The Way U Look Tonight

by Dianne Castell

  She sat up straight and pointed to herself. “Well, that’s nice but what about me and getting me home?”

  He patted her knee. “In a minute. I’ll take care of you, Georgette. I would never let anything happen to you.”

  “Well, you did save my bacon tonight, and I do appreciate it.” She sat back and sulked. Not only was she wearing clothes she hated but now she was taking a backseat to boats.

  Digger drove past the town and the O’Fallons’ house, slowed more and took the road that dipped down to the river, going past the parking lot to get closer to the dock itself. Headlights picked out the Mississippi right in front of them all wild, angry and the color of two-day-old coffee. Dock lights undoubtedly working on emergency generator power illuminated the area.

  He pulled the truck to a stop, shifted into park, put on the emergency brake and kept the engine and wipers running. “You stay here, pretty girl. I’m going to check the office and make sure everything’s okay and we’re not getting any distress calls from a tow in trouble. I’ll be right back.”

  He stepped out into the downpour and tugged his hat down on his head. Good grief, he hadn’t even asked for his jacket back. Crazy man. He faded into the rain, and she watched the river build into angry white-capped waves that pounded the shore as the winds howled and beat the truck. Five minutes passed, then ten. No Digger. Well, heck. Had he fallen in? She wanted to go home, climb in bed, forget today ever happened.

  She looked at the keys in the ignition and considered driving herself and leaving Digger O’Dell to his tows and blue-collar way of life. But if anything happened to him when she was with him, Keefe would not be happy and probably never talk to her again, and she could kiss her article good-bye.

  She felt the truck sway in the gusts. She’d have to go out into this godawful mess and find Digger O’Dell! She had to make sure he was okay. Son-of-a-sea biscuit! Didn’t her dad always say that? How did she get to be Digger’s keeper? She killed the engine and the headlights, wrapped the jacket around herself and stepped out into the storm from hell, tripping on her purse and spilling the contents onto the ground. Bob’s phone hit the pavement and suddenly played back the conversation she’d recorded earlier.

  Damn the phone for making her purse top heavy and for being too easy to play. All this for a freaking article! There must be an easier way to get her parents’ attention.

  She shoved the purse back into the car and headed across the dock. Rain stung her legs, her ruined shoes now even more ruined. She slid on the gravel nearly losing her balance and kicked off the stilettos into the river. Gravel on her toes was far from comfortable, but sliding into the Mississippi tonight would be a lot worse. A light burned in Digger’s stern-wheeler at the end of the dock, and she headed there, her bare feet slapping the concrete as angry waves crashed against the dockside, sending spray skyward and soaking her even more . . . Was that possible? Catching a swell, she jumped from the dock onto the deck of the boat, holding the railing so as not to slip.

  “Digger,” she yelled and swished water from her face and swept back her hair. She shook her hands to rid them of water, but there was no answer from Digger. Then again, how could he hear her over the wind?

  She went toward the side stairs just as Digger swung around from the back. She asked, “What’s wrong? You look worried. Are you okay? Least you didn’t fall overboard.”

  He gave her a half smile along with a towel he’d draped around his neck. His bedraggled hat stuck out of his front pocket. “Back bilge pump isn’t working, and the Lee’s taking on water. I’m good at steering boats but the engines . .. not my bag.”

  She wiped her face. “Well, you have lights, so your generator’s working. What about the stern pumps and the ones port and starboard?”

  “They’re all working fine.”

  “Okay, that helps, keeps the Lee out of immediate danger. Let me see that pump.”

  He stood there staring at her as if she’d told him she was from Mars. “W-why?”

  She wiped her legs. “Because I want to add it to my charm bracelet.” She handed him the towel and rolled her eyes. “My dad owns the fleet of tugboats in Savannah that push those ocean freighters around like Tinkertoys. I’ve been around boats of one kind or another all my life.”

  The half smile morphed into a full one. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  She poked him in the chest. “And if this boat sinks with us on it, you just might get your wish, depending on what you’ve been up to, Digger O’Dell.” She took his hand. “Come on, show me the pump, time’s a wasting.” How many years had it been since she said that?

