by Lori Foster
“Ah.” She laughed. “You are the biggest romantic dope I’ve ever met.”
“I want to wait.”
Bling. Where had that come from? But as soon as he said it, he knew it was true. He craved the perfect moment with Lakota, to make up for all the ugliness of their past.
She shot him a sidelong glance. “For how long?”
Until you say you love me, he thought.
They were interrupted by Sean McIntyre, who’d quietly come up behind Lakota’s shoulder. Lincoln bristled, cupped a palm behind his girlfriend’s neck.
Hey. She was his girlfriend again.
“McIntyre,” he said, smiling because of the Lakota realization, not because of the interruption.
The other man gave a slight nod of acknowledgment.
Lakota grabbed Linc’s possessive hand and enfolded it in her own again. “Sean! Guess what?” She didn’t stop for his answer. “I’ve got an audition next week! I mean, I was going to tell you this weekend, give you all the details, but since you’re here… You know.”
She was beaming, and Linc couldn’t help feeling happy, too. He knew how much Lakota wanted to get out of soaps. Maybe he would again, too. Someday.
Pride made him talk to McIntyre. “She’s been asked to read for an action heroine pilot.”
“We’ll talk about it in Julian. You are coming this weekend, right?” asked Lakota. “You and Ms. Cruz can relax. Our soap PR person’s taking care of everything.”
“We’ll be there,” said McIntyre.
For a second, the spin doctor’s mouth pulled itself out of its stolid line, and Linc’s hold on Lakota loosened.
Was Fiona still sleeping with this guy? She was pretty secretive when it came to her affairs, but this one… The pieces weren’t fitting where they usually did. McIntyre was a square peg in Fiona’s usual pattern. For one, he’d stuck around a lot longer.
Applause filled the store as Grace Paget waved to the audience and sat down to sign her CD and movie posters. McIntyre glanced over his shoulder at the podium, but Linc wasn’t sure he was taking in the singer.
That’s when he saw Fiona send the guy a saucy grin.
Yup. Still screwing him.
Lakota detached herself from Linc, heading toward the signing line. “I’ll meet you in the jazz section,” she said, wiggling her fingers in farewell.
“Sure.” He couldn’t disconnect from her, couldn’t pull back his heart, even though the distance was increasing.
“Glad to see you two are still cozy,” said McIntyre.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to break your little girl in half.”
McIntyre assessed Linc for a moment, probably testing him. Then, “No you won’t.”
Linc cleared his throat, facing the man head-on. They were the same height, same build, but there was a saw-toothed rustiness to the publicist’s attitude that set them apart.
“Same goes for you,” he said. “I mean about Fi. That you won’t take advantage of her.”
“Fiona’s a big girl. She’s really great at taking care of herself.”
“And you, more than likely. I know everything about her. Just about grew up with her.” Linc didn’t know how much to say. Fi didn’t get domestic with her lovers. Still, she might need a bit of protection, here. Linc just felt it.
“Listen.” McIntyre put his hands in his pockets, nonchalantly withdrawing from Lincoln’s impending attack. “All you have to know is that Fiona won’t get hurt. Not by me, anyway.”
“What does that mean?”
“She’s a romantic death wish.” McIntyre glanced away.
“I’m still not getting you.” Linc stepped into the other man’s field of vision, all the while knowing exactly what he was talking about.
McIntyre nodded, acknowledging Lincoln’s persistence. His caring.
No doubt the PR rep was wondering why Lincoln and Fi had never gotten together themselves. And Linc wasn’t about to explain.
“Fiona’s made sure that our time together won’t go beyond the physical,” the spin doctor said. “Has she told you that much?”
Oh, jeez, Fi, not again. Not more games. When would she learn? “What is her grand plan this time?”
“Maybe she should tell you.”
“Come on, man,” Linc said, “I won’t throw a punch at you or anything.”
McIntyre held back an obvious laugh, making it painfully clear that he thought a street-smart pugilist could kick the ass of a weight-lifting pretty boy any day.
Lincoln didn’t push the issue.
