Big Guns Out of Uniform (15 page)

Nick was dumbstruck. Delia did a good Newman impression, he'd give her that. But he was still aggravated as hell. “Sugar,” he said, looking her straight in the eye, “I'm a lot of things, but dumb I'm not. And I hate to break it to you, but that wallful of degrees you've probably got hanging in an office someplace can't tell you shit about real life—and they can tell you even less about good sex.”

“Oh, wait! I get it!” Delia sat back down in her chair and shoved her hands into her hair. “This is, like, some sort of challenge for you, isn't it? You know, a sort of ‘I did Dr. Delia' bragging-rights kind of thing?”

Softly Nick cursed, the f-word this time, and headed for his tool chest. “Okay, darlin', that's it,” he said, yanking out a drawer to rummage for his filter wrench. “I deeply apologize if I've insulted you. Now, I'm fixing to crawl under that Volvo and drain the crankcase. And it won't be a pretty sight when I finish. So if you'd excuse me, I'd be real grateful.”

He heard the cane seat in his old chair squeak as she rose. But he was shocked when he felt her cool hand touch his shoulder. “Nick, I…”

Nick decided to make it easy on her. He'd been insane to hit on her so hard anyway. He turned, forcing her hand to drop. “Look, Delia, I was just teasing,” he said. “It was just a flirtation—a hot one—and I was enjoying it, and I let it get out of hand. Which was easy, because you're pretty
and
you're smart—which isn't all that easy to find in the same woman, you know.”

Delia's gaze shifted to the old Triumph. “Thanks. I guess.”

Nick forced his most neighborly smile. “Now, honest to God, honey, I have got to pull that oil filter off,” he said. “So go on home, okay? Thanks for the coffee.”

Delia was rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if she were cold, but Nick knew that wasn't it. “You're sure you don't mind?”

Nick laughed, and reached up to lift his old wooden creeper off its wall hook. “I didn't mind yesterday,” he said. “And nothing has changed. Sorry I kissed you.”

Delia smiled, and started from the shed. “Well, I'm guilty, too,” she admitted, pausing to run a hand over Tiger Lily. “So, anyway, you let me know if I need to buy some belts or parts or—or whatever, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “And, Delia?”

She turned around, her expression expectant. “Yes?”

Nick rolled the creeper toward the Volvo with the toe of his boot. “I could really use the diagram for this fuse box,” he said. “I looked through the glove box, and
nada.
Do you have the owner's manual?”

Delia bit her lip. “It used to be in there, but Neville probably filed it,” she said. “He filed everything, right down to those little warranty cards that come with toasters. But I'll find it. I'll look this afternoon.”

Nick eyed her narrowly for a moment. “That'd be great,” he said. “But can I just mention a couple of things before you go, Delia?
Owner's manuals go in glove boxes.
You knew that, right? So don't let a dumb shit like Neville tell you otherwise—about anything.”

“Fine advice, but it would've been a lot more helpful five years ago.” Delia grinned. “So, what was that other thing?”

It was the grin that got him. Nick swallowed hard. “The other thing is, I quit work at sundown,” he said, jerking his head toward his back porch. “Then I'm going to swim laps in that pool up there until it gets pitch dark. And after that, I'm getting in my hot tub. Naked, Delia. So if you somehow manage to change your mind about fooling around with me—or even if you'd just like a nice soak—you'd sure be welcome. Otherwise, I'd appreciate it if you didn't turn your back floodlights on tonight. Being as the pines are gone, and all. Bud Basham might not appreciate the view.”

Delia smiled and turned to go. “I'll remember that,” she said, then stopped again. “Oh, and Nick? I was just curious…”

“Yep?”

Delia tilted her head to one side. “If you don't use tobacco,” she said, “what's that big, silvery pouch poking out of the back pocket of your jeans?”

Nick blanked out for a moment, then remembered. “Oh, right,” he said, fishing back into his pocket. “That'd be the really huge condom I keep around, just in case I get lucky. Wanna see?”

Delia hesitated. “Seriously, Nick.”

Tiger Lily, too, seemed curious. She stood up on the workbench and stared fixedly at Nick's backside.

“Seriously?” Nick extracted the package. “Cat treats. Tartar-control salmon. Want one?”

F
rom the seclusion of her upstairs bedroom, Delia watched Nick work on her car for the rest of the afternoon. Oh, she didn't
watch
him, exactly. Not like some puppy with its nose pressed to the window. But the window drew her nonetheless. And Nick Woodruff disrupted her thoughts for the rest of the day. His butt sticking out of the front end of her Volvo was particularly unhelpful.

In between watching Nick's hindquarters, however, Delia found time to call Readi-Steam Carpet Cleaners, schedule a crew of professional window washers, and start dumping out closets like a fiend. Her divorce had been final for three months, Neville had been remarried for two, and it was time—dear God, was it time—for Delia to move on. If a blatant offer of casual sex from a near stranger could tempt her past the point of all logic, then she really needed to get a life.

