AFTERGLOW (13 page)

She threw her water carafe at him.

"Be certain not to get your bandage wet," he said, retrieving the carafe and tossing it onto the bed. He watched the remaining water soak through the sheet.

He gave her a mock salute and left.

"Obnoxious jerk!" she yelled after him.

"Oh, damn and blast!" Chelsea said now into the darkness of her hotel room. Wretched, miserable man! I will not think of you anymore, except to congratulate myself on never having to see you again.

David buried himself at the hospital, and Elsa, eyeing him with renewed hope, tried to make herself indispensable. But he wouldn't bite. Nothing. There was still a lot of gossip going around about that Lattimer woman and the scene she'd caused. And Dr. Winter's reaction. And the way he'd haunted her hospital room until she'd left. Even now, Elsa heard him being teased by administrators and other doctors.

David found himself one late afternoon near a bookstore and wandered in. He didn't mean to, but he found himself studying titles and books in the romance section. Sure enough, they had four different books of Chelsea's. He winced at the outrageous covers and the ridiculous come-on write-ups on the back. Surely she couldn't have anything to do with all that nonsense. Of course she didn't. He remembered her moaning and telling him that the covers were getting more and more dreadful—not at all romantic, just more and more skin, and fake rapturous looks—and the write-ups, "Argh!" He smiled as he read the back of one of her novels.
He was hot-blooded, handsome—and American. And now she was his property, bought and paid for.

He shook his head, but picked up all four titles, presenting them with great panache to the clerk at the counter. To his utter astonishment he found that he couldn't put the first novel down. He was thrown into Victorian England in the early 1850s, and he could practically taste the food they were eating, almost picture the carriages and the clothing and feel the London fog. The characters were real, complex and sympathetic, and he couldn't wait to turn the next page.

He read until three o'clock in the morning. He set the book on his nightstand, lay back in bed and thought about it. He'd enjoyed the hell out of the story, laughed at the continuous, very amusing repartee between the hero—that hot-blooded American—and the heroine. He found himself wondering about the sex scenes. Her hot-blooded hero was also an excellent lover. And a marvelous mixture of Chelsea's Mark I and Mark II heroes. It was odd, he reflected, on the edge of sleep, to read about sex from a woman's perspective. It was honest, but, of course, the heroine adored sex with the hero. What if she hadn't? What if the hot-blooded hero had botched the entire affair?

Not in a novel. Especially not in a romantic novel. What had Chelsea said once? Oh, yes, she wrote escapist literature, fantasy to a certain extent, because what woman would want to escape to a beer-gutted hero who was clumsy and selfish? That, he thought, smacked of disappointment.

He found himself wondering about her sexual experience. She certainly seemed to know what she was talking about. Had she had many lovers? For all he knew her very intricate love scenes could have been taken from her own experiences with men.

He shook his head in the dark. That didn't make sense. He remembered all too clearly her unbelievable reaction to him in the emergency room. He pictured her slender, very white body in his mind, and felt his body respond instantly. She did, he now knew from firsthand experience, have a very nice bottom.

Damn her silly eyes, he wanted to see her again. He closed his eyes in excruciating embarrassment. He still couldn't believe George had told Chelsea he'd been impotent.

The days passed quickly as David immersed himself in one crisis after another. He decided finally, his misery having reached its saturation point, that if she wanted a Mark I hero, like her hot-blooded American, she'd get it. With a dash of Mark II thrown in for good measure.

Chelsea kicked off her shoes and plopped down on her sofa. She was exhausted, but also exhilarated. She'd had a ball in New York, accomplished a good deal of business, and even had lunch with the chairman of the board of her publishing house, a charming man, handsome and very articulate. Now, she thought, she had to get to work. Her mind had obligingly plotted during every free moment she'd had—when David hadn't intruded—and now her fingers were itching to get to the keyboard.

If only she weren't so blasted tired. Her eyes closed, and she drifted off.

She was awakened by the doorbell. She cocked a half-closed eye toward the obnoxious sound, forcing herself to rise. It was a delivery boy carrying a box of flowers.

"What?"

"Miss Lattimer?"

"Yes, but—"

"For you, ma'am."

And he was gone before she could even try to tip him. She stood barefoot in her entryway staring down at the box. No one had ever before sent her flowers. She opened the box slowly and gasped at the two dozen long-stemmed red roses.

She knew who had sent them, but nonetheless she very quickly opened the card. She read, "Welcome home, Chelsea. I'll pick you up at seven o'clock Friday night. Wear something long and sexy." And it was signed simply, "David."

"I wouldn't go to a wake with you," she said aloud, but she very carefully arranged the beautiful roses in her one vase and set it on her coffee table.

It was all very unexpected, she thought a while later as she slowly drank a glass of white wine. She clearly remembered his saying that she irritated him more than any woman he had ever known. Then why did he want to see her again? Something long and sexy, huh?

She was dozing on her sofa, half her attention on the TV, when it suddenly occurred to her. The realization, in fact, hit her squarely between the eyes.
No man would admit to having failed in bed. No man, even if he'd had a problem, would admit to having his wife laugh at him.

George! Oh, no!

"I've got to be the most gullible, silly woman alive!" she nearly shouted to her empty living room. "Just you wait, George Mallory!"

