Читать книгу You Sexy Thing! - Tori Carrington, Tori Carrington - Страница 10

Chicago

A KITCHEN.

Well, maybe not a kitchen, but definitely a kitchenette. One of those kinds that you could barely move around in but held all the basic necessities, like a new microwave, an old stove and an empty refrigerator. Gracie was vaguely aware of the door closing after the bellboy as she stood staring at the cramped space immediately to the left in the enormous Chicago hotel room. She’d come across a place like this once before, in Fort Lauderdale. Likely this wing used to be an apartment complex that had been converted to a hotel. A quick glance around the spacious living-dining area, and the bedroom and bath to the right, fueled her speculation.

The strap to her laptop-carrying case slid off her shoulder. She allowed the case to drop slowly to the floor, enraptured with her new find. She hadn’t had grains of salt under her fingernails since she began this crazy promotional tour. She opened and closed cabinet doors, peered into the empty but cold refrigerator, eyed the limited number of pots and pans, all with a ridiculous grin on her face. Someone watching might have thought she’d unearthed Atlantis instead of a chipped old stove, but she was beyond caring. She’d been in dire straits ever since she and Rick had caught dinner at a poor excuse for a Thai restaurant last night in New York and she had itched to get back into the restaurant kitchen to show the clueless Greek owner how it should be done. Instead, Rick had guided her out of there before she irreversibly embarrassed someone. Like herself.

Gracie ran her hand across the clean counter then straightened the miniature coffeemaker. Okay, so the place didn’t even come close to resembling her own state-of-the-art kitchen in Baltimore, but it was workable. Truth be told, she’d done a lot with much less in her first apartment, right after she’d graduated from college. Back when she had been determined to strike out on her own, pull her own weight and ignore the checks from her father’s accountant that piled up, unopened, on the scratched desk near the door that bore at least three dead bolts and countless chains and security devices. She’d never been prouder than when she’d made that little one-room place home. And she’d learned the finer points of making do with what one had. A trying but immensely gratifying experience. Especially when all her hard work had landed her a spot with a midlevel psychiatric practice before branching out on her own four years later.

She leaned against the wall and tapped a finger against her lips. A list. She had to make a list of what she needed from the store. The essentials were here. She wouldn’t have to invest in salt and pepper or sugar. The hotel had provided coffee and a small selection of teas, though she always traveled with her own supply ordered specially from Arizona.

What should she make? Something simple, requiring the fewest ingredients. But something that would fill the small place with a delectable aroma and would go with a good bottle of red wine. No, white. Fish. She was in Chicago, wasn’t she? Surely they would have a good selection of fish. Waking up to the smell of fish would remind her of home if not endear her to her neighbors.

A brief call to the concierge gave her directions to a small family-owned grocer a couple of blocks away. She hung up the phone on his offer to have an order placed on her behalf, then grabbed her purse and headed for the elevators.

A small cowbell above the advertisement-covered door announced her arrival at the grocer. No larger than the hotel room she had just left, the neat grocer had a good selection nonetheless. And plenty of fresh produce. As she happily made her selections, she allowed her mind to wander at will. Although only after five p.m. central time, darkness enveloped the street, weaving a web of billowed intimacy Gracie embraced. Chicago’s climate was similar to New York’s, albeit windier, earning the architecturally rich city its name, but it had an altogether different atmosphere. The unique, laid-back flavor of the mid-west was laced throughout despite the city’s valiant efforts to shrug it off. And the people weren’t as cynical, the lapping waves of Lake Michigan against the coast seeming to lull them into a feeling of peace.

“Can I see the trout, please? Yes, that one. To the left.” Grace accepted the paper-protected fish from the woman behind the counter and examined the clear condition of the eyes and the pinkness of the gills. She stared down into the open mouth, the sight comically reminding her of Dr. Dylan Fairbanks’s reaction when she’d told him he needed to get laid.

She handed the fish back. “I’ll take it.”

She added the item to her basket and turned toward the produce section. While Dr. Dylan’s facial expression had resembled that of the trout, she had the distinct impression that he was anything but a cold fish. Something elemental lurked in his green eyes. A maturity, an intensity, an innate sexuality that made it difficult to meet his gaze head-on initially, yet held you captive thereafter. An intriguing paradox that reminded her how her skin had tingled after their meeting at the radio station. How verbally sparring with him had made her wonder what going a couple of rounds with him in bed might be like.

He was a sex therapist, so she didn’t doubt he’d know all the exciting little details. But there was a difference between knowing and practicing. And she suspected that Dr. Dylan would put into practice everything he’d learned.

