Hot Ticket (33 page)

When she smiled, her face lit up in an unspoken invitation, the kind that made a man want to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. Josh imagined doing just that, long, slow, and thoroughly.

They sat across a Formica table from each other in a booth by the window, ringed by the aromas of sizzling bacon and fresh hot coffee and burned toast. Two other couples occupied similar booths closer to the counter, where a leather-clad biker type flirted with a waitress who was cleaning dishes. In the background, warbler extraordinaire Shania Twain serenaded them with her hybrid sound from a jukebox in the corner.

Lindy’s appetite was a refreshing sight to behold. The platter of crispy grated spuds the waitress set before her were scattered, covered, chunked, diced, and topped to the umpteenth degree. Josh’s plain BLT looked puny by comparison.

“Are you going to eat your pickles?” she said, eyeballing the small pile of dill slices decorating the edge of his plate.

Josh grinned and shook his head.

“Help yourself.”

Forgoing a fork, she reached across the table as comfortable as you please and picked up the pickles with her fingers.

“What’s so funny?” she said, dabbing the pickle juice off her fingertips with a paper napkin.

“Nothing. It’s just rare I see a woman who can pack it away and isn’t constantly dieting.”

“I burn it, not store it. A couple hours at the gym tomorrow, and this’ll be gone. My mom’s always telling me it’ll catch up to me one day if I don’t watch out. When that day comes, I’ll worry. Until then . . . what can I say? I take after my nephew. I love food.”

“I believe it’s the other way around. You came first, so he takes after you.”

“Whatever.” She grinned and popped a pickle chip in her mouth. “Enough about me. Tell me about Josh Weldon, besides
the football-playing cousin and being instrumental in gaining the financing for the franchise’s move down here.”

“So you did know about that.”

“Not really. We were talking last week at work about the game—I’m service manager at a bank—and your name came up.”

“In a good light, I hope.”

“Nothing but. One of the tellers remembered the articles in the paper when it was back and forth whether Corsetti and that bunch had the clout to bring the franchise to fruition. Obviously, they did. So tell me what I don’t know about you.”

Lindy picked up her fork and continued eating.

“I’m an open book,” Josh said, setting his sandwich back on his plate and spreading his hands, palms up. “What do you want to know? Ask away.”

“Let’s see . . . drives a Hummer . . . travels for business . . . buys season tickets he doesn’t need . . . Are you rich?”

“Filthy.”

“Do you have a vacation home in Aspen?”

“A condo in Vail.”

“Ever been to Africa?”

“North. South. Or Central?”

“All of them.”

“Would it impress you if I said twice?”

Lindy tossed her head back and laughed, a musical sound that was sweet, warm, and promising. With a silly grin on his face, Josh resumed eating his sandwich.

“Your turn,” he said, and wiped breadcrumbs from his hand.

“There’s nothing so grand to tell about me,” Lindy said. “Born and raised here. Went to school here. Work here. Will probably die here. End of story.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. Even I know more about you than that.”

“For instance? What do you think you know?”

“Okay, try this on for size. I know you like kids.”

“No fair. That one was a gimme.”

“You get along well with your family.”

“Most of the time, yes.”

“You have lousy taste in men.”

“God, yes.”

Lindy leaned forward, her arms propped on the tabletop, her head nodding and her eyes shining, focused entirely on Josh, which he was eating up with a spoon.

“You’re crazy and passionate and fun and good and kind,” Josh continued.

“Oh, you’re good,” Lindy said, grinning. “Tell me more, I’m listening.”

“And I want to wake up in the morning and see you lying in bed beside me.”

A fat second later, Lindy’s fork clattered to her half-finished plate. She protested mildly and then sat back.

“Have you been practicing that?”

Maybe he came on too strong?

Josh wiped his mouth with his napkin and said, “As a matter of fact, no. What I really wanted to say is that I want to take you home and have hot, sweaty, acrobatic, wake-up-the-neighbors sex with you. But that doesn’t make my first version any less true. So how about it? Come home with me?”

A pregnant moment passed, then Lindy glanced down and tapped her bare wrist.

“Wow, will you look at that. Where did the time go?” Before he could protest, she gained her feet and reached for her coat. “You said it yourself, Josh. I have lousy taste in men. Thanks for the invite, but I think I’d better pass.”

 It was a long ride back to the civic center to pick up Lindy’s car, made longer still by the hot, vivid images dancing in her mind of her and tall, dark, and hunky who was sitting beside her.

Nervous? She was about sick. His suggestion was definitely fertilizer for the creative mind.

“Look,” Josh said as they pulled into the well-lit parking lot, “I’m sorry if I offended you back there in the restaurant. That wasn’t my intention.” He threw the gearshift into park, cut the engine, and turned in his leather seat to face her. “I’ll lay it on the line. I don’t have much time for dating, and when I find someone I want to be with, I go for it.”

“Go for it? As in the Southern belle you were with last week? Did you say the same things to her?”

“Not at all. She was a mistake—a friend fixed us up. It’d take a bucket of Viagra and a bag over my head to get the hustle on with her. I want someone I can have fun with, not someone who takes hours to get ready.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I told you, I don’t have much time for dating.”

“I see. So ‘go for it’ in this instance means buying up a section of seats so you can be relatively alone with me? I’m someone you can have fun with?”

“Yeah, that’s what it means.” He flashed her a boyishly crooked grin. “I didn’t say I wasn’t impulsive.”

“I’m not offended,” Lindy said, releasing her seat belt latch. “I’m flattered. It’s just that . . . well, it’s a bit early in the game for me to think about the two of us playing at being the flying Wallendas.”

“Do you think this is a game to me, Lindy?”

He stared at her out of guarded eyes.

