In the Midnight Hour (15 page)

Danny did as instructed and Ronnie watched as pleasure chased disbelief across his features.

“Have you got one in mind?” He nodded.

“Now take a deep, deep breath and tell me what you smell.”

He smiled. “Wanda.”

“If this is going to work, you have to be a little more specific. You have to really be in the moment, tuned in to everything. Now take a deep breath and give me details.”

His nostrils flared. “Peach-scented body wash. Peach shampoo. She likes peaches.”

“Good. Now what do you feel?”

He grinned. “Wanda.” The expression faded as he seemed to search for more. “The heat of her body because she’s so close, sitting next to me. The soft silk of her hair on my bare arm as she leans forward to look at the textbook.”

“Your favorite fantasy is of the two of you studying? Geez, Danny, you’ve got to get a little more creative.”

“Hey.” He frowned. “It’s my fantasy, all right? Besides, we move on to more than studying. That’s just how it starts.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Don’t lose the image.” She studied his face to make sure his eyes were still closed before rummaging in her book bag. “The two of you are studying, you smell her, feel her…” Her voice lowered a notch as she found what she was looking for and asked him, “Now tell me, what do you want?”

“Wanda,” he said, the name little more than a throaty growl.

Ronnie held up the compact mirror and said, “Okay. Now open your eyes.”

He did, and stared at his reflection, at the desire gleaming hot and bright in his eyes.

“It is that easy,” she told him. “You’re just as desirable as the next guy. I see it and I guarantee she’ll see it. Just tell her.”

“Easy,” Danny told himself as he paced in front of the campus pizza parlor and tried to work up his nerve to go inside, where Wanda Deluca sat having lunch with several other cheerleaders and a couple of football jocks. His hand went to the doorknob and he faltered.

He really should wait until after lunch. Bothering somebody right in the middle of eating could disrupt their digestion and cause heartburn. He’d hate to cause her any discomfort. Besides, she was busy with her friends—

Balls, Boudreaux. You’ve
got
’em, don’t you? So get on in there and use ’em
.

He closed his eyes, summoning the fantasy, the smell and feel and heat of the moment. “Easy,” he reminded himself as he summoned his courage and yanked open the swinging door.

“Wanda,” he said when he reached her table.

Green eyes shifted to meet his. Long blonde hair brushed the shoulders of her white USL T-shirt. Peach-tinted lips parted in a smile and his confidence level shifted a notch higher.

“Hi, Danny. I was just thinking about you.”

“You were?”

“Mel Gibson’s on
Letterman
tonight, so I have to see the entire show. I should be done by midnight. Then I can come over.”

Oh.

He became acutely aware of a dozen interested eyes zeroed in on him.

“That’s all right, isn’t it?” she asked.

No. “Yeah, sure.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “Listen, could I talk to you for a sec?”

“Sure.” She excused herself and followed him to the rear of the place, by the jukebox, two video games, and the pay phone.

“Listen, Wanda.” He leaned one elbow on a video game, his body effectively blocking her escape. “I need to tell you something.”

“Yes?”

“You, see, I… That is, I want…” His mouth went suddenly dry as her scent filled his nostrils. She was so close, inches away as she leaned in to hear what he had to say. Peaches assaulted his senses and his nostrils flared.

“Yes?” she prompted, drawing him back from a sudden, sharp image of her naked, rubbing a wedge of peach over her pale skin.

“Well,” he cleared his suddenly dry throat. “I, um, want you…”

“You want me …?” she prompted, eyes wide, expectant.

“I want you…” Naked and panting. Over me, under me, surrounding me.

A bead of sweat slid from his temple and he quickly dashed it away.

“I, uh, want you…”
Just say it
. “To pass,” he blurted. “I—I really want you to pass tomorrow’s chem test.”

Loser!

“Thanks, Danny.” Her smile widened and his gaze hooked on her mouth, on the fullness of her lips.

Man-o-man, she had the greatest lips. Another image straight out of one of his more graphic fantasies pushed into his head, of those full lips sucking at a ripe peach. His blood rushed faster, his heart pounded forward like a runaway train.

“You know, nobody’s ever cared about my grades before,” she went on, the sudden softness to her voice dispelling the erotic image. “All my mama ever cared about was whether or not I had on enough eye makeup. You never know when you’ll meet Mr. Right, she always said. Gotta look your best.” At his questioning gaze, she added, “My mom did some modeling when she was young and sort of fell into the habit of relying on her looks to get her what she wanted out of life. First a job in Paris. Then my dad. Then three other husbands, all since moved on to prettier, younger women. But I guess you don’t need to hear all this.”

“No, I want to.”

“Hey, Wanda!” The shout came from a redhead sitting at the table. “We’re heading out. You coming?”

“If you haven’t eaten, maybe we could get a bite togeth—” he started, clamping his mouth together when she shouted out, “I’ll be there in a sec!” to the redhead.

Her gaze went back to Danny. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

You. Me. Now. Together.

He couldn’t quite spit the words out. “That I really need to eat.”

“Try the pepperoni,” she advised. “And thanks for caring. I’ll see you tonight. Oh, and don’t forget that I’ll be late. I can’t miss Mel.”

“Yeah, see ya.”

“Is there anything else?” she asked when he made no move to let her pass.

“Uh, no,” he stammered out. “I guess that about covers it. Um, it’s awful hot out. Make sure you drink plenty of liquids during practice so you don’t dehydrate.”

“You’re sweet, Danny.”

Sweet? Man-o-man, he’d sunk even lower than pathetic.
Sweet
. That was the kiss of death, coming from a hot babe.

Dehydrate? What the hell was wrong with him? He had the attention—both eyes, he might add—of a beautiful woman,
the
beautiful woman, and all he could manage was a piece of his grandma’s advice?

