Flash Drive

by Jacqueline DeGroot

  He rode through the perfectly manicured development, admiring the upscale homes, and thought this could be a nice place to raise a family. He’d never get rid of the beach house, but he’d consider moving south. There were great colleges for kids down here.

  He drove down her street and turned into her driveway right on the minute. He got out of the car, jogged up the steps and rang the doorbell. Then waited. Waited some more. Then watched as she walked toward him through the intricately etched sidelight. She was wearing a slinky little dress. She looked adorable.

  From his fashion research into new trends, he knew that every woman in the dating pool owned what was called the essential little black dress. Hanging in every woman’s closet, the knee-length sheath was designed to be the all-occasion date dress—body flattering, especially when accompanied by form-fitting Spanx, it showed off feminine assets and complimented a woman’s form: bust line, waist, hips, legs, they all got a boost. Men loved it, as it was always easy to remove. With only one long zipper down the back, he often had it open and parted, his hands caressing a woman’s bare back before she was aware her clothing had been compromised.

  The door opened and a smiling Laurel greeted him, “Hi, you’re right on time.” She stood back to let him in.

  Laurel wore what he imagined was Talbot’s finest, and it definitely showcased her full breasts, slim waist and slightly rounded hips. He’d already had time to admire her shapely legs while biking, still his eyes followed her curves to the Barbie Doll-styled heels and to the polished shiny silver anklet around her trim ankle. He wanted to stroke her bare legs. Run his fingers up under her dress. His fingers itched to search out the zipper on her back. He reined back, remembering this was a first date. Miles to go before we sleep . . . But damn, getting her out of this dress was going to be one satisfying experience.

  “What do you have there?” she asked, her eyes on the small rosemary plant he held in his hands.

  “A peace offering—a rosemary plant for the sprig I swiped. A friend of mine, Alessandro, from Florence, Italy recommended this particular variety. It’s called Tuscan Blue. It’s known for its beautiful blue flowers and upright orientation. As I’m sure you know, rosemary is for remembrance . . . He hefted the plant toward her, “So here’s to a memorable dinner.”

  “Thank you. It’s beautiful. I can’t wait to see the first blooms.” She took it from his hands and walked it through an archway. He followed, listening to her light footsteps on the hardwood flooring to gage the direction she took, then watched as she sat the plant on the longest slab of granite he’d ever seen. That, he knew, had to have cost a fortune.

  “Wow, what a beautiful kitchen.” The sincerity in his voice was genuine. The kitchen was impressive in that it reminded him of authentic Old World kitchens he’d seen in Europe—French, Italian, German, Swiss—eclectic touches from each were set off by colorful ceramic roosters, wire baskets brimming with onions and peppers, crystal wine servers covered with wrought iron grape vines, a chef-worthy knife block with red handled knives inserted to the hilts. State-of-the-art appliances matched the matte white patina of the cabinets done in the French chateau-style. They were inspired and purposely distressed to look, well . . . old. Except for the designer Wolfe stove which he knew was commercial quality and the price of a small car. This was a kitchen where someone cooked with a serious passion, and he doubted there was another like it anywhere. He saw the whimsy in the choices she’d made for her canisters, the dishes showing through the glass-fronted cabinets, and the over-sized but easily accessible ceramic platters and bowls that hung from wrought iron hangers on one massive wall.

  “Thank you. I consider it my constantly evolving masterpiece, as I do tend to mess it up royally. Broke one of those platters last week,” she said as she pointed high on the wall to a series of empty black iron hooks. Had to send for another one from Tuscany. I just hope the old painter from Montelupo is still around to make one just like it. It was so beautiful.” The wistfulness in her face touched him. A woman who fell in love with her dishes—something in his chest tightened.

  The phone at the end of the counter rang just then, and she walked over to look at the Caller I.D. and broke into a grin. “I have to get this, it’ll just take a minute, it’s about tee times for my golf group tomorrow. I’ve been waiting for this call all day. Help yourself, look around.”

  While Laurel took the call, Garrett strolled into the formal living room. Not usually bored—always one to be content amusing himself, he walked around the room, picking up the odd paperweight and tchotsky. She had some really fine memorabilia.

  An article signed by his favorite columnist was under glass in a gold burnished frame on the entrance wall. He was blown over by which article it was—a humorous but deeply thought provoking piece on neutrinos that Charles Krauthammer wrote in 2010. He’d loved that article. Judging by the elaborate custom-made shadow boxed frame, it seemed this woman not only revered this man, but understood his complex thoughts—there was a lot more to her than he thought. So she wasn’t all gorgeous hair, sexy body and naughty mind, he thought with an amused smile.

  On a built-in bookshelf, he spotted a framed picture of a youthful Laurel sitting behind the wheel of a yellow Firebird convertible—the top down, and a huge grin on her face as she held up a set of keys for the photographer. Aha! She was the woman on the bridge. He smiled and shook his head at the chance encounter. At the time, she had been driving that car and he had been spending every spare moment looking for her.

