Hot As Ice

by Merline Lovelace

  She was feeling the pull of sucking sand in the muscles of her calves and thighs when he finally steered her toward a weathered cedar bench on the boardwalk. Crossing his arms and ankles, Charlie contemplated the sea. Diana dusted off the soles of her feet and stretched out comfortably at his side. He'd talk if and when he was ready. Until then, she'd enjoy the view.

  The sun blazed lower now, transforming the Pa­cific into a lake of bright, liquid gold. The receding tide left bits of shell and seaweed glistening on the wet sand. She tipped her head, trying to place the tune pumped out by the carousel's organ. Handel, she thought, from his Water Music suite.

  An ominous rumble originating in the vicinity of Charlie's midsection pulled her from the joyous cas­cade of notes and him from his private thoughts. Stirring, he agreed with her solemn pronouncement that it had been a long time since their fast-food breakfast.

  "There used to be a great seafood restaurant on the pier. Capn' Dave's Shrimp Boat, or something like that." Scraping a hand along his jaw, Charlie eyed the wooden structure jutting out into the sea. "It's probably long gone."

  "If it is," Diana said briskly, "I'm sure another restaurant has sprung up in its place. Come on, let's find out."

  Later, much later, Diana would wonder how she could so severely underestimate the impact of a bucket of u-peel-'em shrimp crunched down while watching the sun blaze into the Pacific. Or the magic of a ride on a hand-painted horse, followed by an hour of dancing under the stars.

  If the image of Charlie's broad shoulders framed in a blaze of red and gold as he feasted on the shrimp didn't warn her of what was to come, the carousel ride certainly should have. By mutual agreement, they put aside their private concerns when they climbed onto their chosen steeds. Diana sat demurely sidesaddle while Charlie slipped his feet into the stirrups and folded his knees up almost to his chin. Grinning at his contortions, she grabbed the reins as the merry-go-round started slowly and gathered speed with each turn. Kids giggled and kicked their mounts' flanks and waved to parents. The music pouring through the loudspeakers was almost deafening at close range, yet the pumping melody started an answering rhythm in her veins.

  Diana's blood was still singing when the ride ended. Legs spread wide against the moving floor­boards, Charlie spanned her waist to lift her down. She braced her hands on his forearms and slid out of the saddle.

  His muscles bunched under her fingertips. Hers contracted in instant, breath-shattering response. The music wheezed and died, but Diana's heart was hammering so loudly she didn't notice. For a moment she hung suspended between the unyielding wooden horse behind her and the equally unyielding body in front of her. "Charlie..."

  He squeezed her waist. "Listen!" "Okay, I'm listening."

  She wasn't sure what she expected at that mo­ment, but it wasn't the crease that appeared in his forehead as he cocked his head and strained to hear the distant notes of a trombone.

  '"So Tired,'" he muttered.

  "Well, put me down."

  Grinning, he planted her feet firmly on the wooden deck. "That's Russ Morgan's theme song. 'So Tired.'"

  "Oh."

  She'd never heard of Russ Morgan, but the slow, mellow slide of the trombone started a fresh set of goose bumps up and down her arms. They piled right on top of the ones Charlie's touch had already raised.

  Grabbing her hand, he led the way through the crowd. "We have to find out where that music's coming from."

  It came, they discovered a few moments later, from the open-air pavilion located at the far end of the pier. The banner strung above the pavilion's en­trance proclaimed that the city was celebrating the history of the old La Monica Ballroom with a series of summer concerts, big band-style. This week's concert showcased the golden tones of Russ Morgan and the Morganaires.

  "Thank God good music like this didn't go out of style," Charlie said in heartfelt relief. "Those hard rock CDs you played for me may be all right for teenagers, but this is the real thing."

  Wisely, Diana refrained from informing him that the big band sound had faded from popularity de­cades ago and was just beginning to make a come­back.

  As was swing dancing. Couples of all ages glided around the roped-off dance area. Most were gray-haired, but a respectable number of pairs from Gen­eration X swayed to the clear, liquid notes. The dancers wore everything from cutoffs to polyester pants suits. However they were garbed, they all ap­peared to be enjoying themselves.

