by Nicola Marsh
Someone with her looks and sass, not to mention brains and business acumen by her fancy office set up, could take LA by storm. Yet here she was looking a million bucks in a killer black dress which belonged at the Beverley Wiltshire rather than some decrepit diner and fitting in anyway.
“No compliment? You’re losing your touch, Slick.”
Her eyes twinkled as she picked up a menu and fanned her face like an Elizabethan coquette. “And here I was, thinking this dinner was a move on your part to start a beautiful friendship.”
“Wasn’t this dinner your idea?”
He quickly scanned the menu, surprised at his hunger for a juicy burger with the lot. Insanely, the usual Nouvelle cuisine he ate at Jacques almost on a nightly basis seemed boring. Tonight, he needed something substantial to sink his teeth into. Something that would take his mind off the crazy fantasy of nibbling on the woman seated opposite.
She waggled her finger at him. “Uh-uh. You wangled an invitation and around these parts we’re too polite to tell city folk to leave even if they deserve it.”
“Hey, what did I do?”
Apart from burst into her office twice and rant like a madman over the paperwork his mother had filled out. He hadn’t been proud of his outburst, hadn’t been thinking rationally since he’d jumped into his Jag and hotfooted it out of LA and into this time warp.
Besides, it wasn’t about what he’d done, more about what he was about to do. Acquiring her company would be strictly business. It had nothing to do with her sparkling eyes or cheeky grin taunting him to match wits. As for his newfound guilt niggling like an annoying burr, he’d ignore it. The Tech file was too important to jeopardize over a bad case of lust.
“If I have to tell you, you’re none too bright, Slick.”
“Stop calling me that,” he said, a small part of him liking it.
He’d never had a nickname. He would’ve had to have friends at the exclusive private school he’d attended for that and once he’d obtained his economics degree and MBA from Harvard he was over the buddy thing. Most of his current friends were business acquaintances, guys he’d met along the way to the top, the movers and shakers of the LA corporate world, keen to make a quick million or two no matter the stakes.
He thrived on the dog-eat-dog mentality, the pressure that drove A-Corp to be the best in its field. Buying out companies, carving them up and selling them off in lucrative pieces was a thrill though if he was completely honest he’d lost some of his drive recently.
Success did that to a guy after a while and though he could buy LA twice over he couldn’t help feel there was more to life.
He stared at the woman opposite. Damn sure it wasn’t this.
No matter how attractive his companion, he’d be out of here ASAP. Thinking about spending more than a few nights in Hokeyville made him itch beneath his collar.
“Slick suits you. Citified. Confident.”
She paused, fixed him with a brash blue-eyed stare sure to have melted a few males in its time. “Oily.”
Biting back a smile, he held up a hand. “Enough with the welcome. Can we order now?”
Grinning like a woman who’d gone ten rounds with the Champ and won, she signaled to a waitress.
“Flo, we’re ready.”
“You’ve decided?”
The women he usually dined with took half an hour to choose a meal though he’d never figured out why it was so difficult to choose salad, their standard fare.
She shrugged, the simple action drawing his attention to her neck, devoid of jewelry, and lower, to a hint of cleavage that elicited illicit fantasies.
“What’s to decide? Enchiladas with Essie’s secret Refried beans, spicy guacamole, and a side order of fries. Followed by a Shake, Rattle’n’Roll Float. Food of the gods.”
He tried not to stare, he really did, but not only did this woman not belong in this town she didn’t belong on this planet. A woman with a healthy appetite? Truly alien.
She clicked her fingers in front of his face as if trying to snap him out of it. “And a Chubby Checker Spider. Shaken, not stirred.”
The waitress’s arrival saved him from putting his size thirteen feet in his mouth and asking where she put all that food. Not an extra ounce of weight graced her sexy body and if anyone should know he should, he’d spent enough time checking her out.
“What’ll it be, folks?”
“The usual for me, Flo. Marc?”
