Best Laid Plans (5 page)

A crimson spotlight centered against
the voluptuous emerald stage curtains and focused on what Lucas could only
blinkingly classify as a
vision
. Ornate Reed & Barton silver
clattered against chaste Mikasa bowls. Appetites were piqued, but eyes had
turned greedier than stomachs.

Cayenne and red pepper had stimulated
palates, but Amanda Wyatt enthralled the diners even more than the Creole haute
cuisine. Sharp and exciting to the mind and senses was this tall, lithe, wholly
feminine addition to the menu.

Amanda floated down the lengthy
runway with provocative buoyancy. Her well-modulated voice caressed ears via a
handheld wireless microphone as she welcomed one and all to the Cancer
Society's spring gala: "A Taste of Elegance."

Elegance. Lucas shook his head, his
dark gaze riveted on Amanda. What an inadequate word. Panache. Class. Charm.
Magic. The thesaurus would fail in its duties at this moment. Like the
definition of Creole, Amanda Wyatt reflected the spice, the delicacy and the
skill native to New Orleans.

Along with five hundred other
entranced listeners, Lucas followed her honeyed words of instruction and
directed his attention to the celebration of a splendid figure swathed in a
Givenchy creation. The dramatic lipstick-red silk sheath snaked around womanly
accouterments, swirled to the floor and set hearts palpitating with its high
voltage.

The extravagant jacquard fourreau was
an exciting lure suspended from supple shoulders by thin straps. Clinging to
and defining Amanda's full bosom, an impertinent black silk rose accentuating
her seductive cleavage. Then, the material wrapped slim hips before ruffling in
a bustle-like pouf against a rounded derrière.

Lucas and the other guests were
informed that the gown she was wearing was a copy of one that had been created
for Audrey Hepburn by Hubert de Givenchy in the fifties. Somehow Lucas felt the
accomplished actress could hardly have done this masterpiece as much justice as
its present occupant.

Amanda's makeup and decidedly
outrageous manner complemented the wicked nighttime glamour created by the
French couture and paraphrased the spice-rich appetizer. Kohl shadow added
intrigue to those quartz irises that flashed bolts of coquettish enticement
toward the captivated house. Her scarlet-tinted lips transformed innocent
words into double-entendres that teased and titillated rather than offended.
The chestnut curls that haloed in a precise flourish managed to generate the
impression that she had just tumbled off a pillow after an erotic coupling.

Despite the formal elegance of her
gown, there was nothing tame about Amanda's performance. Lucas observed the
effect it had on his nine tablemates. The women responded not with catty,
jealous remarks but with admiration-tinged envy. He didn't doubt each woman was
fantasizing that it was she on that stage, commanding attention and impromptu
applause.

The men, despite their age and
sartorial, tuxedoed splendor, seemed overwhelmed by a case of locker-room
adolescent puberty. Lucas found he was no exception. The saucy, sassy,
seductive lady in red struck a libidinous chord in every man in the room.

Perhaps it was the way Amanda's long
fingers caressed and stroked the microphone and the close proximity of her
vivid mouth to its bulbous head. The phallic-symbolic electronic amplifier
conjured a most provocative image. Hormones collided. Primitive biological
urges made inertia quite painful.

His own emotions in a sudden state of
bedevilment, Lucas hastily tried to divert himself by redirecting his attention
to the hearty provincial soup that was studded with tender chicken cubes and
succulent oysters. But the savory composition was only a momentary diversion
from his thoughts of Amanda.

A few hours ago, Lucas had marveled
at the physical changes two years had made. Now he discovered a more complex
individual, who left him even more astounded and confused. From where had this
Amanda Wyatt sprung?

Lucas had thought he was familiar
with every facet of her personality. But this was an Amanda he had yet to
discover. Again, the stage attracted his attention. His eyes stalked the
laughing, beguiling female strutting on the runway. This image didn't jibe with
his memories in which Amanda shared the same status as his two younger sisters.

This teasing provocation was erotic
and sensual. Lucas could feel himself responding to her earthiness in a resonant
overture of his own. Shifting uncomfortably against the padded dining seat, he
chided himself for the purely sexual reaction. Hadn't he exhausted himself last
night with Kitty Byrnes?

