Stormee Waters

by Lynda J. Coker

  She scrambled to keep her sinking composure from dropping through the floor. A handshake, five seconds of tactile sensation, should not create this reaction. Get a grip! I can’t carry on an interview while shaking like Nana’s old washing machine.

  “Mr. Savage, thank you for talking with me. My readers and I look forward to getting better acquainted with you through this interview.” She offered him a friendly smile and wrapped her fingers around her notebook.

  “Please call me Dirk. I hope you won’t mind if I address you as Stormee.”

  With the return of his good-natured smile, Stormee relaxed and sighed with relief.

  “Your name is somewhat provocative. I can’t keep calling you Miss Waters when the tilt of your chin tells me Stormee is much more accurate.”

  She pressed her open palm against her stomach. Maybe there was something to this alpha male thing— after all, he’d taken control of the conversation, and he wasn’t above using a killer smile to sway her in his direction. “First names will be just fine.” She kept her voice level, interjecting a cautionary degree of reserve.

  With the turn of his hand, he indicated a seating of chairs next to the bar. “Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get our drinks.”

  He finessed the frosted glasses with the skill of a headwaiter, placing hers on the table next to her chair. After slipping a cocktail napkin under the glass, he selected a seat opposite the one she’d chosen.

  He leaned against the back of his chair and lifted his glass to his lips, half emptying the tea inside with three large swallows. “I apologize, Stormee, but a last-minute change in scheduling will allow a mere twenty minutes for this interview. I hope this affords you enough time to get the information you need.”

  A fraction of her tension melted away. For certain, she could maintain her professionalism for that space of time. “I’m sure it will, Mr. Savage. Thank you.” She scooted toward the front of her chair, turning her legs a little to the side and resting her feet firmly on the floor. Her note tablet lay comfortably on her lap.

  “Please call me Dirk.” He relaxed in his chair, with legs extended.

  By retrieving a pen from her purse, she avoided meeting his gaze. “Okay, Dirk. Would you please describe yourself for the benefit of our readers?” His roguish expression bespoke all nature of possibility, but his uncomplicated answer gave a smooth transition into the interview.

  “I’m an ordinary man with passable looks and intelligence. Why don’t I leave the rest to you.”

  She wrote in haste, using her own style of shorthand. Her brain muttered in the background as she scribbled short sentences on her pad.

  He knows he’s gorgeous, and he’s aware by the nitwitted grin on my face that I’m not immune. Image is of no consequence to him, that isn’t to say he wouldn’t use his assets to secure his own goals.

  She bolstered her nerve and using what she hoped passed for competence, let her eyes take in the whole of him. The width of the shoulders filling out the crisp white shirt he wore with ease sent little ripples skipping along her spine. His hands especially intrigued her. They were beautiful, if such a term could be rightly applied to a man. Unblemished, long fingers tanned to the perfect shade of creamed coffee gripped the frosted glass of tea with casual dexterity. How could a modern-day warrior have hands that gave a woman all manner of fanciful thoughts?

  She refocused that errant wondering and studied him objectively, taking time to jot down several more descriptive phrases.

  Over six foot in height with a muscular build and an enviable tan; Precision cut black hair accentuating an autocratic face; Eyes that really do ignite at times. Would other women also be infected with a pesky curiosity as to why?

  She cleared her throat and closed her writing pad. “I think I have enough to compliment the photos you’ve allowed us to use.”

  Her readers didn’t need to visualize the dimple in his right cheek, nor the armor-piercing grin which could strip a woman of her defenses at first glance. She hoped he wasn’t a mind reader, since the same grin now dominated his expression.

  “How would you describe your business, Dirk?” She twisted the pen between her fingers.

  “I own a company called Strike Force.” He lightly traced a bead of moisture down the side of his glass.

  “Is this the same company recently in the news, the one specializing in rescuing hostages and kidnap victims?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you categorize this as a dangerous occupation?”

  “Training and experience are priorities at Strike Force. No one takes a field position until passing a regimen of vigorous testing. We’ve never had a fatality or serious injury.”