“No,” she said and meant it. “No, I don’t. Sorry, bad choice of words. I’ll be honest with you, Josh. This attention is all new to me. I’m used to carrying the yeoman’s share of relationship duties. I mean, not that you and I are dating or seeing each other or anything—I’m babbling, aren’t I?”

She hopped out of the car rather than wait for him to come around and open the door for her. Compared to the new car and warm leather smell of his Hummer, the cold air swirling around
the civic center carried whiffs of nearby eateries and open Dumpsters. Massive halogen streetlights glowed brilliant white and flooded the lot and street like daylight.

“Will you still call me?” she said, her breath frosting.

He slammed her door closed, hit the keyless entry to lock the car, and said, “I can’t promise I will.”

Lindy deflated, a hollow feeling filling the pit of her stomach. What else did she expect? At least he was honest about it.

“I’m off to London tomorrow,” he said, leaning against the side of the car, “then Nice after. It may be a couple of weeks before I return.”

“Are you ever not working?”

“Not often.” He checked his watch. “In fact, I’ve got to catch a conference call in an hour or so.”

“Good grief, a dyed-in-the-wool company man.”

Josh shrugged.

“One of the drawbacks of being the boss. If it weren’t for a promise I made to my cousin to catch as many of his home games as possible, I probably wouldn’t even be in town very much.”

“Then I guess it was my lucky night when we met last week. I should thank your cousin.”

Josh buttoned up the front of his denim jacket and straightened away from the side of the car.

“Speaking of last week . . . don’t be surprised to see the Moccasin franchise milking your name in a bid to get the city and county to go in and foot the bill for new quarters.”

“Good luck on that one,” Lindy said. “From what I gather, the city fathers are circling the wagons. If anyone from Corsetti’s office asks, I promise not to burn any bridges. Thanks for the heads-up.”

With no other reason to stall, Lindy bunched her coat collar around her neck, stuffed her hands in her pockets for warmth, and started walking to her car. Josh escorted her the short distance, his
running shoes quiet on the asphalt next to the clack-clacking of her low-heeled pumps.

“Your schedule doesn’t leave much room for a social life, does it?” she said.

“Lindy, I—”

They reached her Camry, and she took out her keys.

“Hey, no big deal,” she said. “We can still have fun. If you want, we’ll get together whenever you’re in town.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded and said, “Yeah, really, I’m sure.”

“I’d like that.”

He slipped her car keys from her hand and hit the unlock button. Later, she’d parse the finer points of the lousy deal she’d just made for herself.

For now, she offered him a crinkly smile and said, “Maybe we can even watch your cousin in a ball game or two? I mean I’d hate for all those seats to go to waste . . .”

Josh was quietly tending his own thoughts when she accepted her keys. All she had to do was climb into her car and drive off into the proverbial night.

So why was she standing there, staring at her key ring?

“I forgot to thank you for dinner,” she said. “I enjoyed being with you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” He caressed her cheek with tender fingers and then tucked some loose hair behind her ear. “It was my pleasure.”

Then, he opened the driver’s side door, holding it ajar and waiting for her to scoot in behind the wheel.

“Well, good night,” she said, still not budging from her spot.

“Good night, beautiful.”

Neither one of them moved.

An awkward hush followed, a moment of divine insanity in which Lindy contemplated giving him a dress rehearsal of what
he’d be missing. She was a dud at picking men, and only someone dead-on lucky tempted fate.

This couldn’t end well.

Even as she finished the thought, she jettisoned her entire argument and reached for him.

She clutched his hand and drew him to her, relaxing into his chest, soft and pliant. He circled her arms tight around his waist, enfolding her in his embrace.

“What are you doing, beautiful?” he said.

“I think maybe you need a little something to ponder in the weeks to come while you’re stuck in those boring meetings.”

“Are you so sure they’re boring?”

She slipped her hands free, cupped his face, and whispered, “Compared to this, I know they are.”

Then she drew the tip of her tongue slowly and provocatively around her lips. His sharp intake of breath provoked a thrill that cascaded from her fingertips to her knees.

She touched her tongue to his mouth and traced the curve and texture of his smile, circling the sensitive edges of his lips and absorbing the shudder that passed through him.

“You’re killing me, beautiful,” he said. “You know that?”

“Ask me if I mind.”

Longing uncurled deep in her stomach. Whisker stubble from his five o’clock shadow brushed against her lips, bringing a shiver of delight.

A moment later, the sound of footsteps and laughing and voices and car doors slamming around them penetrated the sensual fog.

“Game must be over,” Josh said.

“Seems like it,” she returned.

“Wonder if we won?”

“The season’s still young.”

She caressed him with her tongue until his lips parted.

“I’ve got to go,” he said.

“Me, too.”

Brushing her lips to his once, twice, she settled them with warm pressure and slid her tongue softly into his mouth, tasting his need. His throaty growl matched her pleasurable moan.

Her tongue slid deeper. His body grew harder.

And she inhaled the sweet taste of him as he slipped into her heart.

Arena Season Week 5

Josh flipped on the flat-screen television to CNN International and then fixed himself a light scotch and water.

It was not quite nine in the morning, but he’d just returned from entertaining some European clients, first with a late dinner at Harry’s Bar followed by a night with them at the casino and then drinks into the wee hours. Right about then, he was feeling bulletproof.

Outside, beyond his balcony, a heavy rain was falling and the Mediterranean was churning. His hotel room was like hundreds of others he’d stayed in, well-decorated—vivid colors, bold patterns, and rich materials—and lifeless.

Everything rested quietly in its proper place.

There was no laughter to liven the rooms. No personal touches. No homey smells. He could walk out the door, and no one could tell by the room that he’d ever existed.