Bungalow Nights(27)

“Yeah?” Teague’s gaze sharpened.

“Yeah.” Addy took in his handsome features, the dark hair tousled by the wind, the ripple of muscles. She had someone she wanted to exorcise from her life, as well, and why the heck not with this dark-haired hunk? “I’m a little lonely now, too, as a matter of fact.”

He smiled, revealing the deep crease of a dimple in one cheek. “This might be my lucky day.” Then his eyes shifted over her shoulder. A glint of humor kindled in them. “Or not.”

Addy turned—and took a quick step back, almost stumbling. “You.”

“Hi,” Baxter said.

As usual, he looked as if he’d come straight from a hard day at the office. His tie was loosened, his shirt’s collar unbuttoned. Its cuffs were folded back to reveal his strong wrists, the left one banded with a steel watch.

The wind tugged at the cuffs of his trousers, but didn’t dare ruffle his golden hair. The sun burnished the perfectly cropped layers, though, making him seem to glow. Addy swallowed, trying to appear unaffected, even as the memory of a naughty boss-secretary dream she’d been having lately bloomed in her mind. Miss March, I found four typos in this memo...

“Uh, hi,” she said, cursing the blush creeping over her face.

He frowned. “What’s going on?”

Addy crossed her arms over her chest. I’m preparing for an exorcism. It was imperative. She was certain of that now because it wasn’t healthy for a woman to go weak-kneed when some man arrived out of the blue. Some man who’d said, “That leaves the present wide-open,” but who’d then ignored her for several days thereafter, only showing up in her subconscious at night.

Miss March, come into my office and close the door.

“Addy?”

“Nothing’s going on,” she said, then slid a glance in Teague’s direction. “Just making a new friend.”

Baxter’s blue eyes narrowed. “Is that right?”

The dark-haired man held out his hand, his expression still good-humored. “Teague White,” he said. “I’m a nice guy, honest. Skye can vouch for me.”

“He’s a firefighter,” Skye added. “Can’t get more wholesome than that.”

A firefighter? Addy sneaked a second look at the man. Wholesome wasn’t the first word that came to mind, especially when the firefighter in question was absolutely hot and incredibly handsome. Maybe the exorcism thing could really work.

Baxter was frowning as if wholesome didn’t ring true to him, either.

He shook the other man’s hand, then glanced at Addy. “Look, can we go—”

“I was just about to ask her to have a drink with me at Captain Crow’s,” Teague put in.

Baxter didn’t look away from her face. “She can’t,” he answered flatly. “We have plans.”

The liar. “What plans?”

He stepped into her, so close his loafers were an inch from the toenails she’d painted a bright melon as a pick-me-up when he hadn’t called or stopped by. How silly she’d been to believe he might. She’d been smart enough to have no expectations of him before and she shouldn’t be harboring any now.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.” The back of Baxter’s hand slid along her cheek. “I had to take an emergency business trip.”

The caress sent a line of fire running from her face, down her throat, between her breasts. Addy couldn’t breathe. “I don’t... You don’t...” She had no idea what words were coming out of her mouth.

Damn the man! He scrambled her brain, garbled her good intentions, messed with her mind with just a look from his blue eyes.

His hand slid from her face to the back of her neck. His palm covered the tender skin there, more fire racing along her scalp and down her back. Panic added to the heat in her blood. She couldn’t want him like this.

In childhood, she’d had her defenses—coping mechanisms to smother her feelings or escape her surroundings. She’d worked hard to eradicate the unhealthiest of them, but now she found herself still vulnerable. Baxter—wanting Baxter—could take her back, take her down, making her that weak girl again who lived in her fantasies instead of living her life.

He leaned close, his voice for her ears only. “I’ve thought of you.” The thumb of the hand that was curved around her nape stroked the edge of her jaw, just under her ear.

