Taste of Love: A Romance Sampler

  Chapter 3

  Tapping her fingernail against her Spanish-English dictionary, Joanna attempted to smile at the waiter as he checked his watch. No reason to panic. Or was there? This time the curve of her lips barely made it out of an even line as she glanced at the wall clock and then her own watch. After two hours of avoiding a frisky party of cockroaches playing near her feet, her optimism was all but leeched away. The one thing that remained was the question she’d been avoiding asking herself for the last hour and a half. She stomped out two roaches and scared a third toward an empty table. Where the blue blazes was Ramon Quintero?

  The very best answer she could hope for was that Ramon Quintero was not punctual. There were several alternative answers she dreaded thinking about. She thought about one anyway; maybe she had somehow missed him. As the inevitable self-doubt started again, she picked up her dictionary. The red vinyl-bound book had been close at hand all through her lunch, her gooey meringue dessert, and the strongest, blackest coffee she’d ever urged from a cup. With the caffeine and sugar overload, she could use a calming word about now. She grimaced. No, what she needed was an encouraging word, and if she ran across one while attempting to construct a question, she promised herself she’d memorize it.

  Wading through the far-flung dialogue examples, she fought back a fit of frustrated growling. Whoever said Spanish was an easy language to learn hadn’t thought about its practical use outside a classroom. She flipped through several more pages. She did not need to buy aspirin, ask directions to the bull ring, or inquire about the price of clothing alterations. And what was she supposed to gather from all those extra, upside-down question marks? Was there a hidden message? she wondered while she turned the book sideways and cocked her head.

  "Señorita?"

  "Yes… I mean, si?" she replied, closing her eyes to focus on his voice. She was going to listen with exquisite care, but only after she asked the man to speak slowly. Very slowly. "Muy despacio, por favor," she said.

  In painfully broken English the waiter explained that she had to leave because Boca del Toro was about to close for the afternoon siesta.

  Her heart dropped into her stomach. He wanted her to leave, and she still had not connected with the guide she’d hired. She wasn’t going to argue with the waiter; her embarrassment quota for the week had been used up hours before. "I understand," she said, counting out the money to pay her bill. At least Jack Stratford wasn’t around to witness this setback. Or rescue her from it. Although she had to wonder how he would have handled this moment, when she was close to a hardy shriek of frustration.

  She took a deep breath and looked around. She knew just what Jack Stratford would do. And she would do it too. She would use her head and not her emotions. Turning to a waiter who was busy loading water pitchers onto a tray, she asked, "Ramon Quintero? Do you know him? Does he come here?"

  As water slopped over the rim of one of the pitchers, the waiter’s eyes shifted in several directions as if looking for guidance. Or reassurance. He repeated Quintero’s name.

  "Yes, that’s his name. Is he coming here today?" she asked, pointing at the floor.

  Joanna waited, sensing the tension building around her. The door to the kitchen suddenly flew open. Placing her thumb against the edges of the dictionary’s pages, she smiled, poised, and ready to converse.

  "No, no, no, Señorita," a man said as he rushed over to where she stood. Taking her by the elbow, he ushered her through the tables and chairs, out of the restaurant, and onto the sidewalk. "Quintero is no here," he said, scissoring his hands in front of her face. "You go. Now."

  Rapidly thumbing through her dictionary, she struggled to hold the man’s attention. "Just one question," she said a second before she dropped the book. Her mind went blank when the large man dismissed her in rapid Spanish.

  What was wrong with her? She’d been glued to the Spanish channel for the last two weeks picking up key phrases and a survivor’s list of nouns. That ought to count for something, but it didn’t since everyone spoke so fast around there. "Oh, please, wait—"

  Stepping back inside, the man slammed the door.