Not that she'd been holding up things on Neville's account. No, the sad truth was, she hadn't missed him. She'd merely been enraged that after convincing her they
had
to have this house, he'd lived in it less than a year. Then he'd met Alicia, one of his wealthy mammo-plasty patients. Apparently, Alicia's new boobs had been a huge—no pun intended—success, because Neville vanished six weeks after the sutures came out, leaving a neatly typed note of apology and most of his high-end shit behind. And leaving Delia with six months of speaking engagements and an incomplete manuscript due on her editor's desk.

But that was then,
Delia reminded herself.
And Nick Woodruff—whether I want him or not—is now.

Thus encouraged, by late afternoon, she'd managed to haul six huge boxes of Neville's junk down to the garage and dump it near his thirty-thousand-dollar speedboat, just one step away from Monday's curb pickup. And that damned boat was headed to the curb next, Delia decided, if he didn't get his ass up here to haul it out of her garage. Feeling empowered, she marched back into the kitchen, dialed his office, and left him a voice mail to just that effect.

That done, Delia dusted off her hands with a certain amount of pride and decided to reward herself with a hot bubble bath. But on her way back upstairs, the window caught her eyes again—and this time they almost popped out of her head.

Nick Woodruff had taken off his shirt.

Gosh. Oh, God.
Delia slapped one hand across her eyes and forced herself into the bathroom. Ten minutes later she was up to her chin in English lavender, but still wallowing in Nick. Most specifically, she was wallowing in the memories of his kiss, and pretending her interest was…well,
analytical.

Ha! Nick kissed a woman as if she were the only one he'd ever wanted—and as if she were the last one he ever meant to kiss, too. That fine, full mouth of his had been soft and certain, yet far from overpowering. There was no way she could trick herself into believing he'd forced that kiss. And no way she could trick herself into believing she didn't want another one, either.
Dang.

With her toes, Delia snared her drifting sponge, then blew a clump of bubbles off it. Clinically, she mused, one had to marvel at Nick Woodruff's composure, at his absolute certainty that he was sexually desirable. Yet despite the accusation she'd thrown in his face, there hadn't been one ounce of genuine arrogance in him. Just a matter-of-fact acceptance of his sexuality. And of his interest in her. What gave him such confidence? she wondered. Did women just never say
no
to the man?

That was ridiculous!
She
had said no to him. And right now, with night falling fast and her body being teased by warm bubbles, Delia was beginning to think that had been a really dumb thing to do. Almost worse was the fact that, when she had said
no
, the man had simply smiled and shrugged. His self-confidence had been intact, his neighborly demeanor unchanged. He just seemed, heaven help her, like a
real nice guy.

But they all did, didn't they? She, of all people, should know how unwise it was to go with your gut in such a situation. Oh, Nick Woodruff was no sexual deviant—Delia trusted her professional instincts that far—but he might well be the world's worst heartbreaker. And there was no educating a gal about
that
little problem, save the school of hard knocks, and Delia had already flunked out once.

Suddenly something was nagging at her brain. School? Flunking? Records?
Filing?
Still musing, Delia pulled the plug and stood up. Then it hit her.

The owner's manual. Oh, no!
She had promised Nick she would find it! Swiftly, Delia dried her hair, dressed, and dashed downstairs. It was a simple task to find the owner's manual in the study. Neville had made it its own little manila folder, carefully typed out a label, and tucked it neatly behind
V
in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet.

Eager to tell Nick, Delia grabbed the phone book, then flicked a quick glance out the window.

Dark. It was just getting dark. And Nick had big plans for the evening.
I'm going to swim laps,
he'd said.
And after that, I'm getting in my hot tub. Naked.

Oh, dear heaven. It was almost showtime.

Delia couldn't help herself. She bolted back upstairs, cut all the lights, and pressed her nose to the window again. Not like a puppy. Nope, more like a bitch in heat. But no lights shone in Nick's big backyard. Delia couldn't see a thing. Still clutching the phone book and her owner's manual, Delia threw herself on the bed, dug around for the remote, and watched a round of CNN.

How long could you stay in a hot tub anyway? About fifteen minutes? Delia thought she'd seen that posted at a hotel spa someplace. And how long to dress? Eat dinner? Hard to say. So Delia watched another round of CNN—which was strange, considering that all she really needed to do was dial up his number and say,
Hey, Nick, I found that owner's manual.
How big an interruption was that?

To kill time, Delia went back downstairs and uncorked a bottle of cheap Chablis—
real
cheap, on her budget. But she took a little test sip and found it tolerable, so she plucked one of Neville's antique Baccarat goblets out of the breakfront and went back upstairs with the bottle. Delia crawled in bed and grabbed the remote. Surfing through the channels, she caught a rerun of
Leave It to Beaver
—the one where Beaver fakes a school excuse from his mother, her all-time favorite. Oddly enough, it was even funnier when washed down with Chablis.

But soon
Beaver
was over, and impatience got the best of her. At nine sharp Delia rolled over, grabbed the phone, and punched out the number she'd already memorized. He answered in a rough, drowsy voice. “Woodruff.”

“Nick?” she said at once. “I found it. The owner's manual, I mean. Can I drop it by tomorrow?”