Flo, a dead ringer for Phyllis Diller, glared at him like he was a roach scuttling across the diner floor and onto one of her trays. “Marc who?”
If he expected Sierra to save him from the local equivalent of the Gestapo, he was mistaken. Not only did it look like she’d enjoy his interrogation, she’d probably help Flo line him up in front of the firing squad too.
He held out his hand and Flo stared at it like dirt on a roach’s feet.
“Marc Fairley.”
“No relation to Liv Fairley, I bet.” Flo licked the tip of her pencil and held it poised over her pad as if that were the end of the conversation.
Liv? He’d never heard his mom called anything but Olivia and it added to the surrealism pervading everything about his visit here.
“She’s my mom.”
Flo’s scraggy eyebrows shot upward to meet her ragged grey-streaked fringe. “Well, I’ll be blowed.”
She glanced at Sierra, who nodded confirmation, before sticking the pencil behind her ear and extending a man-sized hand towards him.
“Why didn’t you say so, mate? Any rugrat of Liv’s is welcome here anytime. Pleased to meet ya.”
By the waitress’s weird accent, he’d place her as Aussie rather than local. This town was just full of anomalies.
After a suitable hand pumping that rattled his shoulder in its socket, Flo beamed.
“What’ll it be? Chuck makes a mean burger and Esperanza’s no slouch with the Mexican stuff, being Mexican and all.”
Flo guffawed and slapped him between the shoulder blades. A lesser man would’ve flown across the room. He absorbed the impact with the finesse of a bullfighter being upended by a bull as Sierra’s grin broadened.
“I’ll have a Tex Mex burger and a soda please.”
Flo peered at him like he’d asked for the moon on a plate before grabbing her pencil and scribbling something that looked awfully long for what he’d ordered.
“Give the man what he wants, Flo,” Sierra said, the twinkle in her eye alerting him that his instinct regarding Flo was right. He’d ordered a burger; she’d probably bring him the cow.
“He needs fattening up.” Flo aimed a pinch at his ribs but he managed to fake a sneeze and ease away. “And a Bud will put hairs on his chest. None of this soda nonsense,” she said, shuffling toward the kitchen, bellowing orders across the diner filled to capacity in the time he’d been having his bones rattled by the Amazonian Aussie.
“They serve beer here without a license?”
“Chuck keeps a stock in the kitchen for those who want it. He can’t cook anything edible without downing a crate.”
“I should’ve ordered Mexican,” he said, wondering what extra delicacies a drunken cook would put in his food.
“Essie downs two crates.” Sierra waved away his concern as she rearranged the menus between the ketchup and mustard bottles. “Now, where were we? That’s right, you were going to tell me why you’re here to interfere in your mom’s relationship.”
“Are you always this forward?”
“Are you always this annoying?”
He held up his hands to ward her off. “Stop with the compliments, you’re embarrassing me.”
“You’ll be more embarrassed if you try to meddle in your mom’s life. She’s in love, can’t you accept it and leave them alone?”
“In love? At her age?” He shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Her eyes narrowed, their sapphire brilliance dimming to blazing slits.
“What’s so ridiculous about love?” She
snapped her fingers, as if coming up with the answer. “Let me guess, you’re an expert.
Her fingers made air-quotes. “I bet you have a string of long-term relationships to base your judgment on. And I’m sure you’re the type of guy who falls in love easily, opening his heart to a woman in every way.”
“Are you finished?”
He sat back, wondering where all that had come from. Sure, she’d probably lose money if things soured and his mom wanted a refund but where did she get off analyzing him?
He may not be an expert on love but he knew way too much about marrying a person from the wrong side of the tracks to prove a point and he’d be damned if he watched his mother make the same mistake he had all those years ago.
“Finished? You wish.” She leaned toward him, the action squeezing her breasts together and he struggled to keep his attention on her face. “I’m getting warmed up.”
“Don’t bother. This has nothing to do with you.”