  He led her toward the stern, opened the door into an engine room and the familiar smell of diesel fuel and oil. A million memories of tagging along with her father came rushing back. Digger nodded to the back motor. “It’s not turning over. I just bought the blasted thing when I put the Lee in the water.”

  “Hit it.”

  His eyes widened. “Hit it?” He smacked the casing with the flat of his hand.

  “Oh, good grief, Digger, that’s not a hit; that’s a love tap.” She opened a toolbox on the floor, took out a hammer and whacked the motor with the flat side, the metal on metal sound echoing in the little room. The motor coughed, sputtered, coughed again and hummed to life. She grinned and parked her hands on her hips, still gripping the hammer. She gave him her best cocky grin. “Am I good or what? Sometimes new motors freeze for no good reason. My dad calls a hammer his own personal persuader. “

  Digger laughed, the rich sound mixing with the steady drone of all the motors and the relentless rain beating down. He slid his arms under the denim jacket, around her waist and swept her up off the ground, making them face-to-face.

  “Oh, Digger,” she yelped and laughed, too. She dropped the hammer and held on to his shoulders for support. She’d had no idea he was this strong.

  His eyes twinkled, his nose nearly touching hers, his lips a breath away . . . and he had such nice lips. “You, Ms. Georgette Cooper from Savannah, Georgia, are the most amazing woman I’ve ever met in my life, and you just saved my boat.”

  “Well, you saved me earlier tonight with those creepy guys, so I guess we’re even.”

  He looked totally happy. “Well then, I guess we are.” And he kissed her.

  Except kissing Digger O’Dell was so not part of her plan because the man was the king of kissing and that kind of kissing completely fogged her brain. In fact, this was without a doubt the best darn kiss she’d ever gotten. She relaxed into Digger’s arms as hers slid easily around his neck. His lips took hers in a slow seductive dance, leading then following then leading again as her heart raced, and she felt warm all over in spite of being thoroughly drenched.

  His teeth grazed her bottom lip, and she gasped, letting his tongue touch, then twine, with hers. The intimacy surprised the heck out of her, but then it felt so right, as if she’d been waiting for this particular kiss for a really long time. How could that be? This was Digger O’Dell.

  Slowly he let her down, her breasts sliding over his muscled chest, her nipples beading into sensitive nubs. Her abdomen skimmed his tight abs, and as her bare feet touched the cool, wet wood floor, the juncture of her legs hugged his very hard arousal.

  She wanted him! Right here, right now, on the deck of this old tub in the pouring rain. It took every ounce of willpower she had not to strip down, then do the very same thing to Digger O’Dell.

  He held her close and sucked her tongue into his warm, moist mouth. Her legs parted, bringing his erection closer, deeper. Never in all her twenty-eight years had she kissed a man like this.

  Digger gazed down at her, his eyes dark and mysterious. “God, what you do to me, Georgette,” he said in a slow Tennessee drawl that turned her insides to mush. Except none of this should be happening. What the heck was she doing? Digger wasn’t her type. She wanted .. . Keefe. Well, not the exact man himself, but someone like him. That’s why she’d done her own personal rehab. Digger O’Dell w
as nothing but a pawn in a game to get what she wanted. She stepped back. Panting, she said, “This is not a good idea.”

  “Oh, honey, I think we both know it’s a heck of a good idea.” He touched her hair, then tucked the strand behind her left ear, his fingers lingering there, tracing her ear, turning her on more, confusing the hell out of her. Then he said, “But we have to get out of these clothes first.” The comment nearly shocked her pants off. Was that the point!

  Her eyes widened, and he chuckled, “Because we’re wet, river girl, and cold, and making out with you is heaven on earth, but I don’t want you to get sick. My place is upstairs. It’s not the Plaza, but I have a shower and dry things to put on.”

  “Okay,” she said before the urge to jump back into his arms completely got the better of her. “Dry sounds wonderful.”

  Sex sounded better.

  He took her hand, his grip firm and tender all at the same time. “And I have food.”