A shiver shimmied down the length of her spine, making her feel suddenly warm in her light raincoat.

Absently adding a couple of lemons to her basket, she moved on to pick through lettuce. An idea danced along the fringes of her thoughts and she unsuccessfully tried to grasp it. She envisioned her book. No, no, it didn’t have anything to do with her mother’s refusal to read it. She made a face, banishing the image of Priscilla’s tight-lipped face before it could spring roots. She moved to the tomatoes, testing them and adding a couple to her groceries. Rick? Did it have anything to do with her assistant and his mysterious company that morning in his New York hotel room? No, that wasn’t it, either. Although the idea of a couple struggling against twisted sheets did ring a distant bell. Either that, or someone else had just entered the grocery store.

She edged along peppers and mushrooms then came to a halt before a large display of cucumbers. She slowly picked one up.

The bell rang louder. And along with it came a vivid image of Dr. Dylan Fairbanks’s grinning face when they’d discussed masturbation.

Stumbling right in on the heels of the image was her sheer terror when the radio shock jock had asked Dr. Dylan whether or not he was a born-again virgin. She’d barely registered his response, so afraid that the host would shine that “virginal” light on her. Thankfully, he hadn’t. But that did nothing to assuage her longstanding fear that someday, someone would ask her the question, despite her carefully made-up appearance of being one hundred percent hot tamale who practiced the very advice she preached. And then where would she be? Not that she was a virgin by any stretch of the imagination. But she wasn’t what she pretended to be, either.

Leading up to the promotional tour, she’d been petrified of being fingered for a fraud. Her theory on the need for sexual safaris was the greatest of her unpracticed advice. She remembered seeing an interview once with a marriage counselor who had never been married. The host had virtually thrown the psychologist’s advice right out the window, despite her years of backbreaking field research. Of course it had been one of those late-night, openly televised forums where the host made a point of going for the cheap shots. But the fact remained that if her limited sexual experience were to come to light, her hope of getting her word out would be little more than a car left abandoned at the side of the road with its hood up.

She absently ran the pad of her thumb over the prickly exterior of the cucumber, the innocuous movement sending a thrill of awareness over her skin. There was no denying that she was attracted to Dr. Dylan, though she firmly limited her attraction to him to physical attributes. What other reasons were there for being attracted to him? She didn’t know him. She knew some of his stuffy opinions, but that was a far cry from knowing the full man.

Who wouldn’t be attracted to him physically? He was tall, enigmatic, handsome as all get-out, and downright sexy.

And the concept of a sexual safari with him posed a decadently intriguing challenge, indeed….

She stood stock-still for a full minute, staring blindly at the cucumber she still held, her mind growing sluggish as it put two and two together. Then everything snapped together. Her heart did an erratic flip in her chest as she tripped straight over the path her subconscious had been trying to lead her down for the past few minutes.

That was it! She needed to put on her safari gear and bag one sexy prey in the shape of Dr. Dylan Fairbanks. Mussing some bed sheets with him would put an end to her feelings of being a fraud.

The earth began rotating again, and along with it a show of thigh-quivering mental pImages**. A bare, sculpted torso. Strong, hair-covered legs. Ragged breathing. Soft, needy cries. Slick, sweat-covered skin. A pulse-throbbing erection pressed against soft flesh, preparing to enter.

Gracie’s breath caught as she swallowed against the saliva gathering at the back of her throat. She shakily patted her hair. Okay, the prospect of sleeping with Dylan clearly wasn’t offensive. She gave a feeble laugh. Who was she kidding? She was practically wetting herself just thinking about it.

Trying to get a grip on herself, she considered that sleeping with Dr. Dylan could have some drawbacks. After all, he wasn’t a nameless, handsome face picked out at random in a neutral gaming zone.

She put back the cucumber she held and picked up one of the larger ones.

She would get the once-in-a-lifetime chance to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dr. Dylan Fairbanks and his ancient, out-of-whack philosophies were way off base.

She added the cucumber to her basket, and couldn’t help noticing the suddenly rubbery condition of her knees, and the anticipatory searing heat that rushed through her bloodstream.

Yes. Hunting Dr. Dylan was exactly what she needed to do…

DYLAN OPENED THE DOOR to the small grocer’s, grimacing at the sound of the cowbell announcing his arrival. Right now he just wanted to blend in with the background. Carve out a little privacy so he could start thinking straight again. Not that the hokey cowbell prevented that. Rather the bright yellow V-necked sweater and olive-green cargo pants he had on pretty much ruled out blending in with the background.