No wonder Wanda thought he was sweet. He
was
sweet—too sweet to tell her what was really on his mind, to drag her into his arms and kiss the daylights out of her, for fear she’d reject him. Or worse, pity him.

Then settle for sweet
.

Like hell. He was going to make a move. Soon. He just had to think of one, to work up his nerve and come up with a surefire method of wooing Wanda.

He was a smart guy. A sweet, smart guy, true, but he had brains nonetheless. If man could send another man to the moon, then anything was possible. Including Wanda Deluca falling into Danny Boudreaux’s bed.

He just had to come up with a plan. A strategy. One that didn’t involve him losing his ability to speak at the sight of her green eyes, or peach-slick lips, or that body.…

Okay, maybe he needed more than a plan. Shock treatment. A heavy dose of nerve pills. A bucket of ice water.

Maybe all three.

Chapter Eight

“Tracing your family tree?” Delta asked as she walked by the main circulation desk shortly before closing time and saw Ronnie checking out a stack of genealogy books.

“Helping out a friend. He’s trying to find out about his great-great-great-grandmother, so I thought I’d do a little research on the subject.”

In the interest of her own grades, of course. No way did she feel the sudden need to sit up all night with a load of genealogy books just because she’d read the desperation in Val’s gaze. Okay, so maybe the desperation was a teeny, tiny part of it. But helping Val also qualified as helping herself.

“Ronnie, sugar.” Delta gave her a nudge, startling her out of her thoughts. “Check out those two.”

Ronnie shifted her attention to the two attractive men who’d walked in the door. They wore Dockers and white button-down shirts and she knew they were business majors. Handsome business majors, but brunets.

So? Brunets were hot. Her first boyfriend in the third grade had been a brunet; her fiancé, Raymond, had had the blackest hair she’d ever seen—one of his few redeeming qualities; and she adored a host of movie stars, all brunets.

Brunets were her thing—up until a few days ago when she’d set eyes on Val and his mane of hair in all its long, whiskey-colored glory.

Her attention shifted to one of the men, still a brunet but his hair was lighter, with pale gold streaks from the sun. Mmm, now here was a cutie. Strong hands grasped a book bag as he made his way to the row of computer terminals.

“I don’t think they’re ready to check out yet.”

“No, I meant
check
them out. Cute, huh? Especially the tall one.”

When Ronnie turned a grin on the older woman, Delta shrugged. “There might be enough snow on the roof to warrant a snowplow, sugar, but there’s still a fire blazing in the cook-stove. While I might be old enough to be their mother—” At Ronnie’s raised eyebrow, she added, “Make that their grandmother, I can still appreciate the scenery.”

“What about Professor Gibbons?” She indicated the seventy-something-year-old man perched in his usual corner in the magazine section reading an issue of Creole Cuisine. With a shock of snow-white hair on his head and a matching beard, he looked more like Santa Claus than a retired political science professor. He wore his usual white dress shirt and slacks, with bright red suspenders and a matching bow tie. “He’s awful cute, if you ask me.”

“You want me to stare at an ancient, dried-up, old cypress when I can eye a couple of healthy, sturdy oak trees?”

“He likes you.”

“I’ve known Cassius Gibbons for twenty years—he headed his department here up until he retired—and the only thing he likes are those food magazines he’s always looking at. I swear, the man should have been a cook instead of a political science teacher.”

“So take him up on his dinner invitation. He did offer to cook for you, right?”

“He’s old.”

“He’s cute.” Since Delta’s husband had died three years ago, the woman had realized her own mortality, and she’d waged war on it. No more birthdays, she’d told Ronnie. She simply wasn’t getting a day older or a minute closer to kicking the bucket.

It was a great theory. The trouble with theories, though, was that they didn’t always prove true when put to the test.

Speaking of tests… While she might not intend to get intimate with anyone other than her stubborn houseguest, Madame X really did need to put Val’s theories, at least the nonphysical ones, to the test.

Now was as good a time as any, she told herself as the tall cutie approached the circulation desk. Here was a guy who could get most any girl. The type of guy who never gave average-looking Ronnie a second glance.

Not that she cared. She much preferred it that way.

Usually. But this was in the interest of science.

She closed her eyes and summoned her dream. The sweet scent of leather and apples and that unnameable something filled her nostrils. Cool sheets slithered down her legs. A warm mouth touched her throat and slid lower, to her throbbing nipple.…

Ronnie licked her lips and opened her eyes, and stared at the tall man with the sun-kissed brown hair. As if he sensed her gaze, his head snapped up. His eyes met hers and he smiled.

A full-blown, I’d-like-to-get-together smile.

Ronnie did the only thing she could think of at that moment. She gave a loud whoop, hugged Delta, grabbed her backpack, and started for home to tell Val the good news.

“It worked! It really worked!” Her excited voice bounced off the walls of the apartment when she walked in just minutes before midnight.

“
What worked?
”

“The internally attractive thing. I saw a megacute guy, closed my eyes, pictured the dream and how I felt in it, then
bam
. I looked at him, just
looked
at him, and he smiled at me.”

His eyes narrowed. “
What guy?
”

“Somebody I picked out for an experiment.”

“How cute?”

“Really cute, but that’s beside the point. It worked.” She whipped out her notebook. “I have to write this down. Madame X nabs her first victim.”

“
Madame
X?”

“The woman I’m profiling for the paper. I’m going to do a journal of Madame X’s Fifty Steps to Ultimate Sexual Fulfillment.”

“
Who is this Madame
X?”

“Me—a fictitious me.” Madame X might be on the prowl for available men; Ronnie, however, wanted only an available ghost.