She laughed breathlessly, her fingers clinging to her wallet under his warm, callused hand. There must be something wrong with her lungs tonight.
His low laughter echoed over the water. "It's a mating ritual, sweetheart. Atmosphere and fantasy, and take my word for it, if you pay for your own drink it's going to mess up the fantasy. Put your wallet back."
One drink—two, actually, but she couldn't imagine the teenage Blake letting Lydia Dutch treat.
"I'll phone for a taxi to take me back to my car," she decided. "I saw a pay phone."
"Claire, I'm not going to stand down here watching you up at the road, waiting for a taxi. In any case, I can't let you drive. Discovery Bay, you said? That winding road, and you've had three drinks. I'll drive you back. That way I'll know where to pick you up tomorrow."
"For heaven's sake, I'm not drunk!" Maybe she was, just a little. Would she have asked this man to romance her if she'd been in her right mind? The motorcycle, she thought. What had happened when Lydia and Blake rode out of her sight on the motorcycle? What would happen when she climbed up behind Blake?
What if he kissed her again? Really kissed her?
"Come on, Claire." There was no hint of seduction in the way his hand gripped her arm as he led her back to the truck. He was remarkably casual for a man who had just agreed to have an affair with her.
When they got to the top of the ramp, she wanted to tell him to drive her to Manresa Castle, to her own car, but almost thirty-one years of following the rules wouldn't let her.
"You're right. I'd better not drive."
She didn't want to talk, either, and when he put the truck in motion she let her head fall against the headrest and closed her eyes.
Mac drove in silence, too aware of Claire sitting beside him, her closed eyes and her soft breathing. She didn't talk all the way to the Highway 101 turnoff, although he knew she hadn't fallen asleep.
What the hell was a guy supposed to do when a woman stared up at him with eyes he could drown in, and then asked him to spend the next seven days romancing her?
If he had any sense, he'd have bolted the moment he saw her at the reunion. She'd learned to use makeup since high school, turning her eyes even bigger, deeper, more dangerous than they'd been fifteen years ago. And that golden waterfall of her hair begged a man to tangle his hands in it. Add one blue dress that pretended not to cling, but hinted at female curves whenever she moved, and she'd had every unattached male in the place panting after her.
She hadn't a clue, not a bloody clue, asking for a week of his time—his lust—as if it were some kind of damned favor! He'd wanted to shake her, to kiss her—really kiss her, not the brief brush of lips he'd allowed himself.
The moment he'd felt her lips under his, shockingly soft and seductive, sinfully tempting, he'd forced himself to pull back. There were rules, after all. At eighteen, he might have ignored them, might have taken her up on an offer he knew she could regret when morning came. But now— A man couldn't teach kids self-discipline if he had none himself.
He'd drop her at the damned resort, then he'd head home for a cold shower.
When he turned onto Highway 101, she sat up straighter but the only thing she said was, "It's just up here."
He turned into the resort and asked, "Which unit?"
She pointed to the complex down the hill.
"You'll have an ocean view."
"I think all the units have." She sounded cool and stilted, and she had the door open even before he'd shoved the truck into park. Running, he realized with a flash of irritation, and he reached across and caught her wrist.
"Claire." He felt her pulse beating rapidly against his fingers. Then, slowly, she turned her head and faced him.
"What?"
"I'll pick you up at ten."
"Ten?"
If he pulled her closer, tangled his fist in her hair and closed his lips over hers, he might taste her thoughts.
"Yes, ten o'clock. Wear jeans. A shipyard is no place for heels and fragile clothes."
"I don't think—"
"You're meeting Jake. You promised."
Then, instead of releasing her wrist, he drew it closer and pressed his lips against the pulse. He felt her skin, creamy and fragile under his mouth. Her hand clenched, then relaxed.
"Good night, Claire."
He watched her walk to the door, watched until she stepped inside and closed herself in. He should have put his truck in reverse and backed out of her parking space then, but instead he sat with his hands on the wheel, just staring at that closed door.