He slammed his palms on the table, satisfied by the widening of her baby-blues, the flicker of awareness as he leaned forward. “And thanks for the free psychoanalysis. If you ever ditch the dating business, there’s a whole new career waiting for you. Not.”
He’d always wondered if the rumor about redheads’ tempers was a fallacy and assumed he was about to find out as she flushed, her skin almost matching her spectacular hair.
“Here you go, mate. A meal fit for a king. And his queen.” With a suggestive wink aimed in Sierra’s direction, Flo placed two plates filled with enough food to feed the entire Western seaboard in front of them. “I’ll be right back with your drinks. Enjoy.”
He stared at his plate and the burger order that had morphed into ribs, chicken wings, onion rings, coleslaw, guacamole-filled roast potato and corn on the cob, enough to feed three people.
Rather than cause a fuss he picked up his knife and fork, intent on filling his stomach rather than facing the wrath of the woman opposite.
“Count yourself lucky, Slick. You may have won this battle but the war is only just beginning.”
By the determined glint in her beautiful eyes he didn’t doubt it for a second.
CHAPTER THREE
Cupid’s Dating Tips for the Enlightened Male
Combat stupidity: learn when to keep your lips zipped (and your pants too.)
“Make yourself at home. I’ll put the coffee on.” Sierra slipped off her stilettos and padded barefoot into the kitchen, cringing with every step. Inviting the devil back to her place had been a dumbass move.
He’d baited her, teased her and confounded her the whole evening. And she’d loved every minute of it.
Sighing, she switched on the percolator and rubbed the back of her neck, well aware Marc Fairley stimulated her on more levels than any man she’d ever met. Damn him.
It wasn’t just the GOLF thing. If it was, she could’ve putted her way to laid-back fun and moved on.
No, it had more to do with his touch of arrogance underlined with a hint of vulnerability, the depth of caring for his mom, the way he looked at her with those intense dark eyes that reduced her insides to mush.
“Mush, shmush,” she muttered, tearing the top off a box of cookies, wishing it were his head.
So what if he came wrapped in an attractive package that had her salivating to rip off the outer layers and check out the surprise beneath. So not going there.
He’d been subtle in his approach to pry information out of her at dinner and though she hadn’t let much slip she wondered how far he’d go to get what he wanted. Always up for a challenge she’d asked him back to her place for coffee, curious to see what tricks City Boy had up his designer sleeves.
“Nice place,” he said from the living room. “I’ve never seen so many eclectic pieces in one room before.”
“Thanks. I like to collect stuff.”
“I can see that.”
She poked her head around the doorway as he examined the mantel lined with elephants before moving onto the hand-carved jade box in the corner.
“Milk? Sugar?” She yelled, not ready for him to examine that particular collection yet.
Thankfully he turned, his attention diverted. “White with two, thanks. What’s in the box?”
Uh-oh. So much for distracting him.
“Just some other stuff I collect. I’m a regular hoarder. You should see my bedroom…” She trailed off, heat flooding her cheeks as she bit her tongue.
“That’s the best offer I’ve had all day, next to your dinner invitation.” He folded his arms and grinned. “I’m beginning to like this home grown hospitality more by the minute.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Flustered, she ducked back into the kitchen and finished making the coffee. “I love dream catchers, so I hang them all over my bedroom—”
Carrying a tray with coffee and choc-chip cookies into the room, she almost upended the lot as she saw his hands filled with her other collection.
“Sure you’re not running more than a dating agency?”
“My friend’s idea of a joke. She knows I collect stuff so thought she’d add condoms to the list.”
He grinned like a little boy let loose in a toy store as he sifted through the foil packets.
“Some collection you’ve got here. Rough Riders, Barebacks, Power Plays and what’s this?” He held up a shimmery blue square. “I thought a Vanilla Smoothie was a drink?” He tut-tutted. “And here I was thinking Love wouldn’t broaden my horizons. This visit gets better and better.”
