Lori Avocato - Nip, Tuck, Dead

Had Jagger just flinched?

Or, more than likely, was I imagining things? Okay, more like wishing about things like he’d flinch out of insane jealousy that I’d dated Nick. It was more likely that the wine was playing horrible tricks on my mind and making me insane.

Before I could take another crazy sip, Jagger leaned forward. He held his hand out toward me and in it was one of the smaller oyster shells with the little meat glistening in the light and a dollop of cocktail sauce decorating the top.

I looked at Jagger.

He sat silent.

My mouth opened-on its own, I swear!

And before I knew it the slick oyster was inside my mouth.

My hands flew to my face, but suddenly Jagger’s were holding them in both of his. “Chew.”

Now “chew” is not exactly in the top ten sensual words of any vocabulary in any language that I know of, but damn if it didn’t sound so hot coming from this guy that I quickly started to chew (merely to get it out of my mouth). Then my jaw slowed. The salty flavor permeated my tongue, which soon recognized the spicy sauce. I savored the taste. My tongue ran across my lips to get every morsel. I actually and without any effort or logical memory-sighed.

And I thought the wine nearly had me in Nirvana again.

“Well?” he asked as he took his napkin and with the very tip wiped oh so gently across my lips.

Even a freaking Jagger-napkin wiping had me nearly undone.

I swallowed nothing and smiled. “Good. It was good.”

When he gave me his “cat that ate the canary” look I wanted to smack him, but-and this had to be the aphrodisiac effects of the damn mollusk-when his look turned into a grin, I wanted to kiss him.

I was in trouble now.

Wine. Oysters. Moonlit night. And, Jagger.

If I made it through this meal (without ripping his clothes off) I should be awarded some kind of prize for stamina and self-control.

My first choice in prizes said, “Another?”

I could only nod. This time he pushed the dish toward me and said, “Help yourself.”

Somehow the second oyster didn’t have the same effect on me, but it was delicious, and I polished off three of the smaller ones before my clam chowder arrived.

“So,” Jagger said, after finishing his second beer. “What about Lydia’s aunt?”

I set down my spoon in case he said something to upset me, and I had the urge to fling a dollop of chowder in his direction. “Why do you keep harping on her? The aunt?”

He turned to the waitress, who was a few tables over, and lifted his beer bottle. She nodded as if she recognized the universal sign for “hit me again.” Then again, reading Jagger was something I sure wasn’t very good at. Hopefully this waitress was better at it than me.

She must’ve been because within seconds-or so it seemed-she had set another bottle in front of Jagger. Poor thing, I thought, he’s gotten to her too. I’m sure she’s never moved so fast in her waitstaff career.

Jagger took a sip and looked at me. He had this way of pulling words from my mouth with those damn dark eyes. Sometimes, I noted, they took on a deep brown-very much like my favorite chocolate. Other days and only in a certain light, they appeared more black with specks of gold. Then there were times when I saw a hint of hazel.

Today was a chocolate day and no wonder the waitress was falling all over herself.

“Well, I’ve only met Lydia once at The Market. Man, they have the best clam chowder-”

Jagger glared at me. “I’ve had the chowder in every place imaginable around here, Sherlock. I don’t need a Zagat’s rating review.”

“I…um…so…where’s the best?” I took a long sip of wine, which emptied my glass. The guy had my dander up, so I looked toward the waitress and held up my glass.

She turned away without a glance.

And I knew she saw me.

I curled my lips and looked back at Jagger. “Get me another one.”

He smirked and waved at the girl, who didn’t even have to come see what he wanted. Soon I had my third glass of wine in front of me, and as much as I told myself to go slow, that I wasn’t used to so much wine, the thing was half gone in a heartbeat.

Yikes.

“Show…so…” Oh, boy. Was the dock moving? I inhaled the fresh ocean air to clear my head. “So, why are you so interested in the aunt?”

He shook his head-twice.

No one ever wanted Jagger shaking his head at him or her-especially me. Then again, I think I was the only one he ever shook at. I’d scored the number of shakes from one to three with one being merely annoyed and three…suffice it to say, no one wanted three shakes.

I got to buy some time when our dear waitress who just about threw my lobster in front of me (okay, the wine was blowing things out of proportion) went to help Jagger with his bib. She fussed and fussed tying and retying all the while I’m sure she was suffering-make that enjoying-some pheromone-induced episode.

Jagger suddenly took her hand. “Fine. That’s fine, honey.”

I’m sure she wouldn’t wash her hand that night.

I stuck my bib on-crooked-while Jagger yanked his off and grabbed a claw from his dish. When he went to crack it with the tools set before us, he said, “Olivia Wheaton-Chandler owns…Highcliff Manor.”

Olivia owned Highcliff!

I hadn’t had a chance to find out who the “money lady” and Lydia’s aunt actually was.

I bit into a chunk of lobster, chewed but swallowed without thinking since the bombshell Jagger had just set off took all my attention.

In seconds I couldn’t breathe and grabbed at my throat-the universal sign of choking. Jagger flew out of his seat, grasped me from behind and did the Heimlich maneuver. The piece of buttery lobster popped out of my mouth and onto my dish.

Thank goodness it didn’t land on Jagger’s or I’d have been so embarrassed.

I’d gotten pretty used to being humiliated in front of him (actually by him), so having it on my dish and having my life spared was no big deal.

I pushed at his hands before he cracked a rib and breathlessly said, “I’m fine. Thanks. I owe you one.”

He sat down and looked at me then grinned again.

Yikes!

I had to see if the adult ed classes back in Hope Valley offered a quick course on reading body language. Because in my book that look said “sex,” but probably in Jagger’s it was more like “you’re going to have to wash my laundry” or some stupid guy thing to do with housework in order to pay him back.

I took a sip of water this time and gently pushed the wineglass away. One episode of near-death per night was my limit. “Okay. How do you…is she really? Mrs. Wheaton-Chandler is? Is the owner of Highcliff? Lydia didn’t say…I mean she would know that-”

Jagger touched my lips.

I chose to “read” it as sensual; however, my logical mind knew it was out of exasperation to shut me up. Forget the course. I was going to read him how I wanted, or I’d never be able to work with him, knowing the truth.

“She owns it,” he said, very matter-of-fact. He lifted his fork and stabbed at the tail end of his lobster, recovering a gigantic piece. Jagger didn’t even dip it in butter, which didn’t surprise me-however, it did annoy me.

I would probably gain anywhere from ten to thirteen pounds at this one meal tonight. Oh well, at least I was sticking Jagger with the bill. That gave me some justification for all the calories.

After my chocolate mousse dessert-with whipped cream-I decided we-at least I-needed to walk a bit. No, a lot.

“It’s such a nice night, let’s take a walk,” Jagger said.

Amazing, yet not surprising. The guy had some kind of power to read minds. My mind, that was. I only hoped he hadn’t suggested the exercise because he’d noted I’d already started to gain a few pounds.