Too Darn Hot (19 page)

The thin blanket did little to warm his back, in sharp contrast to the hot satin of Lina’s bare flesh against his front. As they touched and explored, he reveled in the little sounds that told him Lina’s hunger matched his own. He knew it for a fact when his fingers slid into her slippery heat. They groaned in unison then.

They wriggled impatiently, striving for a workable position that wouldn’t send an elbow or knee through the chaise. At last their perseverance triumphed. She opened to him, pulling him closer as he buried himself in one savage thrust.

In that moment they could have been lying on king-size satin sheets strewn with rose petals. Eric’s awareness was limited to the woman he loved, to the raw, poignant beauty of the physical expression of that love. His fingers lingered on her face in the pitch dark, reading every nuance of emotion as clearly as if he could see her. Reverently she kissed his fingers, one by one, as their bodies met and retreated, rose and ebbed like the tide.

The rhythm picked up speed as Lina began to climb, to reach for the pinnacle. Her nails dug into his back. Her hair whipped his face. Her body flexed hard against his, and her voice broke on a ragged, breathless cry. The clutching, throbbing cadence of her release ignited his fuse, sending him tumbling irrevocably into his own climax.

It came with blinding intensity, a white-hot wall of fire into which he willingly plunged himself, body and soul. The force of it left him shaken, awestruck.

At length he began to register sensory input in the inky darkness: the aromas of old wool and fresh sex...laughter from the soft, sweat-slick lady lying under him...his elbows and knees being scraped raw by the cabana’s gritty wood floor...

The floor?

He tried to raise himself and got hopelessly tangled in the jumble of clothing, blanket, and assorted arms and legs. Lina only laughed harder.

Eric did his best to keep his weight off her. He groped around and discovered they were indeed lying on the remains of the collapsed chaise. “Isn’t gravity a wondrous thing?” With effort he managed to extract them from the blanket. The frigid air on his bare, sweaty posterior was downright invigorating.

She was still chuckling. “If somebody came in and saw us like this—”

A loud pounding shook the door, making them jump and knock foreheads.

Joy’s jovial voice came through loud and clear. “I don’t suppose they could be in here?” She thumped the door with a palm. “In this cabana.” Thump thump. “The one with the padlock hanging open.” She paused as if to consider the possibility. “Nahhh—they aren’t even talking to each other. Someone must’ve left it open by accident.”

Eric heard the ominous sound of someone fumbling with the door latch.

Joy said, “I’ll just be a good samaritan and lock the place up—”

Lina screamed, “Don’t you dare!”

“By jingo, they are in here,” Joy gleefully announced. The door began to swing open.

“Noooo!” Eric and Lina shouted at once. They scrambled frantically to pull up their pants, swearing and falling over each other in the process.

Joy’s voice from behind the half-open door oozed solicitous concern. “Sounds like they’re in trouble. I’d better check it out.” The door swung open on Joy’s grinning face just as Eric was tying the drawstring of his sweatpants. Lina yanked down her sweater.

“Jeepers, Lina,” Joy said as her roommate stepped outside. “Doing it in a cabana? In November? I thought you were too, you know, mature and boring for stuff like that.” Her eyes widened as she surveyed the destruction inside. “Wow! So. Eric. You gonna do the right thing by my roomie here? Pick out a diamond before her fingers swell up like Vienna sausages?”

Lina frowned as she examined her slender digits.

He said, “I assure you, Joy, nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

She looked obnoxiously self-satisfied. “Then my work here is done. I’ll meet you back at the car.” She took off, a jaunty spring to her step.

Eric put his arm around Lina and steered her in the same direction.

“Do you think the boys’ll be okay about all this?” She bit her lip. “You know. Me...the baby...”

“Are you kidding?” He squeezed her shoulder. “Those little delinquents have spent the last two weeks devising schemes to get the two of us back together. Which only goes to show they’re smarter than their old man. And as for the baby—well, hell. They’ll fight over who gets to strap her into one of those baby packs and take her for a walk. It’s a scientific fact there’s no better chick magnet than a baby.”

After a moment he added, “You know, we were pretty careful.”

“Don’t you remember when we did it in The Cookhouse kitchen? With nothing for protection but vanilla syrup?”