  Her hand still tucked in Charlie's, Diana observed their moves with genuine admiration. Her fiercely liberal mother had refused to push her daughters into traditional activities like ballet or pom-dancing, insisting instead they follow their own inclinations to uncover their hidden talents. Diana's inclinations had led her to science fairs and biology labs, not dance classes, but she could still appreciate artistry in movement when she saw it.

  Charlie, it turned out, intended to do more than just appreciate. After watching the dancers with a critical eye, he tugged her on her hand. "Come on, Doc. Let's show 'em how it's done."

  She hung back, alarm rapidly replacing her ad­miration. "You can't dance in those flip-flops."

  "Sure I can. It won't be a pretty sight, but we're not trying for Fred and Ginger here."

  "Wait, Charlie! I don't know how to dance. Not like that, anyway."

  "You don't have to know. I lead, you follow. And I'll have you know, I'm a good leader."

  With that bit of totally oblivious chauvinism, he swung her onto the floor and into his arms.

  Grudgingly, she was forced to admit he was a very good leader. His arm snug around her waist, he left no doubt about who was in charge of this operation. After the first stumbling steps, Diana fit her body against his and surrendered to his superior skill. Soon they were dipping and swaying with the rest of the crowd.

  She had just congratulated herself on being a quick study when the slow, dreamy song ended. The orchestra segued right into something considerably more lively, and Diana's false sense of confidence took a direct hit.

  '"The Johnson Rag'!" Charlie's blue eyes gleamed. "This came out when I was still in the Aviation Cadets. Hang on to your hairpins, sweet­heart."

  "I don't think I'm ready for this!"

  "Sure you are. Just go wherever I throw you."

  "Throw me?"

  She aimed a quick glance at the other couples. Several women were already airborne. Swung high by their partners, they kicked their heels in midair and came down with an energetic bounce. One even slid feet-first right through her partner's legs.

  "I know I'm not ready for this," Diana ex­claimed, dragging at the hold on her hand.

  "What's the matter?" Charlie cocked a brow. "Don't you trust me to catch you?"

  The challenge hovered between them. Instant. Di­rect.

  Trust. She wanted trust. She had to give it to get it.

  "All right." She made no effort to hide her pro­found reluctance. "But I'm going to hold you di­rectly responsible for any sprained ligaments or bro­ken bones."

  "We won't try anything too jive."

  Armed with that less than reassuring promise, she joined the fray. After a few false starts, she got the hang of it, more or less. She even managed not to trip over her own feet when Charlie raised his arm, twirled her three times, and swung her back against his chest. She landed with a little ummph, breathless and laughing and totally energized.

  So energized, in fact, that it was Charlie and not Diana who stumbled halfway through the next number. He recovered smoothly, but guided her off the floor at the end of the piece.

  "Are you okay?" Diana asked, noting the white lines that bracketed his mouth.

  The lines disappeared in a rueful smile. "You were right. These shower clogs aren't made for cut­ting a rug. Either that, or forty plus years on ice took more out of me than I realized. I'll have to find a workout machine like the one you showed me at the oceanographic station and get back in shape.''

  "I saw about all there is to see of your shape, f
ella, and it looked pretty darn good to me."

  Unfortunately, she forgot that Charlie's frame of reference for banter between the sexes differed con­siderably from hers. She'd also put more of her own feelings into the quip than she'd intended. He looked startled, then thoughtful as his gaze traveled from her flushed face to the polka dots clinging to her upper breasts.

  "It's a long drive back to the base." His hand moved in a lazy, seductive circle at the small of her back. "What do you say to spending the night in Santa Monica?''

  Chapter 8

  The half-mile drive from the pier to the hotels fronting Ocean Boulevard was one of the longest of Diana's life. When Charlie pulled into a plush resort with a sign proudly announcing the charm of vin­tage, beach-side bungalows updated with every modern luxury, she didn't say a word. She didn't have to.