“You asked for it,” said the other man. “We’ve got a bet going.”
Why hadn’t she told him? “A bet?”
“Fiona thinks she—representative of the female nation—can enjoy a straight-up affair without getting emotional, territorial or possessive.”
Linc’s shoulders sank. She’d do anything to keep herself lonely, wouldn’t she? In college, she’d been popular, always booked for the weekend, always a sparkle in her eye. Never in love. Then she’d met Ted.
He’d sent Fi into a tailspin that hadn’t stopped whirring. Since then, she’d pulled out all the commitment-phobic stops in existence. Giving out fake names to the men she was with, inventing lives that weren’t her own, breaking off emotional attachments before they had a chance to grow.
But a bet? He had to give it to her. It was an inspired creation.
“Normally,” said Lincoln, “I’d ask you to step off. But Fi would kill me.”
Before Linc’s very eyes, McIntyre seemed to retreat into himself. Was he feeling guilty?
“She’s had some real disappointments,” added Linc, for good measure.
“Haven’t we all.” Without elaborating, McIntyre straightened, offered a hand. “See you down in San Diego?”
Had he made his point to the guy? Linc shook hands with him, his grip firm. “You hurt her and, dignity or no, I will go after your ass.”
McIntyre grinned without humor. Then he stepped away, a shadow of a man heading toward the door, blending into the night.
Lincoln would have to keep tabs on Fi this weekend. Just in case.
Chapter Ten
EVERYTHING WAS doves-and-loves down at the Soap Channel Getaways shoot outside the small, but unique B&B.
Linc and Lakota, plus their employees, the crew and the soap publicist, were filming on Julian’s main street. Located just outside San Diego, the western-flavored town featured homemade crafts boutiques and apple pie. Today had been filled with shots of Linc feeding Lakota caramel treats, with Lakota showing Linc around an abandoned mine, with them both lounging around the quirky B&B. As the humidity wreaked havoc with the stars’ makeup, the crew did its best to portray Julian as a romantic escape, with cool-air promises of an autumn bluegrass music and apple festivals.
They would finish filming the special tomorrow, but it didn’t affect Fiona since this was the soap PR’s gig. She’d spent the day shopping alone, wondering why Mac had done his own thing and become so distant all of a sudden.
He’d been that way last night, too, after the Grace Paget concert and signing. During their two-hour drive to Julian, they hadn’t talked much. In fact, she’d been relieved when he’d put on a CD to drown out their silence. Salsa songs, stirring her soul, convincing her that at least they had musical tastes in common.
Besides bedroom tastes.
Was he getting sick of her? Was the inevitable separation beginning? After all, he’d left her alone last night. Not that she’d invited him to her room, but…
She flopped onto her bed, with its horse-patterned comforter and cowboy furnishings. Each room had a different theme—hers was the Wild West. Apple tree branches, budding with the promise of a fall bounty, lingered just outside her window, and she had a whole cabinet full of western movies to keep her occupied.
So why did she feel out of sorts?
With a sigh of impatience, she dug through the VCR collection. The Magnificent Seven. She Wore a Yellow Ribbon. The G
ood, the Bad, and the Ugly.
This room was awful. And for more than just the obvious reasons. It reminded her too much of ranches, proposals, broken dreams.
A knock sounded on her door, and she dropped a movie cassette, heart slamming against her ribs.
She raised a hand to her hair. Still in fine shape. Sniffed her skin. Good old Mango Madness body splash. Not bad for a long day of wandering boutiques.
“Yes?” she asked, airy as could be.
The last voice she expected was the one she heard. “Fiona?”
Lakota?
Getting to her feet, Fiona smoothed down her beige linen sheath and opened the door.
The young star was alone, garbed in shorts and sandals, newly showered with her red hair slicked back from her heart-shaped face. No makeup. No threat of wrinkles.
Fresh as a daisy Fiona would like to yank from the dirt.
“Hi,” Lakota said. Her tone was so sweet and guileless that shame slapped Fiona in the face.
She smiled, trying not to wish that Mac was the one standing at her door. “Come on in.”