  "Right. You have a nice siesta too," she shouted. Where was a bilingual American when you needed one? Standing alone on the sidewalk, she pictured Jack Stratford and how quickly he had made himself understood to his maid. How every time he spoke to anyone, in English or Spanish, things happened. Smoothly. Effortlessly. An achy sadness feathered through her breast, but before it could settle in she willed it away. Jack Stratford, with all his tempting expertise, hinted at or otherwise, was gone from her life. She was on her own.

  Shading her eyes, she stared through the window as the voices inside the restaurant became louder. The man who had rushed her to the sidewalk was now gesturing wildly at the waiter. She shook her head. Not for a minute did she believe anyone that high-strung could nap in the middle of the day. Not without sleeping pills and a slug of scotch.

  Hitching her purse strap higher onto her shoulder, she looked down the sidewalk as thunder clapped and rolled through the neighborhood. A nondescript dog was rubbing his bony rump against a graffiti-covered wall. Across the street a small boy was tugging his tricycle into a gaudy blue building that was covered in the same Day-Glo orange graffiti. The door shut after him, leaving an eerie silence hanging over the neighborhood. She groaned at the thought of walking back to her hotel in the rain. Where had all the taxis fled to? Minutes earlier they’d been zooming by, horns honking, drivers shouting. And why wasn’t she in one of them on her way back to her hotel!

  The door to Boca del Toro was jerked open a second later. She felt a sigh whoosh from her throat at the sight of the waiter. Maybe someone inside remembered his manners and was willing to talk to her. Slowly. And with a generous amount of sign language. Eyebrows raised, she strained toward the waiter. "Hola?" In return he offered her a pulse of a smile. A reassuring sign if she’d ever seen one, she thought optimistically.

  He pointed up the street to the dark clouds above the mountaintops. "Ren, Señorita."

  "Ren? Oh, you mean rain," she said, stepping aside as he began rolling the bar gate over the plate glass window fronting the restaurant. Opening her arms, she raised them to the sky. "Buckets of rain, by the looks of those nubes." She began thumbing through the dictionary again, heartened by the small victory of remembering the Spanish word for "clouds."

  "If you could spare a minute," she said, hoping her cheery tone would give him cause for patience with her. Before she could locate the first word in the dictionary, the waiter locked the gate, hurried past her, and back into the restaurant. Someone shut the door after him, then whipped down the shade.

  "All right, I get the hint," she shouted through gritted teeth as she slapped closed her dictionary and shoved it into her oversize purse. She gave one shake of her head before heading toward the pay phone at the corner.

  "You do not need to be held by the hand," she told herself. "You can handle this one, Joanna. Just like you’ve handled every other mangy situation in your life." She stared at the phone for a second and thought about how safe she’d felt pressed against Jack Stratford in that alleyway the night before. Plowing her fingers through her hair, she strived for a logical explanation for thinking about Jack. This situation was one hundred and eighty degrees different from their encounter the previous night. It wasn’t as if someone had knocked her down or punched her in the nose again. Still, she felt the slow burn of humiliation at being pushed out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk, then being royally ignored. Memories of Todd crept into the already awful moment. That ego-deflating episode prickled against the raised hackles on the back of her neck. If there was one thing she hated, it was being treated as if she somehow weren’t good enough to be there.

  She pulled in a deep breath and looked around her once again. At least Jack Stratford wasn’t there to witness this ego-leveling episode. Being discovered on her knees in an alleyway seemed a lot less humiliating than being discovered stan
ding in front of a restaurant in broad daylight, frantically thumbing through a dictionary while people repeatedly slammed the door in her face. She fished out a paper from her purse, dropped too many coins into the phone box, and punched out the number of the travel agency. As the line began ringing, the sky opened up like a trapdoor, deluging her with rain. She pressed her body against the phone and begged shamelessly for someone to answer on the other end. As the phone continued ringing, the wind picked up, chilling her soaked body from head to toe. What had Jack Stratford said to her last night? "…enjoy a hot shower while you can." She rubbed a hand over her face and thought about another kind of heat Jack Stratford had to offer. Closing her eyes, she could almost feel the sensation of his warm breath against her cheek and the ache in her lips for a brush from his. Another memory tumbled in. One she had decided to forget as soon as it happened. In the miserable state she was in at the moment, she wanted to recall every millisecond of when he was holding her in the alley. She stroked rainwater across her chin and then down her throat. His full-body embrace would feel like paradise right about now.