He tugged at the too-snug shirt material, telling himself for the fifth time since leaving the hotel that he should have left his suit on. But after the soaking it had taken in New York, then the wrinkling on the plane, he wasn’t sure it was salvageable, much less wearable. The morning’s mishaps had slid into a day full of disasters—the latest debacle being the loss of his luggage—and he had little choice but to allow Tanja to go shopping for him. Why didn’t it surprise him that the PR rep had completely ignored his express instructions to find something suitable, something he would buy for himself and instead bought him a temporary wardrobe more suited for a teenager than a responsible adult?

He felt like a…break-dancer.

He cringed. Boy, he’d just dated himself there, hadn’t he? In all honesty, he had no idea what a kid on the cutting edge of fashion was called nowadays. And he’d had no idea what to do when Tanja had given him a tart little wave and disappeared on him…again.

At least one thing was going in his favor. The instant he’d discovered the kitchen in his hotel room, he found the perfect opportunity to temporarily place his budget and himself on a diet. Though it had been years since he’d had to worry about money, and weight had never been a problem, waste was something he’d never been very good at. A habit that stemmed directly from his parents.

Finally freeing a pint-size cart from the one it was attached to, he turned the corner and promptly bumped into an older gentleman. He was rerouting a path around him when he realized the guy was eyeing the prophylactics section. He did a double take, not wanting to see the man who was old enough to be his grandfather read the back of a package that touted the words “colored,” “ribbed.”

“Sorry,” Dylan said under his breath, and headed down the next aisle.

He reminded himself that his foul mood wasn’t the result of what he’d just seen—although it hadn’t helped any. His foul mood had gotten worse when he’d taken his seat on the plane to Chicago and found himself sitting across the aisle and one row back from one Miss Hottie. A woman who not only hadn’t seemed to notice him, but kept crossing her long, long legs in a way that had been…well, downright distracting. He hadn’t checked, but he was certain he had a bruise from where the businessman sitting next to him kept elbowing him in order to get a better look.

He checked the price for a box of shredded wheat, frowned, then put the box back. He pushed the crippled cart down the aisle, idly wondering what the sex doctor had on tap for tonight. And who those plans included.

He slowed in front of the frozen food section. Only two freezers, but the essentials for the single professional on the move were all there. And a good deal more affordable than the box of cereal he’d just placed back on the shelf. Not that he didn’t have money. But given the way he was raised…well, he wanted to be frugal. On occasion that meant forgoing his favorite cereal for a cheap TV dinner.

He reached in and grabbed the brand on sale and tossed it into his cart, telling himself he’d only succumb to buying it if nothing else popped out at him.

He resumed warring with the uncooperative cart. It didn’t help matters that every time he moved, the metal thingies on the side pockets of the unfamiliar pants clinked. He glanced down, wondering how much damage he would do if he just ripped them off. Who wanted to make so much noise? A young woman with a small boy watched him as he passed. He managed a polite smile. Just barely. He wished something else would hurry up and grab his attention before he gave up and went back to the hotel to nuke the frozen dinner.

He had turned the corner to the produce section when something grabbed his attention all right. More accurately, someone.

He tried to pull the cart to a halt, only to have the front wheels fight him and end up crashing against a display for canned beans. Dylan hardly noticed. Despite the fact that Grace Mattias had her back turned to him, there was no mistaking all that red hair. Did the woman always dress like that when going to the market? While he couldn’t make out much of her legs, he’d recognize those shoes anywhere. And her white raincoat was cinched tightly at the waist, emphasizing her trim figure.

He glanced around, trying to determine if she was alone. Judging by the basket she carried, and the absence of any hovering, panting male, he surmised she probably was.

Though why he should care, he didn’t want to begin to explore. Lord knows, he was the last man who wanted to be hovering or panting over a woman like Gracie.

Still, he found himself watching her as she picked up a pear, running her fingertips along the odd-shaped fruit, then lifting it to her nose. He swallowed hard at the thorough, thoughtful inspection, then opened his mouth, as if about to take a bite of the fruit she held himself. He caught himself and snapped his teeth together. She put the pear back on the display, then began to turn. Dylan quickly pretended interest in the items next to him. Peaches. Figured.

There was no reason to think Grace would recognize him. Hell, he didn’t even recognize him. He couldn’t have looked more different from this morning had he tried. Which, of course, he hadn’t. But maybe Tanja’s bad taste had its advantages. The last thing he wanted was to engage in conversation with Gracie Mattias so soon. It was bad enough he’d have to appear with her tomorrow after what she’d said to him before leaving the elevator in New York. To have her see him here, alone…well, he could only imagine what she’d have to say about that.