“Thanks.” The girl entered, immediately spying the bed and sprinting toward it, hopping on top and bouncing. “Yee-haw! Check this out! You’ve got a down mattress.”
Fiona merely watched, floored. Where had the sophisticate gone? Maybe this wasn’t Lakota at all. Maybe one of those perky cowgirl dolls from the crafts store a couple buildings down had come to life, escaped, gravitated toward the washed-out wood and antique-laden hideout that was Fiona’s room.
Hey, that scenario was far more likely.
She addressed Lakota, who was now inspecting a creaky lantern hanging near Fiona’s bed.
“Mac told me on the drive down that you have a big audition coming up. Good work.”
“Thanks. God, I love vintage.” Lakota leaned on her elbows, stared up at a stagecoach-wheel light fixture. “Linc should put himself out there, too. He’s much bigger than soaps.”
“His agent’s working on it.” Fiona tilted her head, fascinated by this changeling.
“Cool.” Lakota settled down, hanging her feet over the edge of the bed. “Sean told me he’s in the Caveman Room. Isn’t that someone’s classic idea of irony? I’ve got the Paris Room, and Linc’s got the Pirate one. Argh.”
Fiona raised a brow, nodded and laughed at the same time. “Yes. Funny stuff.” Then she gave her guest a quizzical glance. “Well. So you’re going from room to room, taking the grand tour again.”
Suddenly, the jaded actress appeared. She was hiding under Pippy Lakota’s skin, but Fiona could detect her.
Lakota’s smile was knowing. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
Big surprise. “Toss it out there.”
“All right. Why didn’t you and Linc ever get together? It’s been nagging at me.”
Direct. She could respect that in another woman.
When Linc and Lakota had dated, Fiona hadn’t spent a lot of time with them. She’d been busy putting out fires at her old PR firm—to no avail, it turned out. But the few times they’d all gotten together, Fiona had known Lakota was curious.
Was Mac also? Would Lakota tell him about this conversation?
“Linc never explained?” Fiona asked.
“I never asked him. I don’t want the answer sugar-coated, because that’s what guys do about the women in their lives. They try to make their girlfriends feel better by lying about female friends.”
“Fair enough.” Girlfriend, huh? During her last Lincoln heart-to-heart, he’d told her he was waiting for true love before “taking it to the next level” with Lakota again.
Linc. Her sensitive, poet-souled buddy. She’d watch out for him.
Fiona assumed a casual tone. “When we first met in college, Linc was acting in Waiting for Godot, and I was taking a stagecraft class, hoping to meet guys. I worked on his production.”
Lakota wiggled, obviously wanting to get to the good stuff, the parts she didn’t already know. Apparently, Linc had talked about Fiona to some extent.
“And…?” Lakota prodded.
“And he was a doll. All the girls wanted Linc, of course.” Fiona hadn’t made any female friends in stagecraft class; she’d hung out with the boys, as usual. So when the ladies had swarmed Linc, she’d beaten them to the punch. The winner. “I’d kidded around with him during rehearsals, had gone to his campus apartment with a few guys to drink beer and shoot the breeze. But at the closing night party, I got him alone, thinking there’d be a little action involved.”
“Good luck,” muttered Lakota.
Sexual frustration. Poor girl. “We did kiss, but that’s where it ended. It was the most disgusting experience of my life. Not—” Fiona held up a finger as Lakota opened her mouth— “because of bad hygiene, you understand. Linc takes great care of himself.”
“Yup.”
“But it was like kissing something sexless for me.” Fiona shuddered. “I felt it in the pit of my stomach. God, it was very wrong.”
“So it was like this invisible force field that kept you from him? Kind of like a magic spell? Because when I kiss him—”
Fiona cringed. She really didn’t want to hear this. Girl-talk was not her forte. “I suppose you could say we’re destined to be something other than…well…lovers. He felt the same way, because when we pulled back from each other, he had the most horrified expression on his face. I laughed out loud, the poor thing, but luckily he joined right in. We got along so well that we never stopped seeing each other. He’s my special guy.”
She imbued the last phrase with dead-aim significance.