  Someone picked up the phone, and she quickly pushed those pictures from her mind, stood up tall, and wiped heartily at the rain wetting her face. Before she could speak she was put on hold. She let out an admirable stream of curses, then leaned the back of her head against the phone and resigned herself to another wait. Sun streaked through the downpour, adding a metallic sparkle to the water-filled ruts between the paved patches of street. She convulsed with mad laughter. There was a silver lining after all.

  "Agencia de Zarzuela Viajes."

  She snapped to attention, then whipped around to face the phone. "This is Joanna McCall. I’ve been waiting at the Boca del Toro for two hours for a Mr. Quintero. Has he been by today? Did he leave any messages for me?" She forced down a gasp as a speeding taxi splashed water onto the backs of her jeaned legs.

  "Señorita McCall. Momento, por favor."

  The muffled argument exploding on the other end of the line vied with the cracking thunder in intensity. She glanced up the sidewalk. A river of rainwater gathered speed as it ran downhill and over her shoes. Grasping the receiver with both hands, she raised her voice to match those on the other end. "Excuse me. Can anyone there answer me? Hello? Hel-lo!"

  The volleying voices on the other end continued, but dropped to a whisper when she spoke. Pressing the receiver tightly against her ear, she kept her voice raised. "Look, I’m standing in a downpour. I could be washed away any second. Just give it to me straight."

  They did.

  As her shoulders drooped, she dropped her forehead against the edge of the phone. No. This couldn’t be happening. Not after the incident in the alleyway. And not after the scene in her hotel room that morning. "He picked up the money I left for him? Uh-huh. Then what?" She shifted her weight from one foot to the other as the rain succeeded in covering every square inch of her body. "Yes. Go on," she said, "I’m still listening." She stood up straight, stiffened momentarily at the next words, then slammed her hand against the telephone. Her voice topped their former volume with a heartfelt "He went where?"

  Jack drove with his hands clenched as he peered through the rain-coated windshield and slapping wiper blades for Joanna McCall. Where the hell was she? She should have been back at her hotel two hours ago. He turned a corner, but the pitiful scenery in San Remo’s poorest district didn’t change. Even the dog and the Day-Glo graffiti looked the same as all the others in the area.

  He must have been out of his mind to let her come there by herself. Setting up an elaborate plan to keep her safe by sending Quintero out of town, then not keeping a close enough watch on her, was unforgivable.

  What if he hadn’t outsmarted Quintero? What if the bastard had somehow figured out what was happening and decided to see who all the fuss was about? Jack’s stomach clenched in time with his hands on the steering wheel. And then he saw her. A bedraggled form, slapping back a sleek auburn lock from in front of her eyes, then gesturing with her hand. She held the receiver in front of her face as if it were a microphone. Or a bullhorn. Someone was getting an earful of a very unhappy Joanna McCall, but he didn’t care. His heart rate was stabilizing, color was finding its way back into his knuckles, and the strange echoes had ceased in that once-soundless place inside him. He didn’t want to think about the implications of that last phenomenon. Finding Joanna McCall alive and unharmed was enough for him.

  He parked on the opposite side of the street and waited for her to finish speaking—and watched the way she shifted her backside in exasperation over her phone call. The clinging fabric, darkened by the rain to a blue-black second skin, reminded him of midnight up north in Paradise. When she knocked the receiver against the phone box, he caught sight of her jiggling breasts, covered in a white gauzy material that stuck to her like wet tissues. The profile offered him a glimpse of her face and proved to him that she was anything but bedraggled. Ripping mad was more like it. He couldn’t have been happier to see her if she’d been bare-ass naked. He dropped his forehead against his steering wheel, then lifted it with a smile. He plowed his fingers through his hair. "Hmmm." Well, maybe a little happier.