If he was any judge of women, and he was, Mac figured that when he picked Claire up tomorrow morning, she wouldn't be in the truck more than two minutes before she found a way to back out of the deal she'd suggested back there on the floats.
Tonight she'd been flustered by wine and the chemistry that had flared between them. By morning she'd be the Claire he remembered from high school: quiet, contained, and untouchable behind those deep blue eyes. He figured he knew exactly how her voice would sound as she gracefully backed out of the deal.
He shoved the shift lever into reverse and backed away from her door. If Claire Welland thought she was going to get out of working with Jake, she could think again. Mac wasn't going to let her go that easily.
As for the other—a week of romance...
A man couldn't afford romance when he had Mac's responsibilities. Romance led to commitments he didn't want, couldn't afford. Unless it was a week with a woman who didn't want anything more than seven days. A woman who had a life she wouldn't dream of giving up for any man.
She would probably want to back out of the deal tomorrow morning, and of course, a woman had a right to change her mind, but that didn't mean he had to leave it there.
She'd had fantasies about him. Hell, he'd suppressed a few of his own fantasies about the untouchable Claire hiding behind her thick glasses.
What would happen to her eyes if he stole her away from the dance tomorrow night, took her out under the stars and really kissed her? Would her lips open for him, taking him on the wild ride he'd glimpsed when he kissed her too briefly down on the floats tonight?
Tonight he'd seen storms in the fathomless blue of her eyes.
Mac had always been a sucker for a storm.
Claire woke abruptly, sitting up in the king-size bed with a gasp.
Nothing. Silence, just her own heart pounding in her chest. A dream, it must have been a dream. Something had startled her, driving her from sleep with no memory of the trigger. Perhaps a noise, here in the unit.
She slid out of bed, took a quick cruise through the unit to be certain there was really no cause for alarm. Nothing, just the whitecaps on the water of Discovery Bay, and a blazing blue sky overhead.
Eight-thirty, announced the clock on the microwave, and not a danger in sight. She walked back to the bedroom, reflecting that it wasn't very bright to go searching the condo for burglars dressed in her bare skin.
Luckily the window looked out on nothing but the ocean, but she'd better remember she wasn't on a mountaintop. Wandering around the house—or the luxury condo—naked wasn't socially acceptable.
In the shower, her hair foaming with shampoo, she remembered Blake McKenzie. Last night he'd dragged her away from the reunion dinner to enlist her help for a boy named Jake. And she'd agreed.
She had to have been out of her mind to ask him to take her adolescent fantasies and, now, fifteen years later, turn them into reality for a week. No wonder she'd woken in a panic. Somewhere in her dream she'd remembered exactly what she'd said, what she'd asked... to cling to him on the back of a motorcycle... to kiss in the shadows at the dance.
If that was what three drinks did to her, she'd better stay off the stuff forever. Maybe she could plead drunkenness, but she knew it wasn't that... not exactly. It was Jennifer, making that crazy suggestion, and helping her pack.
When Claire unpacked here in Discovery Bay, she'd discovered that the books she'd s
et out to take were missing. Instead, Jennifer had packed half a dozen romance novels. It had to be Jennifer, because Claire certainly hadn't done it. She'd never read a romance novel in her life.
Until Thursday night, lying in bed, restless and unable to sleep, not looking forward to the reunion dinner, yet knowing she had no real excuse not to go. In a sort of insomniac desperation, she'd picked up one of the romances, the one with the tamest cover—a woman and a man fully dressed, looking into each other's eyes, with a mountain behind them.
It showed you couldn't judge a book by its cover. She'd expected to be bored by an unlikely tale of a young virginal doormat waiting for her Prince Charming. Maybe if that's what Jennifer had packed, everything would have been all right. But she'd been sucked in, caught against her will by the story of a woman in her thirties—a doctor, for heaven's sake—caught in a remorseless slide into love, into romance... into overwhelming passion.
Fantasy. Of course it was fantasy, but she'd been sucked in. Power vacuumed into insanity by that novel, a couple of drinks, and a man who said he'd never forgotten her eyes.
