Pink Jinx

  Famosa and Peach both groaned.

  After taking a long drink of beer, Famosa said, “I saw a guy wearing a T-shirt yesterday that said, ‘Most women fake orgasms; most men don’t care.’”

  John’s mind was boggled by that idea. Then he shook his head. “He couldn’t have been a Cajun. We know better.”

  “I was just joking, for chrissake.”

  John wasn’t so sure about that.

  Just then, John noticed a girl who was standing near the bar with her girlfriends. She wore tight white jeans, a fringed shirt, cowboy boots, and bright red lipstick. Plus, she was blonde. His kind of girl!

  “Learn from an expert, boys,” he said. Shoving Famosa to let him out of the booth, he stood, then pretended to crack his knuckles in preparation. Once he walked across the short dance floor and cut the girl from her girlfriends’ herd, he stood in front of his target and said, “Hey, darlin’.”

  She smiled like a cat who’d just been offered a saucer of cream.

  Yep, a good drawl would do it every time.

  Jumping headfirst into the deep end of the dating pool . . .

  It was dark by the time Veronica arrived at Dirty Doug’s, where Adam was waiting for her in a booth with Caleb Peachey. She saw John LeDeux out on the small dance floor with a cute blonde, and holy cow, the boy could dance!

  She was a little late, having tried on five different outfits, finally settling on black jeans; low-heeled shoes; and a filmy, almost transparent, gold metallic blouse that tapered at the waist and floated over her hips, providing a hazy view of her black bra and bare abdomen. Vacillating over clothing choices was a new experience for her, which pretty much proved her grandmother’s contention that they were alike. Tailored suits had been the garment du jour for them both. Not anymore for Veronica, though, she promised herself.

  Loud country and rock music, provided by a three-piece band on a dais, filled the room, making it difficult for people to carry on a conversation. Although she much preferred groups like Aerosmith—being from Boston, that was almost a given—Veronica liked some country songs, much to her grandmother’s consternation and Jake’s amusement. If it wasn’t classical music, her grandmother considered it trash. If it wasn’t Sting, Jake wasn’t interested. In particular, she liked Kenny Chesney and K.D. Lang. And Sheryl Crow’s version of “The First Cut Is the Deepest”—a concept Veronica didn’t entirely buy. She knew from experience that all cuts went deep . . . all four of them, in her case.

  Adam stood when he noticed her walking toward him. Good heavens, are those leather pants he has on? While he waited with a smile on his face, his eyes traveled over her body. Yep, the gold slut blouse had been the right choice.

  “Hi, Adam,” she said.

  “Hi, gorgeous,” he replied, which was a too-obvious line she found distasteful. Caleb must have, too, because he cringed.

  “I’m really glad you came,” Adam added, squeezing her shoulder.

  She slid into the booth, and he followed after her, his hip pressed deliberately against hers. Across the table Caleb just watched the two of them, a serious expression on his face.

  “Hi, Caleb,” she said.

  “Ronnie.”

  She saw Adam give Caleb a look, which she interpreted to mean, “Get lost.”

  Caleb pretended not to notice, and studied his beer bottle when he wasn’t studying her.

  Adam tried to get the waitress’s attention then, but the place was so busy, it didn’t look promising. “I’ll go to the bar and get our drinks. What would you like, Ronnie?”

  “White wine?”

  “Sure.” Adam glanced at Caleb and asked, “Wanna come with me?”

  Caleb didn’t even blink when he answered, “No.”

  She and Caleb were left alone then.

  Veronica was kind of glad that Caleb had stayed. Adam came on a bit too strong, and she might need a “chaperon.” The thought made her smile. A Navy SEAL chaperon? Oh, yeah!

  “Are you and Adam an item?” Caleb asked, stone-cold serious.

  Did the man ever smile?

  “An item?” She laughed.

  “Exclusive,” he explained.

  She realized something in that instant. Even though Caleb hadn’t said anything or acted in any obvious way, she sensed that he was interested in her . . . as a woman. Two men in one day. Do wonders never cease?

  “I don’t even know Adam. This is just a first date.”

  “So, the answer is no?”