  She knew what would happen when they locked the door to one of those bougainvillea-draped cot­tages, knew she was about to break every rule in the undercover operative's book. Yet her pulse pounded with such urgency that she could scarcely breathe, much less remember the damned rules.

  The hard truth was that she ached for Charlie every way a woman could for a man. Almost from the day, from the very hour she'd walked into the makeshift lab and seen him lying on the metal table, he'd tied her in knots.

  Physically, he turned her on, big time! Despite her stern lectures to herself, the biologist had some­how given way to the woman. For the first time in her life, Diana was discovering the powerful pull of the male physique. Or at least the male physique as embodied in one Major Charles Stone. For reasons that defied scientific analysis, he called to every­thing that was female in her. Her first glimpse of his naked body had started her hormones working overtime and they'd yet to take a break. Just think­ing about what would happen when they checked into one of the beachside bungalows sent tight, clenching spasms through her lower belly.

  But what she felt for Charlie went deeper than mere physical attraction. Far deeper. Emotionally, he plunged her from the dizzying heights of sexual excitement and scientific discovery to piercing hurt over his lost years. She'd never felt this aching sense of loss before, never shared another's confu­sion and struggle to find himself so intensely. With a slight kink in logic, Diana longed for Charlie to trust her with his secrets, even as she dismissed as totally irrelevant the fact that she harbored more than a few of her own.

  Speaking of which...

  A sideways glance confirmed that Charlie had disappeared inside the resort's elegant front en­trance. Quickly, she keyed the radio encased in her watch.

  "Control, this is Artemis."

  "Go ahead, Artemis."

  She might have known Mackenzie would still be at headquarters. Swiftly, Diana reported the sudden change in plans.

  "We're not going back to Edwards tonight. We're staying in Santa Monica."

  "Roger, Artemis. I put your present location at..."

  With a few clicks of a mouse, Mackenzie verified the information being transmitted by the tiny global positioning signaling device in the black chronom­eter.

  ''The Pacific Shores Resort, on Ocean Boulevard, Santa Monica." "Correct."

  "How long a stay do you anticipate?"

  "I don't know. A day. Maybe two. Major Stone needs some time to think things through."

  So did Diana, for that matter, but the moment Charlie had started tracing those small circles in the small of her back, thinking had dropped to second or third place on her list of priorities.

  "I can have someone out there in less than an hour to run a sweep of your rooms."

  "I don't think that's necessary, Comm. For one thing, this stop was unplanned. For another, we're only getting one room. I'll, uh, maintain positive surveillance of the subject while we're here."

  A short, startled silence ensued, but Mackenzie, bless her, refrained from editorial comment. That would come later, Diana suspected. From Lightning. She'd worked with Nick often enough in the past to know the flintlike edge he buried under all that so­phisticated charm.

  "Let us know if you need anything, Artemis."

  "Roger. Now for Pete's sake, go home, Comm."

  "I will, I will."

  The woman needed to cultivate some outside in­terests, Diana thought. Preferably of the male per­suasion. Maybe when she got back to Washington, she'd introduce Mackenzie to one of Allen's friends and...

  Her thoughts skittered to an abrupt stop. Allen was over. If she'd harbored any lingering doubts about terminating her casual relationship, they'd gone up in smoke when she decided to stay in Santa Monica with Charlie. All that remained was a fierce impatience that mounted exponentially until the Ice­man slid back behind the wheel.

  With a glance in her direction that ignited the embers already smoldering in her blood, he keyed the ignition. The very air around her seemed to heat as he drove to the very last unit on the resort grounds. The cottage sat by itself on a small cliff some fifty or so feet above the beach. Rocky pro­jections covered with ice plant and a few stubborn sea oats cut the cottage off from the others and gave it a sense of splendid isolation.

  While Charlie retrieved his gear bag and their purchases from the trunk, Diana stood in the eve­ning mist and gazed at the waves foaming the shore. A wooden staircase zigzagged down the cliff, invit­ing long walks and lazy hours on the narrow beach. Tomorrow, she thought. Maybe tomorrow they'd leave a trail of footprints in the sand or dig for shells. Tonight...