Lakota got it, judging from the cool blue of her eyes. “What about Sean?”
Fiona’s attempted laugh fell flat. “Here endeth the lesson. You got what you came for, didn’t you?”
“Not entirely.”
A tiny bleep of hope flashed across Fiona’s radar. “Mac sent you to be a spy?”
“I look out for him, too.”
Could this be any more juvenile? “Then tell him I don’t pass notes during class.”
Lakota frowned, then pouted out her lower lip in an adorable sign of Mac-attack sympathy. “Sean’s a great catch, if you ask me.”
Was Fiona actually talking about relationships? With another woman, no less? Part of her wanted to dig for more information. Part of her remembered that she had a bet going, and it didn’t include giving a crap about Sean and his catch-a-bility.
With all the strength Fiona could muster, she walked to the door, opened it, sparkled a smile at Lakota. “Are you satisfied with how I answered your question?”
Lakota looked Fiona up and down, then slid off the bed, heading toward the hallway. “It explains a lot.”
Fiona didn’t take the bait. She didn’t like to be psychoanalyzed, especially by a girl half a decade younger than she was.
She already knew she wasn’t your garden-variety woman. And that was fine by her.
“Just do me a favor?” asked Lakota, stopping on the way to her room.
“The requests never stop.”
“Go to dinner with Sean tonight. Do something to put him out of the funk he’s in.” Lakota dimpled. “The guy’s sweet on you, so don’t blow it.”
Lakota left a shocked Fiona holding the door.
Holding the power to take the next step if she really wanted more.
“I HATE TO SAY IT,” Lakota said, a half hour later, “but Fiona’s got issues.”
She skidded onto Linc’s thick comforter, reveling in the way her bare legs and feet sank into the downy softness. Hopefully, by the time morning rolled around, the cover would be on the floor, the bedsheets tousled by some physical activity.
That is, if Linc was up to it.
He exited the bathroom, a towel cinched around his lean waist. Rivulets of water meandered down his firm chest, his rock abs. Lower, a hint of long beefcake pushed at the terry cloth, making Lakota press her thighs together, quelling the pump of warmth betwe
en them.
“She’s always marched to her own beat.” Unaware of Lakota’s erotic state, Linc combed down his wet hair, standing in front of the closet to pick out clothing. “What do you want to eat? There’s that café down the street.”
Lakota rubbed her legs over each other, liking how it turned her on even more, her words thickening to syrup in her throat. “Let’s dine in tonight.”
He stopped fussing with his hair, then started again, ignoring the invitation. “They don’t have room service.”
“Linc. Can’t you catch a clue? I want you to jump my bones.”
The muscles in his back froze, then he tossed the comb onto a sea chest that doubled as a vanity table. They were in the Pirate Room, with its faux rope gilding, its cannon-and-doubloon decorations. Couldn’t he get into the spirit and plunder her?
When he turned around, Lakota could see that his—how should she say it?—“cutlass of love” understood her needs. Now if only it could relay the message right on up to his oxygen-starved brain.
“I realize,” he said, “that this is all very romantic. The shiver-me-timbers, the Errol Flynn movies…”
“…The damsel in distress.” Lakota started unbuttoning her top. “Or no dress at all.”
He covered his eyes with his hand, smiling, turning it into a joke. “I’m cutting myself off. No stimulus, no temptation.”
Shoot. Hey, were guys as excited by audio cues as women were? Worth a try. She peered around the room for one of her historical novels. Preferably one with a high horny quotient.
D’oh. She’d left her books in her room. Shrugging, she finished taking off her top, leaving her in bra and shorts. Then she tossed the material away.
Phomp.
“Oh,” she said. “That was the sound of a corset hitting the wooden planks.”
“Kota…” He blindly waved a hand around, searching for something to talk about. “What were you saying about Fiona? You haven’t asked about her since…well, a long time ago.”
Lakota rolled her eyes. “I paid her a visit. She told me about your first kiss. Ugh.”
“Exactly. Can I look now?”
She brightened, reaching for the clasps on her bra. “Sure.”