  She appeared to be pleading now. This had to be the last explosion of emotion before she packed it in and left San Rafael. She definitely was giving up. Any second now. Sheets of rain continued hurtling against her. He shifted uneasily in his seat as a trace of guilt stirred in his midsection. After expending all this energy, at least she’d have a good sleep on the flight back home later that night. He stared a little longer, then bit off a barnyard expletive as he opened his door and got out. Hadn’t she melted that phone line yet? What was she going for here? A case of double pneumonia and laryngitis?

  His timing was impeccable. At the precise moment his foot took the curb, she slammed the receiver onto its cradle. His first step onto the narrow sidewalk brought him to the front end of her pivoting exit. His arms went around her waist with the pretense of steadying her. She wriggled in response, and her soft breasts and her hard hipbones instantly began doing dangerous things to his good-guy image.

  She let loose with a scream that would have parted his hair if the drumming rain hadn’t. "Jack, for God’s sake, don’t ever scare me like that again." Stepping back, she removed the pressure of her breasts and hips, but left him with a physical memory that continued to grow.

  "What are you… doing here?" she asked while she slung her purse back onto her shoulder, then planted her hands on her hips. The rain stopped as abruptly as it had started.

  He had his answer ready, and properly padded with innocent confusion. "You mean here?" he asked, pointing to the ground. "I saw you as I was—"

  "Not right here. I mean in this part of San Remo?"

  "Oh. I’m on my way to an old convent about a mile up the road. The place is for sale. What are you doing here, and why are you beating up a defenseless telephone that way?"

  She slid her tongue along the edges of her teeth and without preamble said, "I was just on the phone with that travel agency next to my hotel. They allowed that guide I hired to pick up my twelve thousand pizoles this morning. They say he called shortly after that about an emergency trip to Panama. I couldn’t understand it all. Something about race horses."

  She crossed her arms and looked at the next approaching raincloud. "What do you think, Jack?"

  Jack whistled long and low while he secretly marveled at her guileless admission. He couldn’t remember the last person who laid true colors on the line in quite the way she did. Her straightforwardness made him want to give her back her hope, but he couldn’t afford to do that. Not if he wanted her out of San Rafael. And not if he wanted those warm feelings out of his center. "Panama? Quintero? Your money and race horses?" He shook his head slowly. "Those add up to one big zero."

  She looked up at him through rain-beaded copper-tipped lashes, a deflated look on her once-animated face. He had the most incongruous urge to cup her cheeks in his hands and kis
s a smile onto her face. The kind of smile she’d cast his way the night before while they were running through the streets of San Remo. The kind of smile that made him feel alive in this rich, rain-soaked moment, believe in sunny tomorrows, and forget there were ever dark yesterdays. But he knew better; he didn’t smile. Instead, he delivered a friendly pat to her shoulder. "Joanna darlin’, you’ve been had."

  He expected a gasp or a sigh of disappointment, maybe that most predictable gesture of feminine shock, her hands flying to her mouth. Perhaps her pretty, pouty mouth would quiver with the imminent arrival of tears. Okay, skip the tears, she wasn’t the type. What he didn’t expect was the spicy flow of expletives that nailed Quintero’s canine heritage as she paced before the phone. "Three times," she said with a growl, slapping three fingers against her palm, "in less than twenty-four hours. That’s some kind of a record, even for me!"

  "Three?" He held up his thumb. "You’ve been mugged and robbed." He uncurled his index finger. "And now you’ve been cheated out of your money." Opening his hand to her, he gave her a quizzical look. "What’s the third?"

  "My hotel room was broken into," she said, shaking her arms at the outrage. "My video equipment, my American Express card, and some US dollars. I suppose I should feel grateful that they left me my clothes and—"

  "What? When?" he asked, reaching past the panic in his chest to close his hands around her arms. "Slow down," he demanded, stilling her in her short-leash tracks. She turned her eyes to him, her momentary look as fragile as those meringues displayed in the restaurant window. Feelings he’d forgotten he was capable of leapt inside him like flames feeding oxygen. "Did anyone hurt you? Why didn’t you call me?"