That's it
. Lucas toyed with his array of
silverware,
concentrate on Kitty
. In the six weeks he had known her
their rapid acceleration into physical intimacy had surprised him, but Kitty
was a self-proclaimed
new woman
. Giddy over her monetarily surging
career and bursting with the most liberated outward behavior, her unabashed
sexuality was a personal declaration of independence.

A reminiscent smile curved Lucas'
lips. Kitty was an exceptional lover - active, inventive, uninhibited and
totally committed to mutual pleasure. Last night, having negotiated a six-figure
real estate transaction, she had been on a natural high and he had reaped the
rewards.

It had been an evening with Pol Roger
bubbling in tulip-shaped Fostoria, Black Diamond steaks and total relaxation,
courtesy of a Jacuzzi built for two. They had massaged each other with fragrant
oil and shared the sunlamp that gave Kitty's petite anatomy a St. Tropez tan
twelve months a year. When inner heat threatened to short-circuit the infrared
lamp, they gravitated to her canopied four-poster.

Lucas' thumb and forefinger smoothed
the gold linen napkin that protected his evening jacket. The lustrous flaxen
material duplicated Kitty's soft, pale straw-colored sweep of hair. The
sensitive skin on his inner thigh tingled against the remembered teasing silkiness
of her sauna-dampened tresses.

Twitching with embarrassed
discomfort, Lucas hurriedly forfeited the rest of the spicy gumbo. "Damn
oysters," came his muttered oath. Had this bewitching Amanda arranged that
aphrodisiac oysters be part of the menu? He diligently searched for some
non-erotic focal point.

His gaze turned skyward to the
white-lace gazebo that cocooned his table. But the latticework only reminded
him of the folksy shawl like canopy over Kitty's bed. Lucas found his
carbonated blood racing like quicksilver and his body hardening against an
invisible mouth, tongue and hands that coaxed and urged.

But it wasn't Kitty Byrnes' sapphire
eyes and delicate, patrician face that swam into focus. The eyes that seared
Lucas' brain were almond-shaped and as mysterious as fog; the face fuller, with
lips infinitely more inviting.

Nor did he imagine Kitty's small,
firm breasts against the dark, curly hair of his thighs, moving to titillate
his flat stomach and chest all the while working ever closer to his anxious
mouth. The sleekly graceful feline that stealthily consumed his naked length
with her own was - Amanda. It was she who possessed his engorged cock,
ensnaring it within her tight wet core and absorbing his very essence.

"Excuse me, sir." The
waiter's low whisper made Lucas jump. The steward was quick, easily maneuvering
the half-full soup bowl from the suddenly hazardous environment. Lucas gulped a
self-conscious mouthful of cold water; his tongue procured a small ice cube
that he hoped would send continued waves of common sense through his system.
Chastising himself for his thoughts, he concentrated on the
old
Amanda.
His buddy. His pal. That fiercely independent girl who needed free reign.

Their relationship has been one of
growth and injury and repair and mutual aid. It had always been an intimate
friendship, but the intimacy was one of minds, not the flesh.

Why then were his thoughts drifting
toward the latter? Lucas picked up his fork, twisting the silver to catch the
candlelight. If he didn't put his own feelings in proper perspective his
initial plan of action would be lost. Suddenly he wanted to win with a
vengeance.

The salad vinaigrette proved tart and
crisp - the perfect remedy for the aphrodisiacal appetizer. Amanda had retired
to safety behind the speaker's podium and was introducing the first collection.
Sportswear-clad models whirled and twisted to the dulcet tones of Dave Brubeck.

Between bits of fresh spinach and
crunchy vegetables, Lucas viewed the stylish parade with haunted eyes. Eating, drinking
and applauding became rote. The ballroom, the people, the music drifted into
hazy oblivion, replaced with a twelve-year-old memory that took on
three-dimensional clarity.