  He turned his head to the opposite wall and his eyes flashed wide as he saw an extensive collection of Tangrams in a lighted triple curio. More sets than he’d ever seen in one place. The ancient puzzle forms were reverently displayed and protected behind glass doors. What were the odds? Only a handful of people in a thousand knew about the Chinese puzzles, and here he’d lucked into an aficionado—he who prided himself on owning a rare edition book of Tangram patterns dating from the early 1800s. The puzzles fascinated him. Her stories fascinated him. And she fascinated him. He was in trouble. And he knew it.

  He heard her approach from behind and turned to face her.

  She smiled at him as she came alongside, opened a glass panel and stroked the shiny pottery pieces that were on a square of velvet in a place of honor. “A simple game. I’m addicted to these simple little shapes. I can’t seem to stop adding new sets as I find them. They’re called Tangrams. You try to create patterns using all seven pieces, or tans. The trick is that they have to lay flat and not overlap.”

  He nodded at her concise description. “An impressive collection. I’m familiar with the game, I even have a few old sets myself.”

  “Really? I thought I was the only odd one collecting these silly things.”

  He chucked her under her chin. “Odd? No. Beautiful, vibrant, yes.” His long firm fingers wrapped around her jaw and he tilted her head up. Their eyes met and held. He watched as the green of hers darkened and then widened. It was too soon for a kiss. He saw the thought running through the back of her mind. What he was about to do was an after dinner, after date, after depositing-her-at-the-door move. He was about to shock both of them. Because there was no way in hell he could wait.

  The only sound was the gentle chiming of a clock in a room down the hall as he stared steadily into her curiously green eyes. He bent and leaned into her, dropping his focus and concentrating on her parted lips. He leaned closer until their breath mingled and he smelled caramel before gently touching his lips to hers. Lightly grazing back and forth he softly pressed his lips to hers until he had covered her lips completely and settled them against her. His body roared from the contact of his thigh against hers. He had no choice but to deepen the kiss, tracing her lips with his tongue before forcing her lips to accommodate his questing mouth and eager tongue.

  He fought to keep his leg from encroaching and sliding up the short
linen dress to the notch between her thighs. She tasted delightful. So fresh. So lovely. His temperature spiked.

  Forcing himself not to back her against the glass case, he let his hands and mouth have free reign. Hearing her low murmur he finally broke the kiss. Meeting her eyes and seeing them dazed, he tilted her head, and took another, this time allowing his inquisitive lips to liberally savor hers before chasing her timid tongue.

  Wanting more than anything to be inside her, hands fisted in her hair, he plunged and thrust deeply into her core with that part of him that was vaguely scented of Tuscany’s finest olive oil. He tempered the kiss, remembering that this was their first, and that she’d only known him two days—whereas it seemed he’d known her for years.

  Gently he nipped her bottom lip and moved away, letting her know that there would be more kisses, and that he not only intended for her to allow them but that he expected to have his way with her because of them. It was the language of the pack. She’d just had her first lesson.

  Garrett let her know by his eyes that he was a demanding and passionate man as he stood and stared into her glazed over eyes. His touch on her cheek and rueful smile showed that he also knew how to be both gentle and fun.

  He’d have to read another story tonight just to keep his sanity, because he was not going to break the promise he’d made to himself that he was going to take things slow with her. It was going to kill him, but he would heed his own advice. This game was too important to lose.

  Using the right strategy and maneuvering her at her own pace was paramount. And while every cell in his body was screaming to capitalize on the moment, his sensible side was saying wait for the right time and reap untold treasure. This woman, primed and brought to the brink would devastate them both. He couldn’t wait to feel the explosions that would pass between them when he finally took her in all the ways he knew she wanted to be taken.

  “Ready to go?” he asked, deliberately breaking the mood and reverting to the traditional agenda—that of a first date.

  When she just stared up at him as if in a trance he had to keep from smiling.

  “Dinner?” he prompted and watched with concealed pride as she flinched back to the present.

  “Uh, yes. Yes. Ready. Sure I am. Just need to get my wrap.” She spun as if she needed to get away from the heat building between them. He needed her to stand down too. His erection was damned near painful.

  He followed her to the hallway where she picked up her purse and a stunning peacock-influenced pashmina. It was striking against the black dress as she swirled it around her shoulders and let it settle. She opened the simple black clutch to fish out her keys. He took them from her and locked the door behind them, then handed them back.

  He could have kept them. Could have dropped them into the pocket of his cashmere sport coat. But it would have said too much about the control he knew she craved in her men. Too soon, too soon, he kept reiterating to himself. He didn’t want to spook her. She was as timid as a rabbit and he didn’t want to see her run.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Laurel shivered with desire as she settled her pashmina over her shoulders. So . . . as to the question of what you got when you paired caramel and lemon? She sure got her answer faster than she could ever have imagined. And now she had to deal with the result: the lemon completely overpowered the caramel. Symbolically, she had just seen this play out. He had devastated her with that kiss. The caramel was no more. She tasted lemon inside her mouth. And she knew that when the taste wore off, she’d have to have more.

  When she saw the ‘vette she broke into laughter.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I saw you driving this the other day. Right after that big rainstorm. You passed me when I was coming out of Food Lion. I followed you until you turned on Georgetown.”

