Hot to the Touch

by Isabel Sharpe

  “No names? One drink? That was it?” Marie’s sweet voice was coaxing now.

  “No, Marie, we went straight to a hotel afterward and had sex all night long.” She pulled off the sarcasm, but her hearty laugh faked for good measure fell absolutely flat. Shut up, Darcy. Just shut up. She’d done exactly what her sister’s three-year-old did. Mo-o-m, I didn’t just take a crayon and write all over the walls in the living room. “Isn’t that all in your spy report?”

  “No spies, Darcy.” The gentle reproach brought Darcy near tears. Damn it. She didn’t want to feel this way. She didn’t want this to have happened to her just when she was feeling so strong and independent and untouchable. And she didn’t want friends who cared about her so much they made complete pains of themselves and threatened her well-being.

  “Please leave me alone, Marie, all of you. This is my life, and it’s up to me how I live it.”

  She hung up the phone, walked down the hall to her perfectly organized room, took one look at the flawlessly made empty queen bed and burst into painful tears.

  5

  TROY THREW DYLAN’S RUBBER BONE once again across his living room and into the kitchen. Dylan’s compact golden body raced after it; he ended its life fiercely for the umpteenth time with growls and head-shaking, then brought his prize proudly back to Troy. Who threw it again. And again. Bonding, exercise and a way to pass the endless ticking seconds.

  After Troy had sent a short, simple email to “Foodie101,” he’d gone into his exercise room, headed straight for his weights and worked the hell out of his body. Exhausted, he’d showered, pulled on sweats, made himself something to eat, and only then allowed himself to check for a response.

  None. Okay, too soon.

  For two hours he’d watched a terrible TV movie about a single mom trying to stop gang wars in her neighborhood. Then checked email again.

  Still no response, but using the Milwaukeedates.com software, he’d been able to see that she’d read his note.

  Some progress. And increased restlessness. And hope. And dread.

  Now, roughly twenty minutes later, he was still waiting for her reply. Or for her nonreply. With luck she’d put him out of his misery soon with a clear response. Yes, I’d like to see you again, or, No, I’d rather eat bugs.

  Dylan bounded back from the kitchen, feathery tail wagging, red bone clenched in his mouth, which was surrounded by white fur, the only deviation from gold except for a few flecks of white on his ears that looked like splattered paint. Troy extracted the toy and threw it again. That time it didn’t make the kitchen, but bounced off the doorway and tumbled back onto the floor, landing only a few yards from where Troy was sitting. Dylan still pounced with furious excitement. Wouldn’t that be nice, when life events fell way short of expectations, to be so thrilled anyway? People could learn a lot from dogs.

  So. Troy glanced toward his laptop, sitting tantalizingly close on his coffee table. Too soon to recheck email? Probably. He sent the bone out again. And again. And again, until even Dylan’s fervor seemed to be waning. He let the dog keep his now-sodden toy, got himself a beer and crossed once more to his laptop. Many more times and he’d wear a path in the carpet.

  Still nothing. Jeez, she could take days to answer or not answer at all. Troy needed to put it and her out of his mind.

  But before he did that, he wanted one more peek at her profile picture, wearing that slinky blue dress, poised and confident, eyes snapping brilliantly. He’d gotten hard just looking at her, remembering that same flush on her face right before she surrendered to the orgasm tearing through her.

  He clicked on her profile link, his body responding already to the memory. Why was he torturing himself like this?

  The link didn’t go through. Profile not found.

  He tried it again. Nothing.

  On the Search page of Milwaukeedates.com, he typed in her handle, Foodie101.

  Nothing. He hadn’t misspelled it, he was sure.

  He tried the general search, the way he’d found her the first time. Man seeking women, twenty-three to thirty-three, within fifty miles of Whitefish Bay, Wisconsin. No smoking, pictures only. Go.

  The list came up. He sorted it to put the most recent profiles first.

  Nothing.

  She was gone.

  What the hell? If he didn’t still have his email to her Milwaukeedates nickname in his Sent folder, Troy would be wondering if he’d imagined the whole thing.