  “Who determines what jobs are taken and which operatives are used?”

  “I am solely responsible for personnel deployment,” he said, his voice and gaze unwavering. “Since I’m in charge, I accept accountability and never delegate decisions that involve people in my team.”

  Stormee noted the level of authority present in his short but decisive reply and jotted more notes.

  Alpha males are always sure they know what is best. A mere woman stands no chance maintaining her independence with this man.

  He straightened in his chair and leaned forward.

  His change in demeanor indicated her time had run out and she hurried to end the dialogue. “I appreciate the time you’ve taken to answer my questions. Since you’re on a tight schedule, might we continue this interview at a later date?”

  He studied her in silence before making a blunt reply. “I’ll pick you up at 7:30 this evening.”

  Had he extended an invitation or a command? “Well—ah.” She shrugged to hide her confusion.

  “Surely, you eat dinner?” he quizzed through lips curved with humor.

  “I suppose it’s okay.” She fiddled with the edge of her collar and contemplated the hint of challenge underlying his playful smile.

  “Dress casually but bring a wrap. We’ll be dining by the river.” He dismissed her with a short command to leave her phone number and address with the receptionist.

  Why do I feel as though I’ve been ordered to show up for duty call? Did alpha males assume that women in general deferred to their decisions, or was she just a simple-minded exception?

  Chapter Three

  Stormee trudged through her apartment door at 6:30 p.m., smelling the same as a twenty-minute lube and oil garage. Why did one of her tires decide to go flat tonight? A tire she’d struggled to change herself before a scruffy looking middle-aged man on a motorcycle stopped to help.

  “What’s for dinner, I’m starving?” Josh posed the question as he descended the stairs, spanning three steps with each forward movement.

  “You’ll break your neck if you don’t stop loping down the stairs.” She flashed him a look of sisterly censure.

  He took the last four steps in one leap, proof that her warning slipped through one of his ears and out the other without the least pause in between. The thought struck her that he was a prime example of an alpha male in the making. She exhaled in disgust. “I’ve got an interview to conduct this evening. You can make a sandwich or something.”

  “Again? Man! You never cook anymore. I’m freaking sick of sandwiches.” He slouched against the wall and shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “Some things can’t be helped. This came up at the last minute. Besides, if you want something different, you’re sixteen, old enough to prepare your own food.”

  “Cooking is your job, not mine.” His lips pulled into a sour grimace. “Nana never let a man starve. If we’d stayed in Chicago, I’d still be eating regular meals, and Nana wouldn’t be locked up in an old people’s jail.”

  “Josh!” She took a deep breath. “I don’t have time for this tonight. Find something to eat or go hungry. It’s your decision.”

  She waited as he grumbled his way toward the kitchen. Then, she scurried up the stairs, taking two at a time. After a three-minute shower, she dri
ed her cinnamon-colored hair, thankful for the short pixie cut that kept styling simple.

  “Now for my Picasso technique—splash, feather, and blend. What do you know—a masterpiece.” Her mouth quirked with humor. The smidgeon of makeup she used hardly transformed her into a work-of-art, but it did cover up the sunburned nose she’d managed to get while playing tire mechanic. Should I add eye shadow and mascara? Another look at her emerald-green eyes and dark brown lashes and she was convinced they were colorful enough. If she had her way, she’d throw all her makeup out the door. She hated the fussy, time consuming process of applying even the simplest amount. But since providence had given her a petite frame and little girl face, she used cosmetics to appear older, at least her actual twenty-three years.

  The bigger problem, what to wear? She rifled through her closet. The outfit she’d bought for the Caribbean cruise she’d won in a charity raffle caught her eye, the tags still attached. Because of a severe case of flu, she hadn’t sailed on schedule, losing her dream vacation. She examined the tapered slacks with matching top in aquamarine silk. Just what the occasion required, not too flashy, but not backwater-clueless either.

