do easily now that he had some extra breathing room in his pants. “Maybe after a glass of zin the names will make more sense.” He looked around the room. “I had never heard of being able to arrange a prepaid dining experience, at a place like this before. It’s an interesting idea.”

  “Yes, I’m glad I was free.” She quickly looked up. “I meant ‘free’ as in available, not…well, you know.” Kate held the tile so close to her face Toby could see her reflection in the white enamel.

  “You already had these prepaid dining-out experience plans with Verna, right?”

  Kate blinked. “No, she said you had some forgotten gift certificate for dinner for two—which just happened to be at her friend’s new restaurant—and that you’d asked her, but she couldn’t go, so she volunteered me.”

  “She said all that?”

  Kate bobbed her head slowly. “Oh, now I know what my mother meant when she said Verna had told her she had to go out to ‘arrange’ something. She was playing matchmaker, arranging and paying for this dinner! We’ve been set up.”

  “Think you’re right,” Toby said, trying to sense if Kate thought being set up was a good or bad thing. Because to him it felt good. Kate was unlike any other woman he’d ever known. Spontaneous. Spunky. Fun. And underneath those color-wheel clothes beat the heart of a romantic. Who else would create rooms like Kismet and The Wild One? Kate had a hidden self he wanted to explore, to plunder.

  But Kate, obviously on a different wavelength, hunkered down a little as though trying to slip under the table and disappear. “This is mortifying. First you think I’m some kind of dangerous car-bombing Motown-blasting woman. Now you think my breakfast chef sets me up with any naked man who wanders into the inn.”

  “Actually, I think you lead a very interesting life. And I don’t think Verna sets you up with any naked man, just any nearly naked man.” He grinned mischievously. “A nearly naked man who’d like to see what’s underneath your…facade.”

  Kate’s cherry lips opened, but nothing came out. After gulping a breath, she said shakily, “You belong to someone else, right?”

  Damn. He needed somehow to get on good terms with Free by tomorrow night’s dinner. If he started romancing the next-door neighbor before that, it would be like throwing a sparkler on gasoline. He became engrossed with the words on the tile. “You’re right. I’m involved with somebody else, so even if we have been set up, this isn’t really a date.” He didn’t like how he felt—excited by Kate, but guilty for making her think a relationship still existed between him and Free.

  “Right,” Kate said softly.

  “But I’ve been wanting to ask you something. It’s rather sensitive, but I’ve been wanting to ask for a while.”

  Kate lowered her tile. “Yes,” she said in a soft voice, “I’d go out with you if you weren’t involved.”

  “No,” Toby said slowly. “I wanted to ask why a tomboy like yourself—well, I heard your mother mention you had been a tomboy, anyway—opened such a romantic bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Oh.” Kate tugged hard at a strand of her hair, and Toby thought she might yank it out of her head. “Well, my granny left me a trust fund, which I used to escape Beaufort, because my father thought my career path should be marriage. And I moved to San Francisco where I bought this great fixer-upper in North Beach. I had stored all my pirate memorabilia in one room upstairs while I was remodeling the downstairs, wondering what kind of job I should get because my money would eventually run out. My only work experience—besides helping my dad fix cars, plumbing, stuff like that—was working as a concierge and bookkeeper in the resort industry back home. Then it dawned on me! One room already was decorated like The Pirate, an old movie I loved. Why not decorate the other rooms after other movies and, using my resort experience plus my handywoman skills, make the place a bed-and-breakfast?”

  She smiled, but Toby could see it was forced. And despite her exuberance for her story, her eyes were moist with emotion.

  “I’m so sorry—” she heaved a shaky breath “—for thinking you wanted to date me.”

  Despite all her handywoman skills, she chose romantic films as a model for the rooms, which indicated a softhearted romantic was beneath that tomboy facade. “I’m flattered you’d want to go out with me,” he said solemnly, “if I weren’t involved—which, of course, I am.” He hated this game.

  The color of her face almost matched her top. “I think we’ve come full circle on that issue. Just for the record, I feel like an idiot.”

  “So do I,” he blurted. “Claiming to be involved when…” He didn’t need to finish his sentence—they both knew what he was thinking. He looked like an idiot for remaining loyal to a woman who had been caught cooking with Tiger. But for right now, he couldn’t explain his plan. In business, like cards, you didn’t show your hand until you were ready to close the deal.

  Kate skewed her mouth as though debating whether to speak. Finally she said, “May I ask you a question?”

  He laid down his tile. “Yes, I’d go out with you if I weren’t involved.”

  Her smile was so sweet, so grateful, he felt momentarily as though every decision he’d ever made in his life, right or wrong, had led him to this singularly perfect moment. Kate’s blue eyes glistened, her cherry-glossed lips smiled, and he felt as though he could sit across from her forever, talking, sharing life stories.