  But there it was. And there she suddenly wasn’t, suspiciously soon after he contacted her. So she’d rather get off the site entirely than reply, saying she wasn’t interested? Cowardly. Contemptuous. If that was how she operated, Troy was lucky to have escaped.

  His heart didn’t seem to want to join in the outrage. Instead, it was acting as if he’d suffered a wrenching loss.

  Would he ever stop being such an incurable romantic? Falling for women based on attraction and the fantasy promise of something really special, then staying consumed by them until the relationship blew up in his face? How long before he got a sensible Pavlovian response to women: pain, instead of fascination and arousal?

  The chime of his email made him jump to check, cursing his eagerness. No, not from Foodie101. From Marie Hewitt. He opened the note, read it quickly. Then again more slowly while his brain struggled to catch all the implications.

  Dear Troy,

  I know this will seem a bizarre note. No, a really bizarre note. Maybe you know I already had a hand in setting up Justin and Candy, as well as our friend Kim and her fiancé, Nathan. My next project is to match up another member of Women in Power, Darcy Clark, owner of Gladiolas Restaurant. I just spoke with Darcy, and your name came up—I put two and two together and realized you’d met at Esmee last Wednesday.

  This is way beyond the bounds of anything I should be doing in my professional capacity so take this communication as information shared between friends, and forget I’m the owner of Milwaukeedates.com.

  Darcy is a wonderful woman, and will make the right man very happy someday. But she needs a little push in the romance direction in order to get past some fears. After speaking with her this evening, I’m convinced you’re the man to do that pushing, and that she will eventually respond. It may take some patience in the meantime, but if you are really interested, I think you’ll find she’s worth the work it takes to win her.

  Let me know if you want to talk further about this. Otherwise, put me down in the busybody column and hit Delete.

  All the best,

  Marie

  Troy read the email a third time, adrenaline rising. Foodie101, his one-night lover, was Darcy Clark, the friend Candy and Kim talked about once in a while as strong, beautiful and talented, a woman who’d traded men for life in the kitchen. Even Justin had referred to her as a remarkable person, not particularly warmly, but then if she was a man-avoider, she probably hadn’t fallen at his feet. Darcy Clark. Darcy. He tried the name out a few more times.

  All this time, Troy and his mystery woman had been connected through friends. Now that he thought about it, they’d missed meeting a few times already. If Darcy had been able to make Justin’s sick-of-winter party back in February or if Troy had been able to make Kim’s thirtieth birthday party in April, they would have met. If Justin had stayed even fifteen minutes longer at Esmee the other night, he would have recognized Darcy when she walked in.

  How many other times had they circled so close? Would the intensity of their response to each other have been the same under different circumstances, and without the anonymity?

  Darcy Clark. Adrenaline propelled him to his feet, sent him pacing. He knew who she was. He knew where to find her. He could see her again, relieve himself of the burden of wondering what might have been. Even though he could be putting his balls in jeopardy—as Steve, a fairly disgusting friend of Kim’s brother, would have phrased it—Troy was going to take that chance.

  Because he didn’t think he’d be able to get the fantasy to stop tortur
ing him any other way.

  MARIE WALKED THROUGH ROOTS restaurant and down the stairs to the Cellar. Not her usual Friday-evening date with Quinn, but Darcy had called earlier and asked to meet her here tonight, her regular Monday off from the restaurant. Marie was relieved. It wasn’t likely Darcy had arranged a public meeting at Marie’s favorite haunt in order to scream at her again. Face-to-face they’d be able to work things out. Darcy would apologize for yelling last Saturday, then Marie would apologize for stepping over the line—except that in sending the email to Troy, she’d taken yet another step, and frankly, she wasn’t averse to going further if necessary.

  Maybe Quinn was right and she was overdoing the meddling, but instinct told her she was using justifiable means to reach a desirable and inevitable end.

  She rounded the bottom step and saw Darcy right away, looking radiant as usual in a low-cut white top under a teal sweater. She was laughing, leaning her dark head intimately toward an instantly familiar man, who was also laughing and leaning his dark head intimately toward her.