  “Yes, Caleb, the answer is no.”

  He showed no expression at that news, not pleasure or distaste. But the interest was definitely there.

  Possible involvement with Caleb scared her . . . almost as much as reinvolvement with Jake. Adam she could handle, because she knew it would be a fling. Not so with Caleb. The guy had red neon signs flashing “Danger” all over him. Same with Jake.

  “Do you ever smile?” she blurted out.

  Her question caught him off guard. But then he did smile, and Veronica almost reeled at the impact. The man was drop-dead, come-here-baby gorgeous. She’d known he was attractive before, in a silent, brooding sort of way, but when he smiled . . . whew! The temperature in the room went up a few degrees. She needed to change the subject, quick, lest she do something foolish, like ask him for a date.

  “Is it true that you’re Amish?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Is your family still Amish?”

  “Yes, well, I assume they are. I haven’t seen or heard from them in fifteen years.”

  She tilted her head, confused. He said the words flatly, as if they didn’t matter, but something in his whiskey brown eyes said different.

  “I’m being shunned.”

  Veronica thought she knew what that meant. “Your family can’t be in contact with you?” Reflexively, she reached across the table and squeezed his hand in sympathy.

  He just stared at her hand on his, as if it was something he did not understand or was unaccustomed to.

  There were so many questions she wanted to ask. Why are you being shunned? When did you leave the clan? Is there some girl you left behind? What made you become a SEAL? Aren’t Amish pacifists? Why did you opt out of SEALs?

  But he was clearly annoyed at her intrusive questions. That was proved true when he pulled his hand out from under hers and asked, “How is it that you married and divorced the same man four times?”

  She felt her face heat with embarrassment. “Touché!”

  He nodded at her backhanded apology.

  The silence that followed was uncomfortable, so she rattled on. “What do you do for a living now? Wreck diving?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve only been out of the teams for six months. I do a little commercial diving—oil rigs, bridge abutments, that kind of thing. Not sure what I want to do next. I’m sort of drifting.” That was a long spiel for Caleb, and his face reddened as a result.

  “I know what you mean . . . about drifting. I’m between jobs, too.”

  “I thought you were a lawyer.”

  “I am. An unemployed lawyer, at the moment.”

  Their conversation was cut short by Adam’s return.

  For a while, Veronica just sat back and listened while Adam and Caleb discussed with much enthusiasm the upcoming wreck operation. Occasionally, she commented or responded to a question put to her, but mostly she enjoyed eavesdropping on their excitement.

  “This is my twentieth deep dive,” Adam said. “How about you, Peach? I would imagine you did a lot of deep diving in SEALs.”

  “Nah. I’ve only gone below two hundred feet a few times. The teams do more underwater demolition in shallower waters than that.”

  Veronica had already learned that two hundred feet was the dividing line for deep diving—where special breathing equipment was required; where decompression was essential to avoid narcosis, or the bends; where only the most accomplished or adventuresome divers dared venture. “Will the Pink Project wreck be down that far?” she asked whe
n there was a break in the back-and-forth conversation.

  “Probably,” Adam said. “We’ve prepared for that eventuality.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “Any dive is dangerous,” Caleb replied. “But deep diving has its own particular risks, and an ill-equipped or ill-prepared team can be snagged at a hundred feet. We lost a SEAL trainee at Coronado last year because he hadn’t checked his equipment before going down. There was a leak in his air hose, and he wasn’t able to get back up in time.”

  “That’s nothing. If you ever see a diver come up with narcosis, bleeding through the nose and ears, you never forget it. On that gruesome note”—Adam turned to her with a laugh—“are you ready to eat?”

  “Yes. I’m famished.”

  “Well, I’ll shove off,” Caleb said, standing and slapping a few bills on the table. “I’ll see you later.” He was looking at Veronica when he spoke.

  “What’s going on?” Adam asked once Caleb left.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Peach. Was he hitting on you?”

  She smiled. “No. I think he was trying to pull your chain.”

  “Ah,” he said, understanding.

