Guilty Pleasures (2 page)

“Do I come by each evening?”

“Yes, you know you do.”

“Maybe I live on one of these boats.”

“Do you?”

Triumph shouldn’t be what he felt, but he did. She’d noticed him—noticed what time he came, and how often. “I live on a boat. But it’s in front of my partner’s house.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Farther up the shore. I come in the evening because I like it here.”

“Why?”

“I just told you why.”

She crossed her arms. “No you didn’t. The whole waterfront is lovely. But you always come right here.” She pointed downward and crossed her arms again.

Not a big woman in any respect, but nice, very nice. Keeping his eyes above her breasts wasn’t easy. “Why do you come here every evening?” he asked.

“Because
…
” Pink swept along her cheekbones, and the soft skin of her neck. “It’s calm. Quiet. I like that.”

“Calm and quiet on this dock rather than, say, that one?” He pointed south, then north. “Or that one?”

“I like this one.”

“Know what I think?” Dusty always came out with the truth, swo
re he could live with letting th
e chips fall where they might. “I think you come here because I do. I think you come out here each evening hoping to see me.”

Her lips formed a silent, Oh!

Smugness didn’t suit a man. Nasty felt smug anyway. “You walked out here tonight expecting to see me. You were looking for me when
I
came up behind you.”

She planted her feet in her flat brown sandals and her face worked through one expression after another. “Crumb! Well, I’ve never met a man with so much—
ego.
I certainly don’t come out here to look for you. We just happen to come at the same time, that’s all. It doesn’t mean a thing. Not to me.”

He wouldn’t remark on
crumb
as an expletive—yet. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.” Another silent, Oh! “Crumb! I can’t believe it. You sashay up here, accuse me of taking walks because I want to see you, then ask me how old I am.”

Nasty shifted Seven to his other shoulder and unzipped his wetsuit to the waist. Despite the wind, he was feeling increasingly hot.

Polly Crow looked at his chest.

“Sashay, huh? No one ever accused me of sashaying before. Sounds cute.”

“There’s nothing cute about you,” she told him, glancing away, then back at his chest. “Nothing.”

He’d swear she was responding to him. “Good. Cute wouldn’t suit me.” Maybe his thoughts were wishful, but he doubted it. “You’re cute.”

“You’re pushy. How old are you?”

“Fair enough. Thirty-six. Is that too old?”

“Too old for what?”

“For you.”

Polly Crow made a lot of silent Oh’s!

“You watch me, Polly Crow. You come out here and watch me in the dinghy almost every night.”

“Crumb!” Again expressions washed over her features. “You know my name.”

“Don’t you think everyone in Kirkland knows your name?”

“No.”

He spread the fingers of his right hand on his chest, inside
the wet suit. “You’re on TV every afternoon. Sing the song for me.”

An amazed frown was all he got.

“Come on.
Everybody needs somebody. Everybody is somebody. Somebody needs everybody.
Sing it for
me.”

“No.” She took a step backward. Her fascination with his chest was undeniable. “Are you telling me you watch
Polly’s Place?
In the afternoon? A children’s program?”

“Yep, yep, and yep. Quite often.”

“Then you come over here to watch me in person.”

“I come over here.”

“Grown men don’t make a habit of watching children’s programs in the afternoon—probably almost never.”

“Lots of grown men would if they knew they’d see you.” He’d said it. No taking back the words. “You do hope to see me when you come here, don’t you?”

Another pink
fl
ush rose up her neck. She spun away and gave a startled yelp as a scatter of seagulls came in for a landing.

“Don’t you?” Nasty persisted. “I come to see you, and you come to see me.”

Their heads jerking, the gulls strutted across the decking. Seven spared them a glare but knew better than to take chase. “Hey,” Ferrito said softly. “I have scared you. Damn, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. Would you like to see my boat?”

Polly turned to face him again. “You’ve got to be kidding. Would I like to see your boat? I guess it’s more original than etchings.”

He doubted she’d laugh if he told her he had some etchings on the boat. “Let me take you out in the dinghy, then. Peaceful out there.”

“You think I’m going to get into a little rubber boat with a man I don’t know?”

Smiling didn’t come easily, never had, but he managed. “You might. Never any harm in asking.”

“No, thank you.”

“I’m good with boats. Safe. I’ll take care of you.”

Where there’d been a blush, pallor seeped in. “I don’t need taking care of—-by anyone.”

This was not going well.

She said, “I can keep myself safe.” But she didn’t try to leave. “What do you think of answering machines?”

A flurry of activity passed between the gulls, and they took off, crying and swooping, their wings battering the air.

“Did you ask me what I think of answering machines?”

“Simple enough question.”

“Okay. I think answering machines are great.”

“Because you can leave messages you’d be afraid to give in person?”

He couldn’t begin to guess where this was going. “Because they make it possible to make sure you don’t miss a call. And you don’t have to be tethered to the damn phone all the time.”

“I’ve got to get back.”

“No you don’t. You’re through for the day.”

Her hand went to her throat. “You don’t know that?”

“Sure I do. When you leave here you’ll go to your condo. Alone. Your boy’s not with you at the moment.”

A sharp breath made a scraping sound in her throat. “Good night.”

Automatically, Nasty stepped aside. “Yeah, sure.”

When she drew level, she paused, and whispered, “Leave me alone, please. I haven’t done anything to you.”