  Quinn, halfway through a martini. Darcy, halfway through hers.

  Marie’s heart froze in her chest. They’d been there awhile? Together?

  Quinn was speaking now, reaching to touch Darcy’s forearm. She tipped her head to one side, listening raptly, her long, lovely throat exposed, her lush cleavage exposed.

  Marie’s heart: brutally exposed. How often had she told herself that Quinn and Darcy would make a perfect couple? And there they were, having found each other without her help, two strong, tall head-turners with striking personalities. Quinn was twelve years older, but relationships could go along nicely with that age difference, and Darcy was in many ways an old soul. She’d hinted here and there that her childhood and early adulthood were difficult, which could force a kid to mature early. Quinn was going to find someone sooner or later; he’d already admitted he was looking for something more serious than his usual array of casual flings.

  Steady, Marie. Darcy wasn’t Quinn’s date for dinner and dancing this Friday.

  Forcing herself to relax, she marched forward, determined to act as naturally as possible to prove to Quinn, and maybe to herself, that she could handle this. “Hello, there.”

  Quinn turned, ditto Darcy. Either they had nothing to feel guilty about or neither saw her as any type of threat, because they both broadcasted genuine welcome.

  “I bumped into someone you know, Marie.” Quinn gave his killer smile to Darcy, who beamed back. “It’s great to meet one of your friends.”

  Marie would just bet.

  “It’s great that my friends are meeting each other.” She congratulated herself for not sounding as if she were speaking through clenched teeth.

  “Join us.” Quinn indicated the seat on the other side of Darcy instead of the one next to him.

  Not a problem. Everything was cool.

  “Sit, Marie.” Darcy got down from her stool. “I’m headed to the ladies’ room. Back in a second.”

  Marie climbed onto the seat Quinn chose for her, determined to be cheerful and business-as-usual. “How are things? The situation at work resolved?”

  He looked blank. Had Darcy erased his brain? She could undoubtedly do that to a lot of men. “The situation?”

  “You said there was something you’d put a lot of effort into that wasn’t working out.”

  “Ah.” He rubbed his hand thoughtfully over his chin. “I remember now. Yeah, I think there still might be hope.”

  “Okay. Well. That’s good.” She hated that he seemed awkward talking about anything with her. That was a first.

  And speaking of awkward firsts, they spent the next half minute in excruciating silence, shifting on their seats, glancing around.

  To hell with business as usual, Marie would tackle him directly. “I guess you found out why I wanted to match you up with Darcy.”

  He nodded. “You were right. She is beautiful, and does seem strong and intelligent.”

  And thin and sexy and her legs went on for miles.

  “Am I interrupting?” To her horror, she sounded like a bitter she-goat, and had to clear her throat. “Do you want me to come back later?”

  “Yeah, Marie, that would be good.” He nodded solemnly. “Because you’re really cramping my style here.”

  Marie swallowed down panic, even suspecting he was joking. “I don’t think you should go home with her.”

  “Ah, you don’t.” He signaled Joe the bartender, who’d made it over to their part of the crowd. “Marie, what’ll you have?”

  She had no brain to decide with. “What you’re having.”

  “A martini for the lady tonight, Joe. And an order of chicken wings with the soy-tarragon sauce. Do you want anything to eat, Marie?”

  She shook her head, stomach churning too hard for food. Too hard for alcohol, too, but she was going to need it.

  “Just the wings, Joe.” He turned to Marie, looking half amused, half annoyed. “So you don’t think I should try to get Darcy into the sack.”

  Marie fidgeted, guiltily aware that it was none of her business whom he slept with, and that she had an ulterior motive for stopping him. “She’s…well, I’m trying to set her up with Troy. I think there’s something there. And if you— I don’t know, maybe the two of you should try. But my gut tells me she really likes him.”

  “Hmm.” He raised his martini contemplatively. Marie even thought the furrow between his eyebrows was sexy. She was hopeless. “There’s a problem.”

  With giving up his chance at Darcy? “What’s that?”