Women were still on parade but they
had teenage faces, their long, straight hair was parted in the middle and
pressed against acne-spattered cheeks. Baggy shirts and jeans that wouldn't
bend emphasized a wide range of body shapes: some Twiggy-thin, others harboring
high-school baby fat.

"Who'd UNIVAC pick for you,
Crosse?" Ben Collins' deep baritone rang alive in his ear.

"A. J. Wyatt from Greensboro,
North Carolina." Lucas' voice was pure magnolia and mint julep. His
southern accent got the intended laugh. "What the hell, maybe this good
ole boy will fill the vacancy on the freshman basketball team."

Ben's lanky frame pressed against the
concrete auditorium wall. He shook his head at the antlike crowd of confused
freshman arrivals. "I don't think Herschel Wyland sounds like the sports
type," he said and sighed, folding his green-and-white computer printout
into an airplane. The paper craft made a perfect loop before crashing against
his sneaker.

They spent the next few minutes
dissecting and rating the new coeds when Herschel stumbled toward them. He was
just what Ben had predicted: a timid, squeaky-voiced youth from the farm belt
who viewed his first year at New York University with wide-eyed wonder. Lucas
helped Ben to calm and orient his freshman "buddy." The senior
program was designed to prevent new arrivals from getting lost among the thirty
thousand students who inhabited the sprawling campus.

"One of you named Crosse?"

The unmistakable female voice that
interrupted meant the basketball coach was down one player, although the leggy,
coltish figure that focused stormy eyes on a level with Lucas' own would have
done the team some good.

"Wyatt, A. J. - Amanda,"
the first name was reluctantly offered, as was the yellow registration card.
"I didn't expect a babysitter. How long?"

Lucas resisted the impulse to yank
the copper-brown braid that hung over one shoulder. "The whole year."
His vexed gaze shifted to Ben's grinning face. Herschel was going to be a piece
of cake compared to his buddy. "Just think of me as a replacement for your
brother."

"I'm an only child."

It figures! Lucas gave an inward
grimace and watched Amanda tumble a blue knapsack off her back. She pulled a
perspiration-soaked madras shirt free of her khaki slacks. "Aren't you a
little old to still be on campus?" Amanda pointedly assessed his face, making
him shift in discomfort.

He didn't like her superior attitude.
It made
him
feel like the freshman. "Uncle Sam borrowed me for few
years." Lucas locked his thumbs into the empty belt loops on his denim
cutoffs. "Want to see my shrapnel scars?" He waited for her face to
burn.

"Why don't we save the
show-and-tell for a rainy day," she'd returned, totally nonplussed.
"I've had a long, hot bus trip and I want to see my dorm."

When he reached for her rucksack,
Lucas found that a feminine hand had already claimed the padded strap.
"Don't tell me you're one of those butch bra-burners?" His anger was
rapidly depleting his patience.

Amanda blinked, then laughed, even,
white teeth more pronounced against a late-summer, biscuit-tanned complexion.
When she spoke her tone had softened. "It took me too long to fill a B
cup." She paused, stepping to one side. "I'm leaving the heavy stuff
for you, buddy." His muffled grunt at the size of her red steamer trunk
elicited another chuckle.

The trunk was heaved over broad
shoulders, and Lucas led the way across Washington Square Park to the
designated dorm. "You are not the usual twittering, uncertain
freshman."

"I'm an Army brat."

"That says it all, kid,"
but in his mind he exhaled a pent-up breath. Amanda Wyatt was calm, cool and
unflappable. Better tough than sniveling.

"I've seen latrines with more
promise than this." She shook her head at the single room with its fresh
coat of putty-colored paint. "Well, I've only got two years to live in
this cell." Plunking herself on the window seat, Amanda stared at the tiny
room.

"Two years?" Lucas dropped
the trunk on the narrow, unmade cot. "What's your major?"

"You're looking at the next
Chanel or Schiaparelli," returned a proud voice.

"Music?"

A disgusted groan assaulted his ears.
Amanda stalked across the room, grabbed his shoulders and peered into his eyes.
"Are you on a Mary Jane cloud?"

Lucas freed one eyelid from her
fingertips. "I don't drink more than two beers on the weekend but I'm
beginning to wonder about you."