There was a long pause, then a sleepy chuckle.
“Mmm,
Dr. Delia,” he rasped. “My radio fantasy voice. Say something else, sugar.”

Delia was taken aback. “Like…what?”

Springs squeaked, as if Nick were shifting his weight on a bed or sofa. “Darlin', who cares?” he whispered. “Read me your grocery list. I know it'll sound good.”

“Well, I…I mostly eat take-out.”

He laughed again, wide awake this time. “Honey, do you always take life this seriously?”

He was teasing her, Delia realized. “Did—did you enjoy your swim?” she managed, feeling like a doofus.

“Naw, that part's a workout,” he said. “For my bad back, remember? But I had a nice soak afterward.”

“Right,” she said, cradling the phone to her cheek. “I remember your mentioning it.”

“Do you, now?” he whispered. “I don't suppose you would say ‘Sorry I missed it,' and make my night, would you?”

Delia fell back into the pillows and exhaled. Damn it, she
had
missed it. “I'll bet it was real nice,” she answered.

“Real nice,” he echoed a little wistfully. “Hey, Dr. Delia, whatcha wearing?”

Delia sat straight up, almost knocking Neville's five-hundred-dollar wineglass off the night table. “What am I
wearing?
What the hell kind of question is that?”

Nick laughed again, the sound flowing over her like warm whiskey. “Come on, sugar, it's a simple one,” he said. “See, it's kind of cold over here, and I'm a little lonely. So just whisper real soft, and it'll be our little secret. Did you take a shower and put on your jammies? Or what?”

“A bath,” Delia said, before she could reason herself out of it. “A bubble bath. With English lavender.”

“Oh, God,” he whispered. “Oh, Dr. Delia, don't tease. English lavender always gets me hot.”

Delia emptied her wineglass in one gulp. “And I put on a T-shirt, not jammies.” She paused, staring at the dregs. “Why, what are you doing?”

He chuckled again. “Making myself go blind, sugar. Now, was that
just
a T-shirt?”

Delia giggled. “Well, no.”

“What, then?”

Delia was flustered, so she grabbed what was left of the Chablis. “Well,” she whispered, pouring. “You
know
.”

“No, I don't have a clue, Doc,” he said. “Come on, now. ‘Sometimes phone sex with someone you trust can be a healthy turn-on.' That's what you told Fred from Framingham, remember? And sweetheart, you must trust me. You left your precious Volvo over here, right?”

“See, now, there's the really scary part.” Delia's voice was very small. “I
do
trust you.”

Nick made a strange, rough sound in the back of his throat. “So answer the question, darlin',” he softly demanded. “Whatcha got on under that T-shirt? Black leather motorcycle pants? A chastity belt? Knickerbockers?
What?”

“God, I don't believe I'm doing this,” said Delia, cradling her forehead in one palm.
“Panties.”

“Bikini or thong?”

“Oh, God.” Delia felt her face growing warm. “Why?”

“'Cause I'm visualizing, Doc,” he whispered, his voice dark and hot.
“Sensual
visualization. See, last week, I thought I was starting to lose interest in sex.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Oh, no, sugar, I'm serious as a heart attack,” he insisted. “Then, remember last Friday? When you told Menopausal Marge from Montreal how to use sensual visualization to—you know, to get herself fired up? Well, you were right, Doc. That shit works. I'm imagining you in your panties right now, and I'm hard enough to hammer nails.”

“Nick.” Delia giggled. “You are
not
menopausal.”

“But it's still working real good for me. So, come on, Delia. Help me out. Describe every inch of your tight, sweet body, baby, and I swear, I'll never tell a soul. But first, let's get back to those panties.”

As if to hide from herself, Delia wriggled under the covers. “Okay,” she finally whispered. “They're hip huggers. Pink ones.”

“Pink,” groaned Nick. “God, Delia, are they the same color pink as your cheeks when you blush? The cheeks on your face now, I'm talking, because honey, I gotta confess, that's about the prettiest shade of pink I've ever laid eyes on. So far.”

“Is…Is it really?”

“Delia, darlin', I get hot just thinking about it.”

She was very quiet for a moment. “Nick, you're weird.”

“Nope,” he insisted. “I'm a normal, healthy male with normal, healthy appetites, burning with a whole morning's worth of thwarted lust from watchin' you in that weird skirt and those ugly shoes. Besides, remember what you told Tricia from Tallahas—”

“God, please do
not
mention my job again,” interjected Delia.

“Why?”

“Because I…I don't find talking about my job very…well,
you know.”
Suddenly Delia of the million-word vocabulary couldn't find the right one.

“Erotic?” His voice slid over her skin like silk. “Is that it, babe?”

“Yes.”

“But if I talk about other things,” he whispered, “you might feel otherwise?”

“Yes. Maybe. Oh, Nick, I don't know!”

“I can work with a
maybe
,” he said reassuringly. “Shoot, just breathe heavily into the phone, darlin'. Given your voice, that'll probably do the trick.”

“Wh-what trick?”

Nick laughed his wicked laugh again. “Oh, Delia, you just don't know what you do to me.”