  “You’re cheating me out of a night of passion.”

  She couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the idea of him writhing around in bed with her friend. Nameless bimbos Marie never had to see were bad enough. “You can’t manage this one little disappointment?”

  “No, this is serious business.” Except he was looking less and less serious. His features were having a hard time staying in a frown, and his eyes were dancing. “I think a little compensation is in order.”

  “You— What do you mean?” Marie clutched the drink Joe set down in front of her.

  “I mean you’ll owe me for the lost night of ecstasy. I’ll expect you to make it up to me.”

  Marie stopped breathing. The bar grew dim around her. All she could focus on was Quinn’s handsome face, his eyes dark with amusement…and something else?

  “I see.” Her voice came out a hoarse croak. “Well, that sounds entirely…unreasonable.”

  “I’m joking, Marie.”

  “I know. I knew that.” She forced a laugh, gulped her martini and barely got the swallow down, saving herself from repeated choking humiliation, thank God. Unfortunately, her most female parts hadn’t caught up to the ha-ha-funny aspect of his trick and were still heated and hopeful. Would she never learn?

  “However, I’m not above taking advantage and insisting you come to Chicago with me to have dinner and see a show. One of my favorite little theaters is doing a revival of The Sound of Music. I remember you saying you loved that musical.”

  Chicago. With Quinn. Another invitation, another whole evening in his company. This one would consist of a two-hour drive. Dinner. A show. Then the drive back in the intimacy of the wee hours. Or would they stay over somewhere? She couldn’t let herself think that far. “I’d love it.”

  “Good.” He pulled out his iPhone. “How about Saturday the twelfth?”

  Marie pulled out hers, hands shaking so that she was barely able to manipulate the machine. “Um. Yes. I’m free. That sounds great.”

  “Good. I’ll get us tickets and dinner reservations.” He put his phone away, as calm and sane as she was rattled and neurotic. As if he did this every day with different women, and Marie was simply up next. Except she didn’t think he did this with other women. “I’m looking forward to it, Marie.”

  “Same here. Yes. Me, too. Thank you.” She managed a smile; he smiled back easily. Oh, she wished she could get used to this.
>
  “So you still think I was trying to get Darcy to sleep with me?”

  “Weren’t you?”

  “Nope.” He reached across Darcy’s empty seat and touched her shoulder. “I’m in recovery from one-night-stands, remember?”

  “Yes. But Darcy is…” Marie blinked and looked away from Quinn’s mesmerizing gaze, trying to get her brain back on track. Something was nagging her subconscious, and she needed to stop and pay attention. What was it? Something about Darcy. And Troy. And Quinn? Matchmaking…Quinn wanting Darcy…Troy wanting Darcy…

  Yes. There it was. Brilliant. She turned to Quinn, alight with excitement. “I have an idea.”

  “Oh, no.” He let his head drop onto his hand, rubbed his forehead ruefully. “I know that look. The schemer is at it again.”

  “Will you help me?”

  He groaned. “Can’t you leave true love to run its natural, never-smooth course?”

  “Its natural course would be for Darcy to run like hell from something that could be really good for her.”

  “And this is your responsibility why?”

  “Because I care about her, and I want her to be happy. Weren’t you going to match me up with someone for the same reason?”

  “I was.” He shook his head, eyes closed, but when he opened them again he was grinning. “I don’t think there’s another woman on earth I’d do this for, but okay, Marie. What part do I play in your soap opera?”

  The only woman he’d do this for? Marie grinned back at him; he held her eyes and her smile, and for one beautiful second, she felt them connect on a level deeper than friendship, and felt the possibility, the real and wonderful possibility of her wildest dream coming true. Even with only that much of it fulfilled, she could cheerfully die from happiness right there.

  But not until she filled Quinn in on her plan.

  DARCY CAME BACK FROM THE bathroom, surprised to find Quinn at the bar alone. She glanced around; no sign of her friend. “Where’s Marie?”

  “She had an office crisis she had to take care of. Said if she didn’t make it back tonight, she’d call you at home.”