  He took her hand and led her over the pavers to

  his car.

  “And I saw you in your yellow Firebird on the bridge a few days ago. I was running when you got to the top of the bridge. You had the top down and your hair was being whipped around, and you were wearing these huge sunglasses.”

  She laughed. “So that was you. Hmmm. Small world.”

  “I think you might have also ridden by me on your bike while I was jogging on the beach one day. I remembered the pretty blonde and the sweet retro-looking bike.”

  She looked at him and tilted her head to the side, as she recalled the hottie she’d seen running on the beach that day. “Small, small world,” she reiterated.

  He helped her into the car.

  “So where are we going?” she asked after he’d settled her into the passenger seat and walked around and slid into his.

  “I wanted to take you to my favorite Thai restaurant, but I forgot they’re not open on Sundays.” He looked over at her and winked, “So we’ll have to do a redo if you don’t find tonight too hateful. Meanwhile . . . P.F. Chang’s has the second best Asian salad—a chopped chicken salad with ginger dressing.”

  “Oh I love that place! Mmm, they have those wonderful lettuce wraps and my favorite Singapore Street Noodles.”

  “So that’s what you normally get?”

  “Oh yeah. They’re awesome.”

  “Then you should try something else. In fact, I think I’m going to insist on it. With me, it’s a requirement that you try new delights.” He shot her a look that was both stern and suggestive, an eyebrow lifted for her response. How she accepted his control over this would determine how she accepted his dominance in other ways.

  He watched as her face reflected her thoughts, considering. She sighed for dramatic effect and mumbled, as a child would, “Okay, but can I have the Great Wall of Chocolate for dessert?”

  He smiled and patted her thigh, “Of course you can

  . . . if you’re a good girl and you eat all your dinner.” Then he lifted her hand from her lap and kissed each fingertip. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her tiny shudder and he smiled as he replaced her hand. This was the most fun he’d had in a long time.

  They rode up Route 31, listening to music shuffling on his iPod while he put the ‘vette through its paces, exceeding the speed limit by thirty miles in some places, and taking the long spiraling exit ramp at what clearly was a dangerous speed for anything other than a low-slung sports car with a proficient driver behind the wheel.

  When he zipped into a parking space at The Market Common, near the restaurant, she let out a long slow breath that she hadn’t been aware she was holding. He chuckled, gripped her hand briefly then got out to open her door.

  They dined on lettuce wraps, the chopped salad with ginger dressing they’d come for, and a Lo Mein Combination dish they shared so she would have no problem earning her dessert. They spoke of hometowns, non-existent siblings, and how being an only child had affected both their lives, as they sat caddy-corner in a generous-sized booth, facing a fountain.

  Then Garrett watched, his elbow propped on the table, his chin resting on his open palm, as she devoured The Great Wall of Chocolate. He dipped his own fork into the gooey confection twice, curious to taste the combination of flavors that were putting that look of abject pleasure on her face—a look he hoped to duplicate using her other senses.

  When there was only the hint of a smear left on her plate, he took her fork from her and set it down. Using his fingertip he ran his finger through the remains of the chocolate “lava” then dabbed it on her bottom lip. Leaning in, he covered her lips with his and used his tongue to lick off the decadent icing. As he distracted her with a devastating kiss, he ran his fingertips up the inside of her thigh using the barest touch. He stopped short of making the connection to her panties before dragging one lone fingernail back to her knee. It was done so quickly and with such precision that Laurel was momentarily confused as to whether she had imagined the touch th
at had caused the most delicious shudder. Her pulse was thundering through her core by the time he lifted his lips and his eyes met hers.

  “Cold?” he asked playfully as he lifted her pashmina from the booth to her shoulders.

  Anything but, she thought. “No,” she managed to stammer as he took a charge card from his money clip to pay the bill.

  “Thank you for dinner. I am so full,” she said when the waiter brought back the sales ticket and his card.

  “The first of many I hope,” he said as he added the tip and signed the receipt, then looked up at her, “I suppose I should drive back at a slower pace so as not to risk an eruption of that lava on my interior.”

  “Considering my experience with roller coasters, that would be a good call.”

  He smiled and pulled her up. “Good. I’m not at all willing to drop you at your doorstep yet anyway.”

  Once they were back on 31, Garrett opened his console and took out a flash drive he’d fished from inside. Then he inserted it into the USB hub for an MP3 player and used the touch screen to select Il Divo.

  As the powerful strains of The Man You Love filled the car, he looked over at her. The ambient lighting in and under the dash cast her in silhouette but he could still see her wide smile.

  “You look happy.”

  “I am. I love Il Divo. And I can’t remember when I’ve had such a good time with a man.”

  “Hmmm. What does that mean exactly?”

  She laughed as she read his thoughts. “I may have stated that wrong. I actually haven’t dated in years. And that was men. Only men,” she clarified. “I don’t really remember my last date all that well, as my parents had just died and we met mostly just so I could tell him that I needed some time to myself.” She took in a big breath then slowly let it out. Remembering those early days after her parent’s death still left her feeling anxious.