  Tonight belonged to Charlie.

  The man filled her mind, her thoughts, her senses. As she preceded him up the crushed shell walk to the cottage's door, every nerve snapped with expec­tation. Like electrical sparks shooting along an ex­posed wire, excitement danced all through her body.

  The interior of the cottage only added to her sim­mering anticipation. The snug, cheerful rooms were designed for pleasure, and furnished for feet-up comfort. Pink-and-green plaid covered the love seat in the sitting room, with a matching flowered chintz for the overstuffed chair. The walls of the kitchen­ette sported framed prints of gaily painted carousel horses looking much like the ones she and Charlie had ridden not long ago. Sliding glass doors led from the sitting room onto a weathered cypress deck perched high above the ocean. From what Diana could see of the oversized bedroom beyond, it boasted a king-sized bed covered in the same pastel colors and a bank of windows that would offer a spectacular view of the Pacific in the morning.

  It was the kind of place to cuddle up in, to watch the sun set over the ocean, and make love in all night long. As eager as Diana was to do just that, she didn't ignore the basics of her business. A swift visual security check showed sturdy latches on the sitting room windows. A dead bolt provided backup on the front door. The small kitchenette allowed no access from outside. She didn't like the sliding glass doors leading to the deck. They were too hard to defend against. Anyone determined to get into the place could simply break the glass. Or kick in the front door, for that matter. Both had happened at various times in Diana's past. She didn't expect ei­ther to occur here but worked out the appropriate responses and emergency escape routes in her mind just in case.

  The rustling of paper brought her head around. All thoughts of escape fled as Charlie deposited the shopping bags in a careless pile atop his canvas bag. Straightening, he faced her across a few yards of plush gray carpet.

  "I'm not sure how this is done these day. Do you make the first move, or do I?"

  He was learning. If the blue flames in his eyes were any indication, he wanted to jump her bones as much as she did his, but he was learning. Sliding her tongue along suddenly dry lips, Diana suggested a compromise.

  "I'll tell you what. Let's meet halfway and see what happens."

  Until that moment, Charlie had intended to take things slow and sweet. He'd imagined this moment too often in the past few days, had gone rock hard at the mere thought of burying his hands in that Jean Harlow hair and claiming her mouth with his to rush matters. The seductive sweep of Diana'
s tongue along her lower lip exploded his carefully laid plans in midair.

  "To hell with halfway," he growled, crossing the few yards between them in two swift strides. "I've always gone the distance."

  She welcomed him with a grin and open arms. Their bodies collided, thigh to thigh, hip to hip. Greedily, his mouth found hers. Just as greedily, she stretched up on tiptoe and locked her arms behind his neck. She made no attempt to disguise her hun­ger, played no coy games.

  Her honesty literally took his breath away, but it was the erotic press of her hips against his that had his hands fumbling with the ties of her dress. The slinky fabric parted a moment later, and Charlie lost what little air he'd managed to suck into his lungs.

  All she wore under the polka dots was a tiny triangle of black lace.

  Sweat beaded his brow. His throat went bone dry. With a fervent prayer of thanks, he consigned the baggy cotton women's underpants of his day to whatever grave they'd been buried in. Before he could get the dress off her shoulders and all the way down her arms, she went to work on his shirt. The feel of her tongue hot and eager on his chest snapped the last of Charlie's already shaky control.

  The dress caught on her elbows. His shirt dangled from one of his. In a snarl of arms and legs, they dropped to the plush carpet. He hit first to absorb the impact, then rolled Diana under him. With an­other heartfelt prayer of thanks for the absence of a brassiere, he claimed one of her firm, high breasts with his mouth. His tongue and teeth soon teased the nipple into a hard, tight peak.

  "Ohhh! Oh, Charlie!"

  Gasping, she arched under him. The movement gave him just the right leverage to drag down the scrap of lace. Wiggling frantically, she raised her hips the extra inch he needed to get rid of the pant­ies—if you could call them that!—completely.