  With the anger drained from her eyes, she was now left with a look of clear surprise that quickly turned to wonder. And then uncertainty. He had glimpsed that look before, but he’d read it as a woman’s normal suspicions over a stranger. Him. Now he wasn’t so certain. In one flash of a second he sensed she was doubting herself, or maybe questioning a belief she’d long held. Undecipherable emotions stirred in the depths of her green-gold eyes before she turned them away. Their moment of intimacy had lasted a second. Maybe two. Maybe longer. He couldn’t say, except that it was more real, more substantive than toasted meringue.

  He let go of her wrists, and she waved him off breezily. "I’m fine. Really. It must have happened last night, before I got back from your house. The police came right over when I discovered it. Besides, I’ve already called American Expess and – "

  "Why didn’t you call me?" he repeated quietly.

  She exhaled a huffy sigh, then shrugged as she planted a hand on one hip and began picking at her clinging blouse. "Because I’m getting tired of… people thinking I’m just an accident waiting to happen. And I’m not, Jack. Besides, I had locked my door before I left the hotel. This could have happened to anyone."

  "Did it happen to anyone else?" he asked, his even quieter voice demanding that she face him again.

  She glanced at him, then looked away. "Not that I know about. But that doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like someone’s out to get me. I mean, why would someone be out to get me?"

  "You? There’s no reason I can come up with," he said, waiting for a blinding flash of insight. None came while he wandered through the shady world of his suspicions and doubts. Any criminal act against her would have angered him, but three acts in less than twenty-four hours made him angry as well as suspicious. He felt an uncomfortable prickling sensation spreading across his shoulders. A prescient warning that had him holding his breath. In these troubled times coincidence was too easy an explanation. "Except that you are an attractive woman traveling alone. Word gets around quickly in this town. And maybe you’re not staying in the worst section of it or at its seediest hotel, but you’re damn close on both counts."

  "Well, I won’t be staying there much longer."

  She was leaving. There now, he’d finally accomplished his goal. He raised his eyebrows. So why wasn’t there a victory dance cha-chaing through his head? He should be experiencing a sense of accomplishment, a rush of relief. At least a secret jolt of purely male triumph. Instead, he sensed himself holding back in that place where he’d spent the last two years. An emotional void defined by the corporeal world of shallow conversations kept going with worthless platitudes, bloated praise, and questionable innuendos. A place where he allowed himself to feel nothing real. Except now it had begun to feel like a tight fit, but he was in no position to examine the cause.

  He cleared his throat. "Not staying? Probably the wisest choice, Red." He chose his words with exquisite care because the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her feelings. Or start her up again. "Look, don’t feel too bad. Even in your own hometown, people aren’t always who and what they appear to be. Down here it’s worse because everyone’s desperate to get a slice of this banana. And therein, Red, lies the problem."

  "Which is?"

  "Life is always dicey when those around you are living it with a frontier mentality." He watched the tension dissolve, first around her eyes and then her mouth. That mouth that held promises, those lips that sent him secret messages, and that glistening tongue tip that requested his total and most thorough attentions—and all this without a spoken word. Oh, God, save him from drowning in a dream tonight.

  "You’re right," she said in that sensible tone that gave him more reason to hope she would be leaving soon. "You do have to be careful in whom you put your trust these days. And I’ll be the first to admit it. I made a big mistake hiring someone, sight unseen, to take me upriver. I was gung ho from the get go about this project, but I’m beginning to see it in a sobering light. No, really I am," she assured him.

  "Erring on the side of caution. That’s much better, Red."

  She nodded thoughtfully. "I’m just surprised how much this betrayal hurts coming from someone I’ve never met, but that’s probably because the Lemon Aid project has become so important to me. To my life."