It was close to nine o'clock in the evening when she pulled into the Mallorys' driveway. Thank God both their cars were there.

She slammed the car door loudly and marched to the front door. She lifted her hand to press the doorbell.

Was that a giggle she heard?

She frowned and pressed the buzzer.

Was that a curse? From Elliot?

She heard a "Just a moment," spoken in an oddly breathless voice, and the sound of pattering bare feet. The door opened, reluctantly.

"Chelsea!"

She looked at George, breathtakingly beautiful and disheveled in one of Elliot's shirts, and gulped. Her hair was tousled, and her mouth looked a bit swollen, as if she'd been kissed a good dozen times with great enthusiasm.

"I, ah…" Deep, embarrassed gulp. "Did I come at a bad time, George?"

"Get rid of whoever it is!" she heard Elliot call from the living room. Then a nasty laugh, and another shout. "I know it's Chelsea. Be rude! Send her to David. Let the two of them fight it out."

George laughed at Chelsea's expression. "I would suggest that you call first before you come over, Chels, unless, that is, you want to see my gorgeous husband in the buff on the living room rug."

"But …
oh, damn! I wanted to talk to you about David. George, he couldn't ever have
talked about
what he, well, couldn't do in bed. It's ridiculous. No man would—"

"True, and David's already attacked us. Now, my dear friend, call me tomorrow. Goodbye."

"Go see David, Chelsea," Elliot called from the living room. "I imagine that he's dying to see you!"

"This is awful," Chelsea said. "I'm sorry, George." And she fled.

The following evening, Friday, Chelsea stared at the clock, then down at her ratty blue jeans and frumpy sweatshirt. My rendition of long and sexy, she thought. She should have left, but somehow she hadn't been able to make herself do so.

The doorbell rang promptly at seven.

"Go away!" she shouted through the door.

"Open the door, Chelsea, or I'll kick it in."

David was saying that? What the devil was going on, anyway?

She opened the door. "Hi," she said in a very inadequate voice. He'd gotten her again, she thought, her eyes roving over his body. He was wearing jeans as old as hers and a flannel shirt that had seen better days a decade ago.

"Hello, yourself," David said, grinning down at her. He stepped inside, grabbed her before she could move and swept her up against him. He kissed her very thoroughly.

Chelsea was too startled to react. When he finally eased the pressure on her mouth she gasped out, "You idiot! Put me down! You shouldn't be here! What are you doing?"

David gave her another tight squeeze, then set her away from him. He was beaming. "I read several of your books. Right now I'm your hot-blooded American who swept into the heroine's life and knocked her socks off."

"You're an idiot!"

"You're repeating your insults," he said. At her continued outraged expression, David managed a wounded look. "But, Chels, isn't that what your heroines like? To find a man who's as strong as they are, who will give them both heaven and hell? Who will master them despite what they think they want?"

"This is real life, David Winter!"

"Aha, so you agree that your novels are sheer nonsense."

Chelsea slammed her fist into his stomach. He obligingly grunted and continued smiling down at her.

"You are the most ignorant, stupid, ridiculous man—"

"I like what you're wearing. It isn't particularly the kind of long I had in mind, but that sweatshirt's sexy, as well, something out of my mother's attic."

She frowned at him, turned on her bare heel and marched into the living room. He followed her, smiling at the rigid set of her shoulders and the very nice swing of her bottom. She turned abruptly and said, "I shouldn't have hit you. A writer is much too articulate to resort to violence. Now—"

"Can I have a glass of wine before you do me in?"

Chelsea disappeared into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with two glasses of wine. "Here," she said, thrusting one at him.

"Thank you, you're a marvelous hostess, all warm and caring and—"

"Can it, David. Now what I was saying before you rudely interrupted me is that if you have indeed read some of my novels, the heroines are closer to eighteen than to twenty-eight, and virgins. I simply arrange circumstances so that they meet the
right
man for them. I might add, Dr. Winter, that men today are incompetent jerks, arrogant, still chauvinistic—"

"You've never been to bed with me, Chelsea. How do you know I'm incompetent?"

He spoke mildly, looking at her with a modicum of interest. She wanted to growl at him, but stopped herself.

Get a hold of yourself, idiot! He's just trying to pile you, make you say ridiculous things and lose your temper.

"Thank you for the roses," she said, tilting up her chin. "They're beautiful."

"Thank you. My pleasure."

"As I said, David," she continued calmly, but with a definite glint in her eyes, "I am twenty-eight years old. I have a lot of women friends. Some of those who are married find themselves resorting to technology—"

"Technology? What does that mean?"

"I refuse to get more specific!" She flushed, wanted to kick herself, but forced herself onward. "Now those who aren't married, tell me that the guys they meet all want to hop in the sack. That's all, nothing more. And that is why my heroes are tender, talented—"

"Tasteful? Torpid? Torpedoes?"

Chelsea closed her eyes a moment. "I'm going to belt you again if you don't shut up!"

"All right," he said agreeably, but she heard the amusement in his voice. "Now tell me, what is your experience?"

"Another thing," she continued, ignoring him and speaking in the most evil voice she could manage. "You men all get your jollies—reaffirm your macho virility and all that nonsense—through violent movies and your stupid Westerns!"

"You've got a point," he said.

Chelsea blinked at him, totally taken aback. "What game are you playing now, David?"