By the time he rallied she was several yards away. He caught up easily. “Polly? Look, if I upset you, I’m sorry. Of course you haven’t done anything to me. I thought it was time we talked. Nothing more complicated than that.”

She stopped and stared toward the sky. “Time we talked? Now why on earth would it be time we talked?”

“I put that badly. I guess I haven’t had a whole lot of practice at this”—he spread his arms—“and before you ask me
what ‘this’ is, I mean coming on to women without at least asking them to dance or buying them a drink first.”

“Charming,” she said through her teeth. There was fire in those blue eyes now. “If some woman is stupid enough to dance with you, or let you buy her a drink, you think you can
come on
to her.”

“Geez, not exactly. I mean, not—”

“She’s supposed to understand you expect sex? Men like you are a menace.”

“I do not—”

“Well, you and I haven’t danced, and you haven’t bought me a drink.”

“Would you like a drink?” He groaned aloud.

Polly wrinkled her nose. “That’s disgusting.”

“You looked at my chest.”

She covered her mouth.

He should have stayed in the dinghy. “I mean, I think you find me attractive, too. I think I turn you
…”
Great going, Ferrito.
“We may have a mutual appeal.
”

“You are absolutely unbelievable. And if you’re doing what I think you’re doing to me, stop it. I don’t have any proof yet, but I’ll get it.”

He gaped at her.

“Oh, I know about scrambling numbers for anonymity, but sooner or later you’ll make a mistake and get caught.”

“Er, sure. Anything you say.” Most people might be wholly confused by what she said. Nasty also knew about scrambling numbers—and a great many other covert procedures. “Polly, we’ve gotten off to a bad start.”

Her laugh cut him. “We haven’t started, period!” With that, she set off at a brisk pace.

Nasty followed. “I guess I’ve said everything wrong. Will you give me another chance? Can I see you again?”

“Not if I see you first.”

He strode along beside her. “That’s a
cliché
.”

“You ought to know. It’s about the only one I haven’t heard
you use.” She glanced at his face, then down. Most people glanced down when they met him. They couldn’t help reacting to his limp.

“If you knew me, you’d like me.”

“I’d hate you. I already do.”

The venom in her tone stopped him, but only for an instant. He fell into step as she turned to walk along another of the bobbing docks. “All I can say is sorry, again. I’ll go away now.”

“Good.”

“You’re very beautiful, you know.”

When she looked sideways at him he could swear there were tears in her eyes. She said, “You just told me you were going away.”

“I am. I wanted to tell you how beautiful you are, though.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell my husband you said so.”

“You don’t have a husband.”

“Who are you?” Her voice rose. “Who
are
you?”

“Ferrito,” he said quietly. “Nasty Ferrito. Nasty to my friends.”

This time her voice was faint. “Nasty?”

“You can call me Nasty.”

“Nasty?”

“Sure. And don’t ask me why that’s my name because I don’t discuss it.” He didn’t even think about it. “Dusty Miller and
I
run Room Below. It’s a dive shop. We’re trustworthy people. I’m trustworthy.”

A woman in red climbed from a motor cruiser and set off toward land. The flash of relief on Polly’s face was impossible to miss. “You really are afraid of me, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Good night,
Nasty.”

“Aren’t you? Doesn’t matter. I’ll find out why.”

“You’ll leave me alone.” Trotting now, Polly followed the woman.

“If you’re scared, it isn’t because of me. Let me help you.”

“No!” She started to run.

“Lock your doors, Polly.” Jesus Christ, she was terrified. Something had crawled inside her skull and ripped up her nerves. He’d just happened along when she was ready to break. “Do you hear me? Lock yourself in.”

Her strides lengthened, but he kept the same distance between them with no effort.

As she reached the grass verge at the shore end of the docks, Polly paused and looked back at him. Her eyes were dry but wild.

“It’s okay,” he told her. “Talk to me. Let me help you. Tell me what you need, and I’ll make sure you get it.”

She didn’t answer, but sped away once more.

Nasty threw up his hands and said, “Okay, you win. For now. But remember to lock those doors. A lovely woman alone is always vulnerable.”

He let her leave him behind.

So he wasn’t smooth. Maybe he’d handled things badly even. But not badly enough to warrant her behavior. She was scared shitless about something, and he wasn’t through asking what it was. Next time he’d just have to be more forceful.

Yeah, next time he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

When she ran, her long, white skirts flipped up around her knees. Even at a distance he noted how pretty her legs were. She had narrow feet. Nasty Ferrito was a foot man on occasion. Like now. He’d like to kiss Polly Crow’s feet. He’d start with the toes, spend a lot of time on her instep, go slow, very slow— work his way up.

Bless the wet suit.

“
H
ello, Pretty Polly Put the Kettle On.”

The light on the answering machine still flashed, but a click came, then a buzz.

Polly felt so sick she had to sit down. That was it, the whole message. She pushed strands of hair from her forehead and felt moisture. She was sweating, but she’d been sweating since
she left the hard-muscled, cold-eyed diver behind on the waterfront
. “…
remember to lock those doors. A lovely woman alone is always vulnerable.”

Another click.

“Polly, where are you? It’s your favorite supermodel sister. I’m so sick of being an
object,
my love. All these pushy people
pawing
me. Can we meet? Puhleeze? Call me.”

Fabiola. Polly smiled with relief at the sound of her twin’s blessedly familiar voice and reached for the phone.