  “Okay, enough joking,” she said, oblivious to his moment. “Why do you remain with a woman who’s two-timed you?”

  The singularly perfect moment popped. Maybe he couldn’t tell the complete truth, but after his and Kate’s flirtations, he owed her some answer. “I feel responsible.” Okay, that hit on an old truth. “I know Free and I are very different. Some of my friends think we’re not a very good mix, but I feel I should stay with her, work things out.” Now he was lying, pretending he and Free were still an item, because of tomorrow night’s dinner.

  His mouth kept moving, but his mind went elsewhere. Back home to Pescadero, California, growing up in a household of six kids, no dad to speak of.
Watching his mom try to keep the family together on her meager factory salary. Losing her job. The two youngest children, Frank and Angela, shipped off to live with relatives in New Jersey. His mother crying.

  Yeah, he felt responsible growing up, trying to help his mom keep the household together. But the gut-wrenching loss of his siblings made him ever-after afraid to connect to others. Truly connect. Because connecting equaled family, and his darkest fear was that he might raise a family that would also be torn apart. So being on the road, traveling all the time, fit in perfectly with his inability to connect at home.

  Until that woman’s letter.

  Then he realized he’d grown up only to tear apart other people’s families, other people’s lives. Big, hotshot corporate raider. He experienced the trauma, the pain of his own family’s separation all over again. But this time, he could do something. He’d given away almost every cent he’d ever earned to make it up to those families. Next, he wanted to put down roots. Shed the corporate-raider life altogether, use his engineering skills to get a normal job. Which he needed Free to get.

  He hadn’t voiced any of the thoughts going on in his head, but had let his mouth do some autopilot number about working it out with Free, blah-blah-blah. Kate was staring at him, blinking.

  “I…I guess I understand that you feel responsible for Free after leaving her alone so much. But do you really blame yourself for her actions?”

  Was that what he’d said?

  “Any questions?” said their curly-haired waitress, a pencil and order pad in her hand. “The menu reflects a good mix of California and Moroccan cuisine, both of which complement each other with their blend of herbs, fish and chicken. I highly recommend the Chermoula Marjoram, which is bass marinated in a pungent sauce, whose main ingredient is marjoram…”

  At the end of the waitress’s spiel, he and Kate ordered several somethings the waitress recommended. Mere moments later, a swarm of waiting staff in caftans arrived at their table with plates of food. Scents of marjoram, cilantro and oil swirled through the air. Their waitress held out a bowl filled with steaming white linens that smelled of lemon.

  “What are these?” Kate asked, peering inside.

  “Towels,” the waitress answered. “To cleanse your hands.”

  Kate looked perplexed. “Before we eat?”

  “Yes. And during. And after.” The waitress set the bowl on the table. “If you need anything else, clap twice.”

  She turned to leave when Kate asked, “Could we get some silverware?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought Marcus, the maître d’, explained that at Rick’s, you eat with your hands.” And on that directive, she turned on her feet and left.

  “Melanie would freak!” Kate said gleefully, wiping her hands before dipping her fingers into the chermoula and extracting a piece of fish. She nibbled at it, groaned, then stuffed the entire piece into her mouth.

  With such an adventurous dining companion, Toby dug in.

  “Melanie should see me now,” Kate said, licking a dollop of chermoula off her finger. “Years of teaching me when to use which fork—” Kate grinned wide “—and suddenly, I’m finger-licking good!”

  In between touching, fondling and licking their food, they laughed and talked like two silly, mischievous kids. “Mom—I mean, Melanie—tried for a solid year to make me a proper Southern young lady. She enrolled me in etiquette classes, some junior-culture group called Little Magnolias, modeling seminars, you name it. I was supposed to learn how to behave, talk and walk.”

  “Let me guess what you really did.” Toby popped an olive into his mouth. “You misbehaved, argued and walked backward.”

  Kate liked Toby’s laugh, deep and rumbling. Unexpectedly she shivered as a zigzag of pleasure skittered up her spine. “I didn’t walk backward then. That’s a skill I seem to have perfected over the last day or so.” She also liked how Toby looked at her, those eyes like caramel—that smile a little lopsided. His skin, darker than hers, took on a deeper hue with the rough growth of beard. But best of all, he looked so relaxed and happy, like a completely different man than she’d ushered in from her doorstep last night.

  “Just over the last day or so? What prompted you to develop this new walking skill so recently?”

  “You.” She blurted it out without any forethought. Damn. And he’d just explained ad nauseam how he and Free were working it out. Kate looked away from those yummy eyes and stared at her half-empty wineglass. Maybe she could blame her admission on alcohol, but a few sips weren’t much of an excuse.

  “Me?” He cocked his head and slanted her a teasing look.

  Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. Maybe the chermoula was too hot.