Fighting a rising blush and losing, she stalked across the room, settled the tray on the coffee table, slapped his wrist until he released the packets and replaced the lid on the box.
“Didn’t your mom teach you it’s rude to pry into other people’s things?”
His grin hadn’t waned; potent, mesmerizing, lighting his face with warmth. “She did but I was always a nosy little beggar. And a good thing too.” He jerked his head at the box. “Look what you find when you poke around.”
“You’re getting more obnoxious by the minute.” She handed him a coffee. “Here, drink this. The sugar might sweeten you up though I doubt it.”
Her cheeks burned as she handed him the coffee, hoping their fingers wouldn’t brush. If her body was responding to him on some visceral level by trading quips, she didn’t want to experiment with touching.
“You mentioned seeing your bedroom?”
Uh-oh. Not only had his fingers brushed hers, she reacted how she’d feared. Her toes tingled.
No tightening nipples or instant dampness for her. When a man turned her on, the first place she felt it was all the way down to her toes and this time her ten tootsies were buzzing.
“You wish.”
She cradled her coffee mug, peering at him over the rim as she took a soothing sip, hoping the caffeine would jolt her system out of the sensual lethargy seeping through her body.
She couldn’t let her guard down around him. Despite her bravado he had the potential to undo her and she wouldn’t go there. She couldn’t. Been there, done that and ripped the T-shirt to shreds when Brandon, her college boyfriend, headed back to the city taking her heart carved into itty-bitty pieces with him.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Huh?”
He sat down and patted the couch. “I’m a good listener.”
“Bully for you.”
She chose her favorite chair, a soft recliner covered in worn chintz, the chair furthest from him.
“Like I mentioned at the diner, when I said coffee, I meant coffee. No heart-to-hearts, no sex and no trying to get inside info on your mom’s relationship with Hank. Capish?”
He drained his coffee and placed the mug back on the tray. “You’re a fraud.”
“How so?”
She scratched at the stenciled Garfield on her mug with her thumbnail, increasingly edgy under his scrutiny.
“You live in a town called Love, you shove it down the throats of your clients yet the th
ought of it leaves you cold.”
“Don’t know what you’re babbling about,” she said, wondering how a guy she’d known for less than twenty-four hours could hone in on her innermost secret like that. And wishing he hadn’t. She didn’t need him prying into her thoughts, showing how intuitive he could be. He was transient and she’d be wise to remember that, tingling tootsies or not.
“I think you do.”
“I think it’s time you left.”
By the determined glint in his eyes she thought he might push the issue but thankfully he relented. Once again he’d capitulated when she’d expected him to forge ahead and despite enjoying their sparring she liked it. For all his confident bluster, it showed he might have a heart.
“Thanks for the coffee. My suite at the Love Inn awaits.”
“Thanks for dinner.”
Fabulous, now they were down to exchanging pleasantries? This was the time she should play GOLF. Go for par. Grab a nine iron. Lower her handicap. She’d gone through agony with that damn wax and for what? She was going to stand here and watch six-four of prime GOLFer walk out her door and probably regret it in the morning.
“Marc—”
“Sierra—”
“You first,” she said, feeling like the gauche girl she’d been on Prom night about to receive a goodnight kiss from Murray Le Carre, her frog prince. He’d looked like a prince, made out like a frog: cold, wet and sloppy.
“Does the motel have Internet access?”
Not quite the question she’d anticipated. It sounded nothing like “can I stay the night?” or “will you still respect me in the morning?”
“No. Why?”
“Thought I might tie up a few loose ends while I’m here.”
“Apart from the one involving your mom, you mean?”
A frown grooved his brow as he ignored her jibe. “The acquisition business never rests.”
“You snooze, you lose?”
“Something like that.”
Feeling sorry for a guy who couldn’t tune out his business on a Friday night, even away from the city, and a twinge of remorse for her last dig, she waved towards the den.
“You can log on here if you like.”