  Veronica ordered a medium-rare black and blue burger, a blackened ground sirloin patty topped by blue cheese, with Boardwalk fries. Adam got a well-done steak with mushrooms and a baked potato dripping with butter and sour cream. They shared a Bananas Foster for dessert.

  While they ate and then danced several sets of slow songs, they talked and talked and then talked some more.

  Adam was a very interesting man. Full of himself, sure, but he lived a fascinating life, full of adventure. He was probably unmarried because he was having too much fun, even at age thirty-seven, taking advantage of the sexual favors women gave him freely. But he was intelligent and attractive. A girl could do worse for a fling. Not that Veronica had decided on a fling—with him or anyone else. Still . . .

  Adam followed her back to the motel since they’d both driven to the tavern. He walked her to her door and leaned an arm against the door frame. He was so close, she could smell his deodorant. He probably expected her to invite him in. Actually, Veronica considered it and rejected the idea. For now, at least.

  “Good night, Adam.”

  He arched his eyebrows, then shrugged, getting her silent message that the evening was over. “Thanks for a great evening.” He leaned down to kiss her.

  Veronica returned his kiss. “That was nice,” she murmured.

  “Nice?” he hooted with disappointment. Then he really kissed her, putting his arms around her and pulling her sharply forward so they were pressed together. His one hand was at her nape, holding her head in place, and his other hand locked around her waist.

  She had no choice but to put her hands on his shoulders.

  When the kiss ended, he leaned back and asked in a husky voice, “How was that?”

  “Much nicer,” she said, but what she really thought was, Just nice.

  A short time later, when she was in her motel room, alone, she heard a knock on the door. Good Lord! Does the man not take no for an answer?

  She walked, barefoot, over to the door and opened it a crack, then wider. “Caleb? What are you doing here?”

  “Couldn’t get you out of my mind.”

  Oh, my God! Now that gets my attention. “Are you staying here, at this motel?”

  “No. I’m at the Hampton . . . down the road a ways.”

  She leaned against the door frame. “And?”

  “And I was driving past, saw your car, and thought, what the hell!” With that, he pulled her into his embrace; backed her up against the door, which slammed against the inner wall of the motel room; and kissed her. Really. Kissed. Her. Kissed her so good and so long that her toes curled. For sure, there was a certain part of her body melting. His erection pressed against her stomach. His one hand slipped under her gauzy blouse and kneaded her breast till a nipple blossomed against his palm. He used his other hand to caress her behind. No subtlety here. No “Can I?” or “Please, baby?” This was hard-core sex he was offering.

  Then he stepped away from her, surveying her with dark, smoldering eyes.

  The one word that came to her mind was not nice.

  “Make a list, Ronnie,” he said in a voice smokey with desire, “of everything you like in bed. I’ll do all of them, and then we’ll hit my list.”

  Without another word, he left, closing the door behind him.

  Veronica sank to the bed, weak with surprise and, yeah, a little bit of arousal. And for the first time in, oh, let’s say forever, she giggled.

  Just before she fell asleep a short time later, it wasn’t Adam or Caleb she thought about, though. It was Jake. And his kisses. Night thoughts, that’s what Jake always called them. Those passions or forbidden yearnings that could be pushed aside during daylight hours came back to haunt in the still of the night, in that ethereal moment just before sleep.

  Much as she would have liked otherwise, her dreams were of Jake that night. As always. Am I a sap, or what?

  Chapter

  10

  THE SAPPY WEDDING

  Thirteen years ago . . .

  They were running away from their own wedding reception.

  “Shhh,” Jake whispered to her.

  Veronica giggled.

  She wore a white gown and veil; he had on a black tux. From down the hall in the banquet room, they could hear the musicians begin to play big-band songs for dancing—her grandmother’s choice, though not objectionable to her and Jake. “Sentimental Journey” wafted out to them.

  “My grandmother will have a fit,” she said.

  “Yep,” Jake agreed with a grin. Her grandmother didn’t approve of Jake and didn’t mind showing it every chance she got. She would blame Jake for their early, unannounced departure.