“Why, if it isn’t the world’s most prominent sex expert.”

Dylan nearly crushed the overripe peach in his hand at the sound of Gracie’s voice. He fought the desire to play it off, glance around as if to question who she was talking to. But the way she’d addressed him left no doubt to whom she was speaking. And pretending otherwise would only make him look…more desperate.

He turned his head, managing surprise. Which wasn’t difficult because a scene from an Al Pacino movie suddenly sprang to mind. Pacino had met the heroine-slash-suspected-serial-killer at a small market just like this one. She’d also been wearing a raincoat…and had nothing on underneath it.

Something warm and wet dripped between his fingers. He glanced down to find he’d pulverized the peach.

To his chagrin, Grace’s smile widened. “Don’t tell me. You have a kitchen, too.”

“Kitchen?” he repeated dumbly, reaching for a handkerchief that wasn’t there. What good were so many pockets if they didn’t hold anything?

She handed him a paper towel she’d torn from an overhead holder. “Yes. My hotel room has a kitchen. Well, a kitchenette really, and I decided to cook. I naturally assumed that was the reason you were here as well. We must be in the same…hotel. Again. Which only makes sense if the show’s putting us up.”

She made a production of looking into his cart. Which made the fact that the only item in there was a frozen dinner that much worse.

“Sense. Yes.” Dylan wondered if sleep was going to be anywhere on his itinerary of things to do now that he knew Gracie would be showering…er, sleeping under the same roof.

She straightened, shifting her full basket from one hand to the other. “You know, since you’re obviously eating alone—” she gestured toward the cart “—and I have plans to…eat alone, why don’t we eat alone together?” Her smile had the strangest effect on him. “I’ll even let you get the wine. After all, it’s not like either of us has to drive home or anything.”

“Wine…”

It suddenly slammed into him that Gracie Mattias was actually inviting him to her place, her room, for dinner.

It also occurred to him that she was coming on to him stronger than Limburger cheese.

But why would she be coming on to him? Yes, there had been a certain provocative quality about their conversations thus far, but they’d seemed harmless enough. And when she’d suggested in the elevator that he needed a wild turn in the sack, she hadn’t indicated she saw herself as a player in that particular scenario.

She reached around him to sample the peaches, giving him an undiluted whiff of her subtle perfume. He found himself fighting a groan.

“Um, I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

She turned her head to glance at him, putting her enticing mouth mere inches away from his. “What wouldn’t?”

He gestured helplessly, his words lost somewhere between his chest and his mouth. “The peaches,” he said finally. “They’re never as good as when they’re in season.”

Well, that didn’t make much sense. He’d meant to say he didn’t think it would be a good idea if they had dinner together. Alone. In one or the other of their hotel rooms.

He stood straighter. And why wouldn’t it be a good idea? Because Gracie was wildly attractive? Certainly even he was adult enough to keep his libido in check during something as innocent as dinner. He hadn’t been looking forward to spending the night alone. Over the past five days, he’d had his fill of alone. He could do with a little company. And if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that keeping company with Gracie Mattias was anything but boring.

Wasn’t this what he had signed on for when he’d decided to write his latest book? To sway people to his way of thinking? What better method to do that than by having dinner with his leading adversary? He’d certainly had his share of tough sells. She couldn’t be any tougher than those he’d encountered thus far. He’d tried to prove Gracie wrong on the public front. Perhaps a more private one would do the trick.

“My place,” he said, giving her a room number. “You bring the food, and I’ll supply the wine.”

“Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

He gave her a grin of his own. “Yes, well, I got the impression that you don’t like to do anything the old-fashioned way, Dr. Mattias.”

“Then your powers of observation are better than I thought.” She nodded. “Okay. But that means you have to supply dessert.”

Dylan’s stomach dropped to his groin. The way she said the word made him think all sorts of decadent thoughts that included—but certainly weren’t limited to—licking whipped cream off sexy Gracie’s mouth…and other more sensitive places.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea….

Grace began walking away. “See you in an hour, Dr. Dylan. Oh, and make that white wine, will you?”

DYLAN TORE OPEN the package of assorted cookies, cursing when they flung to the far corners of the counter, everywhere but on the plate he had put out to hold them. Cookies and milk, he’d decided, was as wholesome a dessert as ever there was. Gracie didn’t have to know it had taken him longer to chose the dessert than it had to find a decent bottle of wine. Anything involving strawberries, sticky chocolate, or that had a smooth consistency, he’d instantly ruled out. Day-old, crunchy cookies were the only thing that had fit the bill.