Oh, God. She shouldn’t listen. He had the power to make her yearn. After a childhood of pining for things she couldn’t have or couldn’t make right, she knew better than to let herself long for Golden Boy Baxter. Six years ago, despite how breathtaking the experience, despite the things he’d said afterward, she’d never let it become more than a blissful night of wish fulfillment.

She’d never expected there to be more.

The Addy Marches of the world never got to have a Baxter Smith. Not really.

But he seemed to be offering something now...and even if it was only something temporary, it was still tempting.

She should shut him down. Turn away and then purge him from her life so she wouldn’t pine for him.

“Addy,” he murmured, that caressing thumb seducing her again.

Seducing the wallflower. Wallflower Addy, who after years of hiding herself away had finally learned that when her shoulders were flat against a hard surface, it was time to push back. “All right,” she said, making a sudden decision. She shot an apologetic glance at the attractive Teague, then focused on Baxter once again. “Let’s go to your place.”

He blinked. “What?”

There was a way to exorcise him other than running off with another man. She and Baxter could have sex again. Maybe the problem was that her experience with him was squarely in the sentimental category of first times and girlish dreams come true. Now, older and more experienced, she’d realize he was a mere man.

And that there wasn’t anything especially captivating about Baxter’s tab A sliding into her slot B.

She’d purge all right. All the stupid stars from her eyes.

* * *

BAXTER DIDN’T KNOW WHAT was going on in Addy’s mind, but he knew one thing for sure. They were not going to have sex.

He’d done that with her way too soon six years before. So when he opened the door to his condo and ushered her inside, he reminded himself he was no longer a twenty-three-year-old hothead. Which, actually, was a weird reminder in itself, because he’d never been a hothead. Not at fourteen, not at eighteen, not at twenty-three. Baxter had been focused on the BSLS. Hotheadedness was Vance’s domain. The only time Baxter had been driven by impulse was that particular night six years before.

So, no, this wasn’t going to be a repeat of that rash act. There was plenty of safe daylight left. It was summer and just past six o’clock, the perfect hour to have a reasonable, adult, getting-to-know-you interlude over a bottle of wine and some appetizers on his twentieth-floor balcony.

Because he did want to get to know her better. It was much too hasty to be considering a serious relationship according to the Baxter Smith Life Schedule, but there was nothing wrong with furthering their acquaintance. After that hike around Crescent Cove, he’d found himself charmed by her enthusiasm, entertained by her tales of the silent film era and completely unwilling to merely settle for her acknowledgment of and his apology for That Night.

Because she did remember it.

As he watched her move out of the entryway and into his living room, that six-year-old memory welled in his own mind. Addy was crossing the carpet to approach the sliding glass doors and the city view they afforded, but in his inner vision they were at the family ranch. The summer’s night air was redolent with barbecue, watermelon and beer. The deep rural darkness was held at bay with strings of small bulbs edging the rooflines, wrapping around the trunks of the oak trees, crisscrossing above the designated dance floor. Still, even though larger spotlights illuminated the players in the band and the booths providing food and drink, there were plenty of pockets of warm darkness.

Baxter had taken to one, his shoulder braced against the heated stucco of his parents’ house, listening to the country performers who did damn good covers of the latest hits. He’d been watching the dancers when, through the circling couples, he’d spied a pixie. In a pale yellow sundress a near color match to her hair, she’d been standing on the edge of more shadows. He might have missed her, except that she was moving to the beat, just the tiniest bit, the swaying of her belled skirt catching his gaze.

Without thinking, he’d been on the move toward her.

He was on the move now, making his way into the galley kitchen. “White wine okay?” he called to Addy.

“Sure,” she said, turning from the vista of skyscrapers and SoCal traffic to follow him into the small room. “What can I do to help?”

He glanced over. Froze. At the beach he’d noticed what she’d been wearing. White jeans, a simple pair of flip-flops, a thin white-and-turquoise-striped tunic-type shirt that fell to her thighs and buttoned down the front. Then, it had been fastened to her throat.