  The elevator ping-pinged, then opened. Jake took her hand and they rushed in, repeatedly jabbing the CLOSE button in their impatience, then using a key to take them to the penthouse bridal suite. Once the elevator door swooshed shut, Jake leaned back against one wall and smiled at her, a lazy smile so full of heat she felt herself melting, bit by bit, from head to toe and some interesting places in between.

  What a beautiful smile he has, dimple and all, she observed. It was the first thing she’d noticed when she met him three years ago on the Boston U campus. She’d probably fallen in love with him on sight. He’d always claimed the same about her.

  She leaned against the opposite wall and smiled back at him. “So, what do you think we should do, now that we’re an old married couple?” They’d married five hours ago at St. Jerome’s Cathedral.

  “Oh, I can think of a few things.” He crooked his forefinger at her, beckoning her to come closer.

  “Oh, no!” she said with a laugh. “Now that we’re married, I get to call the shots.”

  “Is that a fact?” he asked as the elevator doors swooshed open directly into the entryway of their suite.

  Seeing the gleam in his blue eyes, she picked up the skirt of her gown and started to run. He caught up with her in a few long strides, put his hands on her waist, and lifted her high, then swung them around in a joyous circle.

  They gazed at each other in wonder. They were so wildly in love. Even though she was only twenty-two and he was twenty-five, they sensed how special their love was.

  From the open balcony doors, they could hear the band segue into The Police’s “Every Breath You Take.” It was Jake’s favorite song, by his favorite band.

  She arched a brow at him.

  He laughed. “I gave the band leader a twenty.”

  “My grandmother will have a fit,” she repeated.

  Jake grinned and tightened his arms around her waist, pulling her close against his body. She looped her arms around his neck.

  He kissed her then, a kiss that went on and on. So gentle that it spoke volumes. She touched his hair. His thumb outlined her jaw. And all the while they continued to kiss. Sh
e would remember that kiss till the day she died.

  Against her mouth, he whispered, “Hello, wife.”

  A thrill ran through Veronica at his words. Even though they’d been married for five whole hours, it was the first chance she’d had to really register that she was now Mrs. Jake Jensen.

  “Hello, husband,” she said, and laid her cheek against his shoulder. They danced then, slow, slow, slow. She could feel his heart beating and fancied that they were both breathing in unison. One heartbeat.

  It was a moment out of time, to be cherished forever. A memory they were creating, like a picture in an album, to be taken out over the years to remind them of how perfect things had been on that one day and that one time.

  The band must have taken a break, because the only sounds in the room now were the rasp of a zipper and the swoosh of her gown falling to the floor—followed by the sweet sounds of skin against skin, the clicking of her great-grandmother’s pearls, and softly murmured endearments.

  Later, Jake leaned over her and whispered, “I love you so much.” There were actually tears in his eyes.

  Which caused her to choke up, too. “Forever,” she said back. “I will love you forever.”

  It was all so sappy . . . and wonderful.

  Chapter

  11

  Grumble, grumble, grumble . . .

  Frank was in a rip-roaring bad mood.

  It hadn’t helped that wacky Vivian, the manicure lady from Nail You, showed up at ten last night to fix Flossie’s broken nail. Coughing up a storm, Vivian had left her flu deathbed to help Flossie with her dire emergency—a broken nail, of all things. She never said how she’d found out about Flossie’s dilemma and seemed terrified when asked.

  He got up at dawn, as was his custom these days, but a little more tired than usual due to the late-night visitor. Hey, he was seventy-five years old; he didn’t want to waste a minute of the time he had left. Besides, he needed to get into the office before Ronnie arrived so he could hide more of his financial papers. His granddaughter was way too smart, and she was relentless in pursuing the location of every single dime of his.

  Out on the deck, while the sun rose over the ocean and the seabirds awakened loudly, he did a series of push-ups. Not as many as he’d done in his younger days, but he still managed a set of fifty halfway decent ones. He inhaled the fresh sea air, which he loved, and saluted the lighthouse, which was his daily ritual, too. But his mood got worse instead of better. By the time he was on his way to the office at seven A.M., smoking cigar firmly planted in his mouth, zipping across the bay in his speed boat to the Barnegat wharf, he was hunting for someone on whom to vent his frustrations.