  Food? She was starved. Think about being hungry, but not for Digger! “Leftover pizza?” she said, trying to ignore his fingers entwined with hers as they headed out of the engine room. They were under the cover of the upper deck, but the rain fell all around them.

  “Stew and biscuits. We’ll take the inside steps so we don’t have to go back into the storm.”

  She stopped and stared at him. “You cook?”

  He tugged her on and climbed the stairs. “The way I figure, I eat, so I cook.”

  Again she stopped, making him stop, too, and look back at her, him halfway up the flight, her below him. His wet clothes molded his body, and he had such a nice body to mold. Digger was big, strong like a man who’d worked hard all his life, but his easy manner didn’t draw attention to his physique. Well, she was sure paying attention now as she gazed up at him, his clothes more like a second skin than a loose covering. She said, “Shanty boat stew and sourdough biscuits, I bet.”

  He laughed, looking even more handsome. And it was that kind of laugh that said they shared something neither of them ever thought they’d share at all. “To me it’s the perfect food, nothing quite like shanty boat stew cooking on the stove all day making me hungry as a working mule. Your daddy used to fix it for you?”

  “And my mama. Lord, I haven’t called her that since I was five and we moved off the riverbank and into the brownstone on Jones Street. Mother joined the Savannah Historical Society, Dad the Oglethorpe Club. I went to private school.”

  “Pissing in the high cotton.”

  “Not always. When I was little and Daddy was just starting out. . . Well, you get the picture. Caught my first fish when I was three right off our front porch.” She shrugged. “Now I can’t cook or fish.” And something about that made her feel sad. As if she’d lost something important and didn’t know how to get it back.

  He stepped down and kissed the tip of her nose. “Ah, but you didn’t forget how to fix the motor of a bilge pump, so who cares.” And he didn’t care, she realized, about her being rich or poor or the social clubs or anything else.

  He gently tugged her after him till they reached the top deck, and he smiled as he slipped his arm around her to keep her close. No matter how much he wasn’t her type his smile was so easy, so perfect, so incredibly contagious. He simply put her in a good mood. . . .

  Why couldn’t he be more like Keefe, the glitz, the glamour, the fame and notoriety? That’s what she wanted, someone to be proud of, make her parents sit up and take notice.

  Who could be proud of Digger O’Dell? He was not the man she wanted at all.

  Digger slipped his hat back on his head and guided Georgette to the set of rooms he called home. God, he was crazy about her, he realized as he opened the door. Crazier than he thought he’d be and that was a lot. She was a real looker, and she tickled the hell out of him. She also responded to his kisses like no other woman ever had, reduced him to coal ash with one look and had saved his boat. This was a woman he wanted all to himself, not get paid to fall for. Tomorrow he’d tell Keefe and Callie the deal was off. He wanted Georgette free and clear, no strings, and he’d find another way to save the Lee.

  He turned on the light, and Georgette glanced around just as a crack of lightning illuminated the sky. “Wow,” she said as she gazed out the line of windows. “You have some terrific view up here.”

  He was thankful for the lightning because it drew Georgette’s attention away from the worn blue couch with a throw over the back, faded plaid chair, simple oak end tables and cheap lamps. She was used to the good life, and his living quarters were a far cry from that. He opened the windows partway to circulate the stale air trapped inside. “You should see the view from the pilothouse. When the rain’s not in the way you’ll have to come take a look-see.”

  “You’re so . . . neat and tidy. No messy bachelor pad?”

  “This place is too small to clutter up, wouldn’t be able to move around if I left stuff sit out. Shower’s across the hall. There are six other bedrooms, but they all need work. Kitchen and a living area are in the back. Beyond that the open deck where we ate lunch with Keefe. The Lee was originally built to haul cargo, so that’s why she’s open on the first deck. Then she got turned into a dance boat, and there’s a raised platform for the band. I’d like to do that again, go to different towns on the river and take people out for dancing in the moonlight. May through October. When it turns too cold I’ll run tows for Rory.” He laughed. He was nervous having Georgette here and babbling like a schoolkid. “Sorry about going on like that.”