“How could I forget? I had some fast talking to do when Adam went looking for the Ben and Jerry’s and turned up those frozen panties instead.”

A little smile of wonder and amazement lit her face. “I’m going to have a baby, Eric. Me! I still can’t believe it.”

He pulled her closer. “Honey, you’re not going to have a baby, you’re going to have a whole damn instant family. A little girl, two big strapping boys, and more nutty relatives than you can shake a stick at.”

“A little girl, huh?”

He loved making her grin like that. “Maybe two. Hell, why not go for triplets this time?”

Lina slid her arm around his back. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather do this baby thing one at a time till I get the hang of it.”

Eric smiled into the sunshine. “I can live with that.”

###

Sneak preview! Enjoy Chapter One of...

SNATCHED

by Pamela Burford

Available as an e-book

Lucy woke with the munchies the night the kidnappers came for her. She padded down the curved staircase to her dark kitchen, where the stove clock’s LED display informed her it was 2:23 in the a.m.

“Happy birthday, kiddo.” She flicked on the overhead fluorescent. “You made it to the big four-oh.”

She poured a double small-batch bourbon on the rocks, nuked a bag of 94 percent fat-free popcorn, and polished off a partial pint of Cherry Garcia just as the last kernel detonated. She smiled. Timing is everything.

She located the paperback thriller she was reading in Frank’s library—her library now, she supposed, at least until the marital assets were sorted into His and Her piles. The His pile would include the centerpiece of this room, the bloated, pigskin-upholstered “chair and a half” Frank had had custom-made over her dogged objections. God knew she’d never wanted the damn thing, any more than she’d wanted the puffed-up McMansion that surrounded it, yet five weeks after she’d asked Frank to move out—the hardest thing she’d ever had to do—there sat his throne in all its swinish glory.

And the sick thing was, she’d gotten kind of used to it. The chair was as comfortable as it was ugly, squatting before the fireplace like a sumo wrestler with seams. It was also absurdly comforting in the dead-ass middle of the night when every sigh and rattle of the huge house reminded her how alone she was. She called the chair Babe, after the movie pig.

The house would probably be sold, which suited her just fine, though that would be one more heartbreak for Frank—something else for her to feel guilty about. But all that would take time, and meanwhile there was nothing and no one to stop her from moving her home office up here from the basement.

Frank had dubbed this space his “library,” going so far as to order forty linear feet of “important” used books from some salvage outfit, plus the built-in shelves to display them. But it had been constructed as a sunroom, with skylights and a wall of south-facing windows and French doors. During the day this room was flooded with buttery light, in contrast to the windowless catacombs where Lucy had pounded out the first thirteen books of her Johnny Sherlock children’s mystery series.

She experienced a naughty thrill thinking about the unfinished fourteenth book languishing on her computer’s hard drive. With her contractual deadline less than a week away, every waking minute ought to be devoted to finishing
Johnny Sherlock and the Painted Poodle
. Legions of prepubescent fans were counting on her, more and more each year according to her royalty statements. And Lord knew Lucy Narby—Lucille Moss to her readers—had never missed a deadline. Dependable, responsible Lucy? It was unthinkable. Logically she should be down there right now, cranking out that sucker.

But it was 2:23 in the
a.m., and the rules of logic were officially suspended at 2:23 in the a.m.

The bag of popcorn emitted a burst of fragrant steam as she yanked it open. There it was again, the stab of guilt—not over the calorie count, but the label. It was ridiculous, really. Every time she chowed down on a snack food that didn’t bear the familiar KrunchWorks logo, she felt like a traitor. Frank was nearly as devoted to KrunchWorks as he was to his family, a company man through and through. He’d forbidden her to bring a competing brand into this house, and she never had. Until now.

Lucy set her whiskey glass and the illicit popcorn within reach, lifted Grandma Willie’s freakishly unique hand-crafted quilt from it display rack, and submitted herself to Babe’s wide-load embrace. She set aside the emery board that served as a bookmark, hoping reading might nudge her toward the restorative coma she so badly needed.