She rinsed off the shampoo, stepped out of the shower and toweled vigorously.
She'd dug this pit for herself, but she could pull up her tent stakes and disappear. The condo was paid for until next Friday, but avoiding seven days of humiliation and embarrassment in Blake McKenzie's territory was worth sacrificing a few dollars.
She'd arrive early in San Francisco, visit the university and check the latest news on CTIO before her interview next Saturday. She'd never have to see Blake McKenzie again.
But if she wanted to leave, she'd better get going now. He'd be here to pick her up in an hour, so if she didn't get packed and take her things out to the car—
Damn!
She'd left her car at Manresa Castle. She'd have to call a taxi, load her stuff into the cab and transfer everything at Manresa Castle.
If the taxi turned up late, or Blake early, she'd be caught red-handed with her luggage in the parking lot of the resort, looking like the flaming coward she was.
So … plan B.
Black was scheduled to pick her up at ten. She'd invite him in and explain.
No, not here in the condo, with the king-size bed just through that door. She'd step outside when she opened the door, climb into his truck—it was either the truck, or a conversation in the parking lot.
All right, she'd get in the truck, and while he drove her to his shipyard, she'd apologize for last night. He'd have his hands on the wheel, so she wouldn't—he wouldn't touch her cheek or her hair, the way he had once or twice the night before. He wouldn't be able to look at her in that disturbing way, his black eyes filled with challenge and speculation.
She'd be friendly, but businesslike. Admit that she'd had too much to drink last night. She'd offer to talk to Jake, because she owed Blake that much for putting him through such a crazy scene last night. But, of course, she didn't want a week of... she wasn't really interested in...
Businesslike.
She had documents to study before next week's conference. She was a scientist. She didn't have time for …
Surely she could find a way to get out of this without lying. There were no documents to study, unless you counted Jennifer's romance novels.
She had forty-five minutes to figure out the words. Something like: "Blake, I need to apologize for last night. Of course, I didn't mean that crazy suggestion. I'll talk with Jake if you want, and I want you to know you can forget the other part of the deal."
She'd been a fool asking him to give her a week of romance in the first place, so she deserved to be embarrassed, but she'd survive the experience. Then they'd arrive at the shipyard, and she'd ask him questions about masts and hulls. If Jake was there, she'd do what she could to interest him in astronomy. Then she'd drive back and...
Damn. She'd forgotten about her car again.
OK, so she'd get him to drop her at Manresa Castle, then she'd have independence, her own wheels. If it got too uncomfortable, she could get away. And once she'd talked to the kid, she would leave. Leave the shipyard, leave Port Townsend, leave Discovery Bay.
How the devil did you interest a fourteen-year-old kid in anything? She knew less than nothing about the teenage species.
At five minutes to ten, she pulled on her Nikes, picked up her purse, and walked down the five steps to the foyer where she adjusted the blind so she could see the parking lot.
Two minutes later, a motorcycle purred down the slope and turned into the parking lot. A motorcycle...
She'd asked him for a motorcycle ride, wanted to speed along the highway clinging to him, the way Lydia once had.
She'd been insane last night!
She shoved her purse strap high on her shoulder and stepped out the door. Maybe he'd get the message from her clothes. She'd worn jeans, a T-shirt, and the battered denim jacket she always took hiking in the summer. She'd braided her hair in a thick braid down her back, too, and she'd deliberately refused to put on any makeup, not even lipstick.
"Good morning, Blake:"
He hadn't dismounted from the bike. He sat astride with his feet on the ground, his arms and shoulders covered by a black leather jacket, his face obscured by his helmet. He reached back for something, then held a helmet out to her.
"Hop on, but get that helmet on first."
"Blake, I want to say something."
A woman came out of the unit next door, dressed in bathing suit and towel. She smiled hello and crossed the pavement toward the swimming pool.