He piled the cookies onto a plate then angled into the dining area. He’d set the small table a little earlier but now stood staring at it. The whole setting looked somehow too intimate, too…suggestive. Too much like a scene for seduction.

Wrong.

He’d agreed to this little meeting solely to try to bring her around to his way of thinking. Placing the cookies on the table, he decided the overhead light wasn’t bright enough. He circled around the room, flicking on every lamp in the place, then flicked on the television and tuned in CNN. A quick trip into the kitchen found the wine he’d been letting breathe on the table resting instead on the counter. After he’d propped his briefcase along with his laptop onto the dining table next to the place settings, he stood back. There. Everything looked more casual. More businesslike. More like the last thing on his mind was sampling Gracie Mattias instead of her food.

He grimaced and rubbed his stubble-covered chin. If that was the last thing on his mind, then why did it spring forth so quickly?

The phone rang on the table in the corner, breaking his thought cleanly in two. He glanced at his watch, then stepped to pluck up the receiver.

“Dylan, it’s Tanja.”

He frowned, wondering at the sound of pulsating music in the background. “She lives.” And apparently better than he did, if the music was any indication.

“Look, I just got a call from your editor. Is your cell phone switched on?”

Dylan glanced toward his briefcase where the instrument in question lay silent on top of some papers. “I don’t think I turned it on after the flight. Why?”

“Because that Diana you’ve been trying to contact has been trying to call you, that’s why.”

“Oh, shit.” Dylan glanced again at the time. He firmly told himself that he hadn’t forgotten Diana. After all the day’s disasters, and last-minute change in plans, he’d just been…distracted, that’s all. And his state of mind had absolutely nothing to do with Grace Mattias. At least not on a personal level. His interest in her was strictly professional.

The sound of a brass horn through the receiver nearly deafened him. “Tanja, where are you?”

“At a jazz joint, of course. Have you never been to Chicago before, Dylan?”

Oh, he’d been to Chicago. Several times. But he’d never even thought about going to a jazz joint.

He found the idea strangely appealing now.

He raked his hand through his hair. “Shouldn’t you be preparing for tomorrow? Seeing as all this sprang up at the last minute—”

“Everything’s taken care of, Dylan. Leave it to me.”

He grimaced. He’d left more to her than he should have and look where that had gotten him. Holed up in a Chicago hotel room in clothes that made him want to turn on rap music. “Tell me why I’m not reassured.”

“Because you’re a control freak, that’s why.” Her laugh took some of the sting out of her words. “Have a good night, Doc. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Dylan began to tell her not to hang up, but couldn’t get the words out before the dial tone buzzed in his ear. Slowly he replaced the receiver in its cradle. A jazz joint? Any hardworking PR person would be mapping out a list of approved questions for tomorrow’s host to ask. Working on a briefing strategy so that he would come away from the interview looking his best. Oh, but not his PR rep. Tanja was too busy hanging out at a jazz joint to do something as tedious as her job.

Stepping to the dining table, he took his cell phone from his briefcase. He had, indeed, neglected to turn it back on after the flight. He pressed the auto dial for Diana’s number in San Francisco at the same time a knock sounded at the front door. Listening to the line ring, he pulled open the door to find Gracie standing in the hall smiling at him.

“Room service,” she said, breezing past him into the room.

Clutching the phone to his ear, he turned to watch her walk by. Her form-fitting white tank top skimmed over generous breasts. And her very short skirt fit across her pert little bottom.

Dylan nearly dropped the cell phone when it stopped ringing. “Hello.”

“Hi—”

“You’ve reached the residence of…”

He yanked the phone away from his ear and stared at it. He’d fallen for it again. Turning from where Grace watched him curiously, he finished listening to Diana’s directives, then left a brief message outlining where he was and where she could get a hold of him. When he glanced back at the table, he found Grace had unpacked the food she’d brought along and sat inelegantly munching on a chunk of fresh French bread. “Phone tag, huh?”

Dylan stepped to the table and tossed his cell phone back into his open briefcase. “Yeah.”

She tucked her long, curly red hair behind her ear and smiled up at him. “Always fun.”

Dylan’s gaze was still plastered to her ear and the hair she had tucked behind it. Diana’s hair was blond and short and neat. Gracie’s was red, curly and…wild. Still, he’d never stared at Diana’s hair this way. “Yeah…fun.”

She didn’t seem to notice his inattention and her smile took on a decidedly teasing quality. “Hope it’s not anything important.”