  “Why, Digger O’Dell, you’re a romantic.” He felt his cheeks warm and knew he was blushing, not so much from the romantic comment as from the fact that Georgette had said it. He never thought much about romance, but now with Georgette in his life romance seemed like a real great idea. “The Lee is just business.”

  But her eyes turned the color of rich jade, and the expression on her face said she wasn’t buying that simple explanation. She took a step toward him, then stopped. Damn, he didn’t want her to stop. He wanted her to glide into his arms so he could kiss her again. But maybe that was moving too fast. She may dress all hot and sexy, but he sensed vulnerability, something that suggested Georgette Cooper wasn’t what she seemed at all or at least she was new to it. He needed to go slow, let her feel comfortable with him. He doubted if he’d ever feel comfortable with her; she made him edgy.

  She said, “Think I’ll get that shower now,” snapping him back to the moment.

  “I’ll fetch you some clothes.” He walked into his bedroom and took jeans and a denim shirt from the drawer, then came back out and handed them to her. “Damn poor substitute for the pretty clothes you always wear, but these are dry.”

  She took them. “They’re fine.” But the set of her mouth said they weren’t. She looked back to him, bit her bottom lip, then touched his cheek. She came closer, one step, then two. He knew that look. Georgette wanted him as much as he wanted her, but there was definitely a conflict of some kind running around in her brain. Lightning struck close by, making her jump, her eyes widening in surprise.

  “Maybe you should flip a coin,” he suggested. “What do you want to do, Georgette? What do you want me to do? I want you more than you can imagine, but if you’re not ready to—”

  “Oh, Digger,” she said on a resigned sigh. “You talk too much, you know that.” She snagged his cap from his pocket and put it on, then stepped into his arms and threw hers around him, knocking them backward and onto the couch as more lightning crossed the sky. Or, maybe that wasn’t lightning at all but a blast of excitement from having Georgette’s body lying across his, and it being all her idea. How’d he get so damn lucky?

  Her lips ravaged his, her fingers curling into his wet hair. She seemed desperate, as if needing to have him right away. But he wouldn’t let that happen. Having sex with Georgette was too special to rush through. He pulled his lips from hers. “I want to make this good for you, honey. We need to slow down a little.”

  “No,�
� she said, her lips against his, kissing him between words. “I don’t want to slow down. I want you and me together now and—”

  He framed her face with his palms. “But we don’t have to set some record for fastest sex east of the Mississippi. I want to take you slow, touch and kiss you everywhere, feel your skin grow warm under my hands, hear you whimper and give you more pleasure than you thought possible.”

  She looked surprised. “You can do that?”

  He couldn’t have kept the smile from his face if he’d wanted to. “It’s going to be a hell of a lot of fun finding out, I promise.” He looked into her eyes that were troubled yet growing heavy with desire. “But something’s wrong. You’re not comfortable with this, with me?”

  “Digger, I tackled you onto the couch. I want to make love to you. I really, really do.”

  “On that we agree. How we get there is another question. Let’s try it my way, slow and easy, and then if it’s not working for you, we’ll do it your way.”

  She swallowed. “Digger, I got to tell you. I think I’m up to doing it my way right now.” She squirmed against him, and his dick went bone-hard.

  “Why rush to dessert when there’s a whole buffet to experience. You’re going to love the buffet, Georgette, I swear you will.”

  “The last time I had sex he said it was a mercy fuck because he felt sorry for me because he knew I wasn’t getting any, and since he was drunk he could do me as a good deed. I didn’t always look like this, Digger. I think prolonged sex is ruined for me, but I have urges.” She licked her lips, her eyes closing by half as she growled, “Lots and lots of urges.”

  In one motion he snagged the blanket from the back of the couch, dropped it on the floor and then rolled them both off the couch and onto the comforter, breaking the fall with his hand. “That guy was an ass, Georgette. He made himself feel good by making you feel bad. That’s not what we’re about here, honey. Wham, bam, slam is not my style.”

  “But it’s my style.”