  Or maybe Toby is.

  Clutching her water glass, Kate stammered, “You—your outfit. Makes me want to walk backward so I can keep looking at it.” She threw back her head and downed the glass of chilled water. What she didn’t say was that any schlump could dress like a pirate, but only a special man could actually look and behave like one.

  A man who was, at heart, a swashbuckler.

  Toby leaned back against a cushion and crossed his arms comfortably behind his head. The movement made his shirt fall open even more, exposing a wider view of his chest. All that hair. A woman could get lost in it, walking backward for days, years.

  Kate slammed down the water glass and grabbed for another hunk of chermoula. It was almost to her mouth when Toby, quick as lightning, reached across the table and caught her wrist midair.

  “I know you’re one to thumb your nose at etiquette, but I think it’s better to sprinkle salt on your food rather than shake it on your tongue, don’t you agree?”

  Kate shifted her gaze to her hand, which held a salt shaker, not a piece of chermoula something. “Thanks,” she croaked, setting the shaker back onto the table. She pushed the half-filled wineglass away. “Half a glass is my limit. After that, I get too wild.”

  Toby’s eyes twinkled. “So you’re really The Wild One, aren’t you?”

  “Hardly.” But Kate was so tongue-tied by this point, the only sound that came out was “har-har.” She pretended to laugh to cover up.

  “What would your mother say about your shaking salt on your tongue? And speaking of which, why don’t you call her ‘Mother’ or ‘Ma’ or ‘Mom’? What’s with Melanie?”

  “That’s her name.”

  “My mother’s name is Isabella, but I don’t call her that.”

  This topic of conversation felt far safer than the last one. Kate eased in a slow, calming breath, grateful to be moving on. For safe measure, however, she pushed the salt shaker away a little farther. “I guess it was during that etiquette year that I started calling her Melanie. Probably because it irked her. Same reason I wore only red a few years later.”

  “Because it irked her.”

  Kate nodded.

  “Is that why you decorated Kismet in all red? To irk her?”

  “No. Because it really is my favorite color.” She felt a bit embarrassed at her irking confessions. The truth was, she never felt she could compete with her mother’s homemaking perfection. Her mother was always dressed in pastels, pretty dresses, her hair curly and intact like some magazine-cover hairdo. As a kid, Kate had secretly yearned to look so perfect, so soft, so…romantic.

  Toby leaned forward on his elbows and leveled her a look. “Which room is most like you?” he asked huskily. “The Wild One? Kismet?”

  “The Pirate.”

  One side of Toby’s lips turned upward. “How did Miss Magnolia become a pirate?”

  Kate helped herself to a lemon-scented moist napkin and wiped her shaking hands. Asking her how she was a pirate was like the kettle calling itself black. “Correction number one—I never made Miss Magnolia status. Correction number two—at heart, I’m not a pirate, but—” the object of the pirate’s passion “—a romantic who dreams about her pirate,” she said quickly. A bit of confession overload, but at least she’d skipped the pirate
’s passion part. “Melanie’s mom, Granny Dot, kept a special room for me where I could let my imagination go wild. I filled it with ships and flags and just about anything else that seemed piratical.”

  “The things you put into The Pirate room, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You’re industrious, creative. But the best part is your wonderful romantic streak.”

  “How’d you know?” She bit her tongue, but it was too late.

  He leaned forward, his eyes glistening with a look that made her heart thump erratically. “Because I see it in you. In your eyes, your walk, your natural exuberance for life.”

  “My walk?” she croaked. She had strong legs, but they were romantic, too?

  He cocked one eyebrow. “You have a long-legged, undulating stride that women would kill for. And that men admire.” He rubbed his chin. “Let me correct that last statement. You have a walk that heats men’s blood.”

  Was his heated right now? Hers sure was. And in her heated, romantic vision, Toby—the angles and shadows of his face casting him in a dangerous light—looked like her fantasy pirate. The man who would sweep her into his arms, carry her up the staircase and make love to her, the object of his pirate’s passion, until dawn broke the night.

  He belonged to Free.

  That thought sobered her up more than shaking salt on her tongue. She cleared her throat. “So, uh, this job interview tomorrow—is this your fantasy job come true?”

  “No. If I had my way, I’d be running a restaurant, not developing software. When I was a kid, my dad was…gone. So, being the oldest, I helped my mom as much as I could. I took over most of the cooking, among other tasks. Probably why I love cooking today.”

  Kate nodded, grateful they were on another subject. “I never had to cook, didn’t even have to baby-sit. It was just me and my younger brother, the apple of my father’s traditional eye. I made the better grades, but my father always made it clear a man goes to college, a woman gets married.”

  “He never asked you if that’s what you wanted?”

  “My father, ask a woman’s opinion? He’d rather look into a crystal ball.”