What could Claire say, here, standing in the parking lot with his motorcycle purring? She'd have to wait, or else demand he dismount, take off that helmet and listen to her while she made a fool of herself for the second time this weekend.
She jerked on her helmet.
"The strap," he said.
Maybe he was smiling, but she couldn't tell through his visor. He reached toward her chin and she stepped back, snapping the strap into place herself.
"Hop on, Claire."
She took a deep breath and approached the bike. She'd never been on one before, but from her memories of the way he'd raced through Port Townsend in their high school days, she could be taking her life in her hands getting on this one now.
His driving had been sane enough in the truck last night, but maybe a big motorcycle did something to a man's testosterone levels. This was certainly a big bike, massive compared to the one he'd had back in high school.
She swung her leg over and found herself sitting on a plush seat behind and a little below Blake, between a small metal rail and Blake's leather-clad back. She thought of the intimate way Lydia had clung to Blake's back as they sped away from the school.
She'd hang onto that rail instead.
"Put your feet on the pegs and slide your purse strap over your head."
She adjusted her purse and felt with her feet until she found the pegs. Putting her feet on them aligned her thighs under Blake's. She angled her body back a bit and grasped the rails behind her with both hands, leaving a good four inches between her breasts and his leather-covered back.
"If you drop me off at Manresa Castle, I can get my car."
She didn't know if he'd heard her or not, but suddenly the bike's engine roared to life and she grabbed hard to the rail, fighting to maintain her balance as they swung up the hill and around the corner onto the road.
"Blake, I don't... Blake!"
He stopped at the stop sign and she felt his legs shift as he braced the bike. Then he turned his head and she saw only the dark shading of his visor. "Don't try to balance the bike. Hang onto me, and let me do the balancing."
When she felt his legs shift and the bike surged into motion, she grabbed, clutching at his back, her arms curling around his chest. They were hurtling along far too quickly on the narrow road, and when he finally slowed again, she realized they were about to turn onto the highway.
"Blake—"
"It's OK, Claire. Just relax
."
At least that's what she thought he said.
Then they were on the highway, the engine throbbing between her legs, her arms clutching his chest. They'd tilted, almost gone right over on that corner, and she'd plastered her body to his back and turned her head so she could see the houses whipping by, but not the road ahead. She closed her eyes now, tightly, and calculated how long it would take them to get to Port Townsend.
Eight miles? Or was it more?
Say ten miles, and he was doing about a hundred—well, maybe he was doing sixty, but it felt like a hundred with the wind whipping at her body and the bike's engine roaring in her ears.
So maybe ten minutes to Port Townsend, except that the road would be winding once they turned onto Highway 20 and he'd surely slow down. So say fifteen minutes, twenty at most. She could handle twenty minutes.
The engine wound up louder and she felt her body tilting again. She opened her eyes in time to see that they were passing an eighteen-wheeler. She swallowed dryness and forced herself to breathe. No way it could take twenty minutes to Port Townsend at this rate. Fifteen at most.
Chapter Four
Sometime after they turned onto Highway 20, the curving spur that led to Port Townsend, Claire began to absorb the rhythm of Blake's muscles playing against her body. Through the leather of his jacket and the denim of hers, she sensed the flex of his right shoulder as he cranked up the accelerator, the way his chest muscles shifted as his body leaned into a curve, carrying hers with it.
The bike ate up the miles, clinging to the road, sending wind flowing over her body, her helmet, leading them in a duet, a ballet of flowing angles supporting the motion. She wondered what it would feel like to have control of the bike under her own hands, how long it would take her to learn to lean into the curves the way he did, smoothing the road and allowing the bike to fly over the pavement, eating miles in a glorious wave of freedom.
Then she simply closed her eyes and gave herself up to the enjoyment of the moment. Over Blake's shoulder she could see the ribbon of highway, protected on one side by tall evergreen trees that could never grow in the high desert where she lived. On her left, the ocean, strewn with wind-blown whitecaps. Under her hands, pressed against her breasts, Blake's hard, she felt male body.
Seeing Stars Page 4