  As he glanced across the street at his car, visions of Alicia and his father stung his consciousness. The two of them were sprawled across the front seat of a limousine, its hood still sporting beribboned white doves. Betrayal? He could teach Joanna McCall a lesson or two in betrayal. The ugly scene between his now-ex-wife and father played itself out to its shuddering conclusion again, while on the periphery of his consciousness he heard Joanna’s voice.

  "…take care of things myself… not that difficult… welcome the adventure actually…"

  "What was that?" he asked cautiously as he turned to face her.

  "I said, I’m through wasting Lemon Aid’s money. I have to face it sooner or later. Ramon Quintero is long gone with those pizoles. I have to replace the cameras, and down here I know they can’t be cheap. There’s only one thing I can do, Jack."

  "I know," he said, ready to comfort her before speeding her butt to the airport. He spun his key ring around his index finger. Ah, Red, we could have had some good times. But that’s not going to happen. "So, what do you want to do?"

  "Replace my cameras. Then I’m getting hold of a good map. I figure in a few days I can make it upriver by myself."

  "What?" he asked, cupping his keys in both hands when they threatened to drop. "You’re not serious."

  "I’ve never been more serious in my life." She looked around at the sound of thunder. "Can I ride with you to that convent. I promise to stay out of your way, and when you’re through with your business there, you can drive me back to my hotel?" she said, lifting her chin toward his car. "Tell me quick, big guy. We’re about to get dumped on and I haven’t seen a taxi around here in a quarter of an hour."

  They were in the car and moving within a minute. He kept glancing at her rain-soaked clothes which stuck to her body like a racy fantasy he’d already indulged. But that was just a fantasy. She was there beside him, more beautiful, more vulnerable, and more real than ever. Those fine bones of her jaw, that touch of innocence in her eyes that he knew she’d never a
dmit to, and her unwavering determination to continue with her project set off more alarms. She had no idea what she was letting herself in for. He did. "Red, let’s not get hasty about this. I think you should reconsider your decision. You can’t go up there alone. You’ll need assistance."

  Joanna pretended to consider what he had just told her. After combing her fingers through her hair, then flicking water droplets toward the carpet, she leaned an elbow on the armrest. "I will?" she asked, infusing her words with serious drama. Forcing her gaze from his chest, she watched as he did a double take at her. Okay, she did resemble a sea otter with her hair soaked and slicked back and her ears protruding. Those darn ears together with her freckles would forever present her as a plain Jane, and in this case to the most sophisticated man she’d ever met. She pulled two wet clumps of hair over the tops of her ears in a desperate attempt at camouflage.

  "Ah, jeez," he mumbled, flicking on the wipers as another downpour hit the windshield. "You’re going to do it. You’re going to take that trip alone, aren’t you?"

  "Of course I’m going to do it," she said, more upset with her attraction toward him than his irritation at her. She sat up, tossing her head to clear those invading nighttime images from her mind. They were cozy images of them cuddled up together on that big veranda chaise, laughing at an outrageous peacock story she was sure he could tell, or stretched out on his bed, intent on other things when the laughter stopped.

  "You don’t know a thing about the terrain, the diseases, or the danger up there. The local police are touchy about foreigners. How can you—?"

  "And you don’t know Joanna McCall, so how can you?"

  She watched him quietly reassess the situation. That he took an interest in her set her blood humming, until she reminded herself that it was most likely a generic man-protect-woman motive. Besides, they had nothing in common… except a penchant for p.b.&j’s and diet soda at midnight. She wiped the smile off her face and shifted in her seat.