She read for twenty minutes until the faint snick of a door lock brought her head up. She recognized the squeak of the exterior side door that led into the kitchen. Her pulse stuttered for several seconds until the alarm system’s warning tone stopped, telling her the code had been correctly entered on the keypad. Muted footfalls followed, moving toward the stairway. Stair treads groaned under multiple pairs of feet, ascending with unhurried caution in the dark. Overhead a floor joist creaked. Then another.

Lucy threw back her head and shouted, “Points off for inept skulking. I am
so
disappointed.”

All movement upstairs ceased. Lucy chuckled and sipped her bourbon. She’d raised John to be sneakier than that.

She hadn’t expected to see him until spring break. Of course, Long Island was only about a six-hour drive from Ithaca, and he’d surprised her on weekends before. She hoped this particular visit had been prompted by her birthday. His father had no doubt nagged him, as usual, reminding him to send a gift.

Frank had called
her,
too. He’d wanted to take her to Paris for a long birthday weekend or, failing that, at least a romantic excursion to Manhattan:
La Bohème
at the Met, dinner at her favorite Northern Italian restaurant, and a champagne-drenched suite at the Plaza. She’d declined as gently as she knew how, wondering how long it would take him to realize they weren’t getting back together, that their marriage was really and truly over.

John had one or two buddies in tow, by the sound of it. Possibly the paramour du jour, too. Ashleigh. The girl possessed a pretty head unburdened by deep cogitation, but at least she chose clothing that flaunted the dainty barbells skewering her nipples. Then again, what would be the point of enduring such a disagreeable procedure only to hide the result under a Playtex Cross Your Heart?

John was a discerning kid. It wouldn’t last. Meanwhile Lucy squelched any hint of maternal disapproval. That hard-won bit of wisdom had eluded her own mother.

Her visitors descended the stairs, making no effort at stealth now that they knew she was awake. She wished she’d thrown on a robe, but at least she had on matronly pj’s and not some peek-a-boo nightie. John shouldn’t get
too
embarrassed.

She slipped the emery board back in her book as she heard them approach. “I’m a hard gal to surprise.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Lucy didn’t recognize the voice. She glanced over her shoulder. Her yelp of shock turned to helpless laughter at the sight of three cheap plastic Halloween masks. The kids had turned themselves into, of all things, the Powerpuff Girls, a trio of huge-eyed TV cartoon superchicks. They were all there: Buttercup, the brunette; Blossom, the redhead; and Bubbles, the blue-eyed blonde.

God,
how she loathed the Powerpuff Girls. Diana, her five-year-old niece, forced her to watch the show every time their paths crossed. Had Lucy ever mentioned her aversion to John? She must have.

“Very nice,” she told her son, “but you’re about six months late for Halloween.”

No, wait, Buttercup wasn’t John. This guy had a more solid build. The neck was thicker, the shoulders wider under the hooded gray sweatshirt. She looked at Blossom, somewhere between six five and the stratosphere, his maple-colored hair pulled back in a long braid. And Bubbles was blond for real. John had inherited Lucy’s hair, dark as espresso and utterly straight.

Lucy stood, letting the quilt slide to the floor. A crawly sensation tightened her scalp.

Buttercup produced a pistol and a roll of silver duct tape. “Don’t fight and you won’t get hurt.”

“What?”

They came at her. She fought like hell. Adrenaline surged with every dunk-shot bang of her heart. She writhed out of their grasp. Her fists and feet flew. Popcorn scattered. The CD rack toppled. The framed baby picture of Lucy and her sister crashed onto the hardwood floor, along with one of Frank’s giraffes, the eighteen-inch bronze. She lunged for the sculpture and got a two-fisted grip on its neck, holding it at the ready like a baseball bat.

Blossom, the giant, whooped. “A feisty one, God be praised!”

“Take whatever you want,” she said. “Take it and leave.”

Buttercup pocketed the gun and tore a strip of duct tape off the roll.

Lucy backed up a step. “I’ve got money.” She nodded toward the antique rolltop desk. “In there.”

They didn’t so much as glance at the desk. Bubbles, the blond one, made his move. She swung the giraffe. He ducked under it and body-slammed her against a bookcase. Pain exploded in her back as first editions went flying. She thought she heard Buttercup bark, “Easy!” as Bubbles wrenched the giraffe from her.

Inkblots crowded her vision. She blinked them away and saw Buttercup looming over her. He said, “You okay?”