Stuart Woods - Imperfect Strangers

"I very much want to be in bed with you," he groaned, "but-"

"All right, I'll let you go to the bathroom, if you'll come right back."

"I promise."

She rolled off his arm and put a pillow over her head.

Sandy ran to the bathroom and ran back. He dove under the covers and pulled her close to him again.

"That was quick," she said.

"It doesn't take long."

Her hand snaked under the covers and felt for him. "That's not all that doesn't take long," she said, giggling.

"You're right," he said. "Now, what are you going to do with it?"

Cara rolled on top of him and sat up, holding him firmly in both hands. "Well, let's see," she mused, running a finger along the length of him. "Ooo, that got a response, didn't it?"

"It did," he panted.

"Well, let's see if it will fit in here." She lifted her buttocks, then slowly sat down on him.

"It fits," he breathed.

"I'll bet I can make it smaller," she said, moving slowly up and down. "Not right away, I hope, but eventually." She moved faster.

Sandy sat up and put his arms around her. "That's it," he said. "Make it smaller. Eventually." He kissed her, tugging at her lips with his teeth, playing with her tongue. "Oh, my!" he said suddenly, "It's about to get smaller!" He fell back onto the bed, arching his back, matching her strokes.

Cara gave a short, sharp yell, quivered for a moment and fell forward onto his chest. "My God!" she panted. "That worked wonderfully, didn't it?"

"Wonderfully," he managed to say while trying to let his breathing return to normal.

They lay locked together for another five minutes, he stroking her hair, she kissing his chest and neck.

"This is wonderful," Sandy said at last.

"No, it's better than wonderful," she said. "I just can't think of the word right now."

"Has it been a long time?" he asked.

"Long time," she replied. "Forever."

"Why?"

"You weren't around."

He laughed. "You must have had other offers."

"They weren't you. You seem to be perfect, Sandy Kinsolving. Is there something terribly wrong with you that I don't know about?"

"Probably, but I never know what a woman thinks of as terribly wrong. What do women want, anyway?"

"This," she said, snuggling closer.

"That's all?"

"That's it, mostly."

"Funny, that's what men want, too."

"I'm hungry," she said.

"Me, too."

"My turn to cook," she said, raising her head and looking at him. She laughed. "Your hair is funny."

"So is yours," Sandy replied.

She clapped both hands to her head and leapt from bed, running toward Joan's bathroom.

Sandy got up, brushed his hair, slipped into a robe and found one for her. He looked around the room. It was oddly bare, but he was very glad that he had removed Joan's things a few days before. He left the robe on the bed for Cara and went to his own bathroom. He shaved and showered, and as he dried himself he caught the aroma of bacon frying. He found his slippers, splashed on some cologne and headed for the kitchen.

Halfway there, he remembered the papers. He walked to the front foyer, reaching it just as the elevator doors opened. His son was standing in the car, holding the Sunday New York Times.

"Morning, Dad," Angus said, stepping from the elevator.

"Ah, morning, Angus," Sandy replied, gulping.

"Something wrong?"

Sandy shook his head.

"You look funny."

"Funny?"

"You look guilty, like I'd caught you at something." He sniffed the air. "Uh, oh," he groaned. "You got lucky didn't you?"

"I don't know that I'd put it quite… Yes, I got lucky. Would you like to meet her?"

"I don't guess you're up for tennis this morning, then?"

"Probably not."

"Maybe it would be better if I met her another time," Angus said, grinning.

"You're a good son," Sandy said.

Angus handed him the newspaper. "Have a nice Sunday." He pressed the elevator button.

"Thank you, kiddo. We'll talk tomorrow?"

"You bet." The elevator doors slid open, Angus stepped aboard, still grinning. "Congratulations," he said as the doors closed.

Sandy laughed and padded toward the kitchen. The table was set for two, and Cara had found a plastic rose somewhere and put it in a little vase. There was a pitcher of orange juice on the table, and she was struggling with a champagne cork. He took the bottle from her and opened it. "A Buck's Fizz?" he asked.

"A what?"

"Champagne and orange juice."

"That's a mimosa."

"In London, it's a Buck's Fizz; I like it better. You just missed meeting my son."

Her face registered shock. "Like this?"

"He figured out the situation and very kindly excused himself."

"Obviously a well-brought-up young man."

"Certainly."

They dove into breakfast silently, exchanging only glances.

"What are you doing for lunch?" he asked finally.

"I haven't even finished breakfast," she protested.

"This will take a little planning; I need an answer."

"I'm all yours- if I can go home and change."

"You're on. What are you doing for dinner? You won't have to change."

"Oh, all right."

"And breakfast? It's part of the package."

"If I'm late for work, you'll just delay getting your sketches," she said.

"I can live with that." He put down his fork. "Let me make a couple of phone calls."

The light twin aircraft set down gently; they had left Teterboro something over an hour before.

"Where are we?" Cara demanded. She was blindfolded.

"You'll have to guess," Sandy said.

The airplane taxied to a stop before the little terminal, and the pilot cut the engines.

"We'll meet you here at ten tomorrow morning," he said to the pilot, and the man nodded. Sandy took their two bags in one hand and Cara's arm in the other.

"Can't I see where we are?"

"Not yet." He led her to the little car, an old MGB convertible, stowed their bags and helped her into the front seat. When they were away from the airport he took off her blindfold.

She looked around. "So, where is this?"

"You don't recognize it?"

"This is an eastern place; I'm a westerner."

"It's called Martha's Vineyard."

"I know about Martha's Vineyard," she said. "Where are we going now?"

"To Edgartown," he replied. "I think you'll like it.

He stopped the car in front of the house, a spic-and-span, two-story Victorian with a widow's walk, painted white with green shutters.

"It's gorgeous," she said. "A bed and breakfast?"

"It's mine," Sandy replied. "I bought it fifteen years ago." He got their bags, led her up the front walk, and opened the front door with his key.

She stepped into the foyer and looked around at the old furniture and nearly bare walls. "You never got around to fixing it up, huh?"

"I fixed up everything but the interior," he said. "I put a roof on it, replaced a lot of rotten wood, painted it, rewired and replumbed it. But you're right, the furnishings leave a lot to be desired. I was hoping maybe you could make some suggestions."

"Oh, boy, could I make some suggestions!"

"But don't worry about that now. Come on; I'll give you a quick tour, and then we've got someplace to go."

"I thought we were there."

"Sort of." He showed her the house's three bedrooms, his little study, and the kitchen. She seemed entranced with the place.

"How much time do you spend here?"

"Not as much as I've wanted to. Joan never liked the island, said there were too many tourists. She was right, of course, but the tourists mean there are some good restaurants and galleries, so I don't mind them."

"Good point," she said. "Besides, I'm a tourist."

"Okay, get into your swimsuit, and bring some jeans."