  He was probably on his way to making his fifth million in his obviously lucrative hotel business. She, on the other hand, was determined to locate a bunch of kids who desperately needed help. Except for the few tempting hours they’d spent together, there was no common ground between them. He was in San Rafael to make money, running in circles she had learned to despise. He probably had scores of glamorous women vying for an opportunity to see how far south his chest hair traveled. She squinted hard through the rain-glazed window next to her. She, on the other hand, had a mission, a plan, and a numb spot in her heart when it came to—to what? Romance? Of course it was romance, or at least the possibility of one that left her in turmoil every time he came near. She squeezed her eyes shut as she remembered the way she’d rubbed herself against him in that alleyway. He’d felt like a new sin begging to be committed. Okay, so maybe that numb spot wasn’t so numb, but that didn’t make her crazy either.

  She knew what she’d come to San Rafael for, and Jack Stratford was simply a momentary distraction. That rub and tickle in the alleyway, that almost kiss on his balcony, and all the rest of those lingering looks and accidental touches meant nothing. Even if they did, she could brush away those romantic notions the way she’d brushed away those distracting butterflies she’d seen in his garden. She turned to him, meeting his gaze as he was turning to her. They both spoke at the same moment.

  "Don’t think I don’t appreciate what you’ve been—"

  "Don’t take this the wrong way, Red—"

  "Oops. You go ahead."

  "No, you go ahead."

  "Okay," he said with a decisive nod. "You’re asking for serious trouble if you insist on taking this trip by yourself. At least give yourself a little more time to settle into the rhythm down here before you take off for the provinces. Let me give you a few pointers on how to deal in this culture."

  "Well…"

  "Look. I have an appointment in Pucalli soon. If you’re determined to go there, then wait and go there with me."

  "But what if getting my equipment and my permits replaced takes longer than a few days? Wouldn’t that hold you up?"

  "It’s my company, Red. We’ll work out something. And once we hit Pucalli, we’ll go our separate ways. What do you say, Red? Will you allow this gentleman from Charleston to keep his hair from turning prematurely gray worrying about you?"

  If she accepted his offer, she’d never have cause to wonder if she’d been missing something by running away from him. Not to mention that she would sound foolish if she turned down such generosity. Here was her chance to prove that her attraction to him would soon become a distraction she would be happy to put behind her. Her gaze drifted to the raindrops beading in the crisp dark chest hair showing through the shirt opening at his throat. The masculine flag waved at her like a blue wrapped package from Tiffany’s. She cleared her throat and looked out the windshield. Tiffany’s? She’d never shopped in Tiffany’s. She’d never been to Tiffany’s. "That’s very kind of you to offer."

  "And very smart of you, if you’ll accept it. Will you?"

  "I don’t see why not," she said while an image of them standing at the boat railing with a full moon above them floated through her mind. Lord help her, but if she flunked this self-imposed test, she deserved to have that riverboat’s hull made out of chicken wire.

  "Good move. One other thing, while we’re sounding sensible."

  "What’s that?" she said, trying for light laughter when images of them being anything but sensible under that full moon passed through her mind.

  "Save yourself some money and check out of the hotel and into my place for the next few days."

  "Oh, I don’t know about that."

  "Joanna, you’re running the risk of another robbery if you stay. You can’t afford it. Besides, this way our departure will go more smoothly. It’s the sensible thing to do."

  Sensible? Yes. But she wasn’t looking for a temptation overload when she decided to disprove the extent of her attraction to him. She closed her eyes. They’d be under the same roof, bumping into each other for the next few days. She nibbled her bottom lip as more tempting possibilities buzzed through her mind. She could see him now, crossing the hall in the morning, a towel hanging low around his hips, that perfectly distributed light mat of chest hair curling all the way to his navel. If she could handle that—well, maybe handle wasn’t the best choice of words. But they were words and only words. The doing or the not doing was what was important here. She touched her fingertip to the bridge of her nose. Get a handle on reality! she told herself. After what you’ve been through lately, sharing quarters with a hold-your-breath-handsome guy will amount to nothing more than a light exercise in character building. Do it, girl.

  "Then call me sensible and let’s get on with it," she said enthusiastically while ignoring that warning whisper in the back of her mind.

  ###

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  Some Kind of Wonderful

  Susan Connell