  She dressed quickly then checked her appearance in the full-length mirror hanging on the closet door. Just as she’d hoped, the trendy outfit gave her a much-needed air of maturity. The doorbell’s shrill chime sent a jolt of jitters up her spine, freezing her in place for the second time that day.

  Another point from the research on her computer came to mind with the brightness of neon. Don’t keep an alpha male waiting. He’ll likely leave without you. And don’t even hope to get a second chance.

  Dare I test the theory? Not a good idea, she concluded, since Mrs. Stanton expected the interview on her desk in less than two days. She managed a tentative smile and hurried to open the door.

  Dressed in black and back-lit by the yellow-tinted street light, Dirk bore a resemblance to her favorite dessert, double-rich brownies. Goose bumps created a little mogul run down her arm.

  “Good evening, Stormee.”

  His smooth voice reminded her of warm caramel drizzled over those brownies. “Hi. I’ll grab a sweater and be right back.”

  The realization hit as she paused on the top stair landing to catch her breath. Had she rudely left him standing in the open doorway? Mortified, she turned to descend the stairs when Josh’s voice reached her ears.

  “Hey, man. Who are you?”

  “Depends on who’s asking.”

  Stormee grinned. Dirk hadn’t bothered to mask the patronizing tone of his reply. That ought to give Josh a moment’s discomfort.

  She pulled a white sweater from the plastic bag stored under her bed and returned to the stairs. Hoping to impress him with a perfect display of control, Stormee glided down the steps in classic Hollywood style. “I’m sorry to have left you standing in the doorway.” Despite her best effort to show a mature calmness, she knew her voice sounded timid.

  “Are you?” He leaned casually against the door frame, his gaze studying the contours of her mouth. “Later, perhaps you’ll find a suitable way to make it up to me.”

  “Um—I mean—ah…” Stepping back, she cleared her throat. “I heard Josh’s voice, did my brother introduce himself?”

  “Yes, somewhat,” he replied, straightening his stance and stepping forward.

  “I hope he wasn’t rude.” She resisted the urge to retreat and tilted her head to better see his expression.

  “I got the impression he’s not accustomed to men picking up his sister.” He lifted a quizzical eyebrow and smiled.

  Why did he appear pleased with that deduction? How did she explain that she hadn’t had a real date in the last two years without sounding pitiable? She wondered if the same tactics she used on Josh would work on Dirk—evade and distract?

  “I’ve kept you waiting too long. I—I think I’m ready to leave now.” She dipped her chin and waited.

  “Before we go, I have something to give you.” A small red velvet box lay in the broad expanse of his hand.

  Stormee, grateful her ploy had worked, rubbed her dewy palms against the sides of her silk slacks before reaching for the box. What kind of gift was this? Please don’t let it be diamond earrings, she silently begged the Powers-That-Be. She’d never muster up the moral fortitude to reject such a gift.

  She mentally slapped a hand upside her head. Men of less than twenty-four hour acquaintance didn’t give women expensive jewelry. Idiot! Though diamonds and perfume were her private weaknesses, she lacked both, except for one bottle of designer perfume, which technically wasn’t perfume, but a cheaper cologne.

  He observed her intently, making her attempt at opening the box awkward. The lid separated to reveal an exquisite bottle of her favorite fragrance, and not just cologne, but two ounces of delectable perfume. “I—ah. Thank you. However, this is too expensive and…”

  “The gift isn’t for you. It’s for me. Your scent pleases me, and I don’t make a habit of denying myself pleasures which are in my power to obtain. You would not deny me such a small favor, would you?” His eyebrow arched.

  How could a grown man affect a perfect, little boy plea while knowing too much about the scent of a woman? Was the guy somewhat of a perfume expert? How did he know what brand she wore? The questions hung unanswered in her mind as he placed a hand in the middle of her back and nudged her in the direction of the door. Just as well, the replies bouncing in her head sounded immature. The fact that he’d taken note of how she smelled evoked a feeling of intimacy new to her experience. Butterflies took to flight in her stomach.

