Merline Lovelace - Closer Encounters

“It’s nice like this,” Drew commented. “No crowds, no hassle.”

It was also very convenient. He and Tracy were two strangers thrown together in relative isolation. Playing to that theme, he made a casual suggestion.

“Since it looks like our dirty miller is out…”

“Dusty miller,” she corrected glumly.

“Since our dusty miller is apparently out, how about a drink?”

That brightened her up. “A drink sounds good.”

“Shall we find a bar or go back to the inn and enjoy the view?”

“Let’s go back to the inn.” With a last look around the darkened streets, she slid her hand into the crook of his arm. “We’ll have a private party.”

Drew formulated his game plan on the walk back to the Bella Vista. First a drink. Then some idle conversation. Another drink. A casual mention of the ships that sailed from the busy ports across the channel. A not-so-casual reference to the USS Kallister.

At the reminder of his mission, his muscles tightened. The involuntary movement pressed Tracy’s arm into his side. She slanted him a quick glance, then snuggled closer. The feel of her high, firm breast against his arm did a serious number on his concentration. The scent that tickled his senses didn’t help, either.

Midnight gardenia. It fit her, he decided. Her skin was as smooth and creamy as the waxy petals. And like some exotic, night-blooming plant, she’d opened to reveal a showy flower.

So showy, she couldn’t wait to experiment with her purchases. Once back at her room, she waggled a hand toward the minibar.

“Do the honors, will you? I just want to powder my nose and put on some lipstick.”

“What’ll you have?” Drew asked as she sailed for the bathroom.

“Scotch.”

“On the rocks?”

“Why water down good hooch?”

While she wrestled with plastic packaging in the bathroom, Drew moved fast. His first objective was the purse she’d deposited on the bed. The wallet held her driver’s license, a couple of credit cards and less than ten dollars in cash. No scribbled phone numbers, no cryptic notes and only one picture of Tracy and an older man grinning at the camera. Her father? Grandfather?

Making a mental note to have Denise run her family history, Drew flipped open her cell phone. The call log showed no calls received or transmitted since she’d arrived on Catalina yesterday.

He had time to give the small suitcase sitting on a luggage rack at the foot of the bed only a quick look. She obviously wasn’t intending a long stay. The weekender contained a neatly folded sweater, a cotton blouse, tan twill slacks and several pairs of cotton panties.

The thump of plastic cartons hitting the bathroom wastebasket announced Tracy’s imminent return. Diverting to the minibar, he poured two miniatures of scotch into plastic cups and carried them to the French doors. He doubted she would want to go out onto the balcony after her dizzy spell this afternoon, but the view from inside the room served his purpose just as well.

He could see the faint glow of lights from a cargo ship steaming up the San Pedro Channel. His opening conversational gambit was right there in front of him. Planning his segue from the cargo ship to the Kallister, he was ready when Tracy emerged from the bathroom.

“Now I feel more like the real me.”

Drew just about dropped the plastic cups. If this was the real Tracy Brandt, all it had taken was a little color to bring her out. The bright red lipstick drew his gaze instantly to full, ripe lips. Subtle shading deepened her eyes to a mysterious jungle-green. Pancake makeup eradicated the dark circles under them. He had no idea what she’d done to her skin to make it look so luminescent, but he had to battle the urge to stroke a knuckle down the smooth curve of her cheek.

Her hair was different, too. She’d taken off her headscarf and released the thick, silky mass from its tight roll. Still damp, it now fell in unruly waves to her shoulders.

The change went more than skin-deep, though. Drew was still trying to figure it out when she raised her plastic cup.

“Here’s to you and here’s to me. May we never disagree. But if we do…”

Drew hooked an eyebrow and waited for the punch line. He’d heard variations of this toast that would make his old buddies in the navy blush. Tracy kept it clean, ending with a merry laugh.

“Here’s to me.”

She tossed back a healthy swallow, closed her eyes and let the scotch slide down her throat. When her lids fluttered up, she stared at the remaining liquid in near awe.

“That’s prime hooch.”

Was retro slang the new thing? Tracy certainly seemed to be into it.

“That’s the second time you used the term hooch,” Drew remarked. “I haven’t heard that in a while.”

Shrugging, she took another sip. “Hooch, booze, giggle water. Whatever name you pin on this stuff, it sure goes down smooth. This Juicy Jamaica Red gives it a different flavor, though. Sort of smoky and fruity at the same time.”

She ran her tongue over her upper lip, testing, tasting, then moved to the lower. Drew followed her progress with a sudden tightening in his chest.

Damn! Did the woman have any idea how arousing that slow, deliberate swipe was? Probably, since she tipped him a smile that hovered between teasing and provocative.

“Want a taste?”

Drew’s ribs squeezed tighter. Telling himself this was all in the line of duty, he bent his head.

The kiss was soft and warm and wonderful. Tracy floated on it, enjoying the sensations, savoring the pleasure that eddied through her in gentle waves.

It had been so long since she’d been kissed. Too long, she thought dreamily. Drifting on a cottony cloud of delight, she opened her mouth to the one that settled over hers.

The kiss deepened. A hard arm wrapped around her waist. Her body came into contact with another at several highly erotic pressure points. Delight erupted into pleasure so hot and intense it jolted through her like an electric charge.

Her eyes flew open. Her arms froze in the act of twining around a strong, corded neck.

Good Lord! This wasn’t a dream! This wasn’t anything close to a dream! She was wrapped in the arms of a man she’d met just a few hours ago. Worse—much worse!—she was damned if she could recall how she’d gotten there. Thoroughly flustered, she shoved out of his hold.

“What are you doing?”

Frowning, the handsome stranger shagged a hand through his short-cropped hair. His voice was tight, his apology gruff.

“Sorry. Guess I misread the signals.”

What signals? The last thing Tracy remembered with any clarity was suggesting Mr. Andrew McDowell take a flying leap off the Green Pier. Not quite in those words, of course, but for the life of her she couldn’t imagine how they’d progressed from that chilly parting to a kiss that darned near melted her bones.

Oh, God! Had the stress of the past few months pushed her over the edge? First her job. Then Jack. Now this. Was she losing it? Making a desperate attempt to hide her incipient panic, she angled her chin.

“I think you’d better leave.”

He studied her for several moments, his face unreadable.

“Now,” she added with as much authority as she could muster at the moment.

He accepted the dictum with a curt nod. “See you around.”

Not if she could help it!

Looking as disgruntled as Tracy now felt, he deposited his plastic cup on the coffee table. The minute the door closed behind him she rushed to flip the dead bolt and fumble the chain into place. Slumping against the door, she put a hand to her mouth.

Tracy could still taste him on her lips, still feel the imprint of his body against hers. The man delivered one heck of a kiss. She’d give him that.