  She came back to reality and placed the box on the foyer table, picked up her purse, and stepped through the door. The evening light cast a deep shadow across the man at her side, giving the illusion that he became one with the darkness, and something more she couldn’t define. When he escorted her to a sleek, black sports car of indefinable origin, something more took on solid proportions in her imagination. Every tingling cell in her body warned her against the power of his striking personality. That feeling barely registered before another followed. Dirk Savage didn’t play by anyone’s rules but his own. She nibbled her lower lip and stole a glance at him as he helped her to fasten the seat belt.

  “Don’t look so dismayed. I’m not going to ravish you, at least, not before we’ve had our dinner.”

  Still leaning over her, with nothing but a thought between their lips, his low chuckle reached to the very bottom of her toes. Embarrassed by his scrutiny, she turned her head.

  Fifteen minutes passed. He’d made no small talk, and she welcomed the silence. They’d cleared the congested part of town and cruised through an exclusive residential area. Expensive homes perched along the river’s edge.

  She’d been sure he was taking her to the trendy Stardust Restaurant until he drove through the gated entrance of one of the private residences.

  He stopped the car under the home’s massive front portico and vacated the vehicle, coming around to open her door. As if a stone placed to seal the entrance, he stood in the open space.

  Stormee’s breath stuck in her throat as a hand slipped under her chin and raised it for his inspection. He seized her gaze with his, exposing her to an unrelenting examination. Endless seconds passed as she endured the visual bondage. She could only imagine what her face resembled since the heat in her cheeks seemed to be spreading through her whole body.

  “How old are you?” His tone possessed a clipped edge of exasperation.

  What does my age matter? Mortified, she fidgeted with the small purse she held in her lap.

  “Twe—twenty-three.”

  “You blush and fidget like a little girl.”

  To her astonishment, and with more force than necessary, he closed her door, circled the car, and slipped back behind the wheel. A few minutes later, he parked in front of the Stardust Restaurant. This time, when her door opened, he helped her out and led her toward the restaurant’s entrance, stopping just short to
maneuver her into a secluded niche in the building’s exterior.

  With her back against the rock wall, Stormee muttered, “What are you doing?”

  “Time to make up for leaving me standing in your doorway.”

  Shock kept her immobile, while the sweetest pleasure she’d ever experienced sensitized her mouth beyond bearing. With unhurried, soft kisses, he explored the corners of her clenched lips. Mrs. Stanton’s warning echoed in her ears. “Remember to keep it professional, Stormee. He’s not the kind of man you’re used to dealing with.” She pushed away the annoying memory as he wet her bottom lip with his tongue.

  ****

  Dirk caught Stormee as she melted into him. He wrapped his arms around her trembling form and cursed his libido. What was he doing? This woman-child was as innocent and untutored as they came. Virginal, self-conscious women were not his type. So, why did this one jump-start his heart every time she looked at him with her guileless eyes? At twenty-three, she was eight years younger, and if he counted experience and hard living, a lifetime separated them.

  He gripped her shoulders and gently pushed apart their bodies. She wasn’t shaking, but the hypnotic glaze in her eyes spoke volumes. With a slow caress, he slid one hand from her shoulder to cup her neck. “Stormee, I apologize. I was out of line. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

  She yanked herself free of his touch and shot him an accusing glare.

  The more she flashed those lustrous eyes, the more he wanted to complete the kind of evening he’d originally planned. She’d been ready for him to take the kiss deeper. A streak of reality cleared the thought from his head. Still, like a persistent rash, she dominated his focus, and he didn’t like the itch.

  “Mr. Savage, we just need to get this interview over with! Then we can both put this unfortunate episode behind us.”

  He watched the rapid rise and fall of her chest. If she didn’t calm down and take some deep breaths, he’d have an unconscious woman on his hands. She reminded him of a frazzled kitten, one who thought itself a dragon capable of annihilating its foe with a scorching puff of wind. He stroked his finger along the bridge of her autocratic nose.