Hooked (13 page)

"Mrs. D never had the pleasure. She was spayed before she had the chance, poor thing."

"It might be a blessing for her."

"I feel sorry for her. She's got no one of her own kind to play with."

"Can't you get her a friend?"

"Too late for that, I'm afraid. So, what about it . . . who's going to join you for this simian sexcapade?"

"I was just babbling." I hoped it sounded casual enough to be convincing. I very much had someone in mind. Him. "I haven't had a lot of experience entertaining a monkey."

"But you do it so well." He tapped his shoulder and Mrs. D jumped up to her perch.

"Thanks. I guess."

"See you on the foredeck at two." And he was gone.

***

The sun started to move behind us as we headed east. By the time I got up to the pool deck, there was a sliver of shade for me to hide my pale body in. My bikini was nearly brand new. I hadn't had many chances to use it since I bought it over a year before.

Morgan was already in the pool. He was sitting on one of the underwater ledges, long legs extended way into the center of the small pool. To my utter horror, he had ditched the board shorts and wore a European style bikini. In South Florida only gay men and foreign tourists appeared in public in one of those things. 'Course it wasn't South Florida. Maybe being so far out to sea qualified him as a foreign tourist anyway. I tried not to look at the pouch under the water. I think the reason most women can't take speedos is that it's impossible
not
to look.

He watched me wordlessly as I positioned a deck chair under in the only available shadow.

My bathing suit is pretty modest compared to many, but I was so conscious of the state of my body that I felt more naked than not. Being with him and all his flesh seemed way more intimate than innocent.

I pulled a tube of sunscreen out of the bag I'd brought with me and started rubbing it on my legs.

"You'll have to tell me what kind of stuff you're using there. It has to be pretty potent to keep you that white."

I laughed. "I haven't been to the beach during the day time for more than a year."

"But the cream is new, right?"

"Uh, no. I can't remember when I bought it. Couple years ago."

Morgan got out of the water and picked up a big bottle from the poolside table. "You're going to fry like a piece of baitfish in the sun, then. Sunscreen has a short shelf life."

"I didn't know that," I said as I put up my hand to take the bottle.

He moved it away from my reach. "Uh-uh. My sunscreen. I get to put it on you."

I rolled my eyes at him.

"Oh, please. Lighten up, would ya? It's just some suntan lotion."

"But it's in
your
hands,"
I thought as I reluctantly rolled onto my stomach. At least I wouldn't have to look at his incredible face for most of the process.

He nudged me over to make room to sit on the edge of my lounge chair.  His hip rested against mine. Every time he had been close enough to touch me I felt like a compass and every direction was his mark. I didn't know this territory. It didn't feel or look like anything I'd ever experienced before.

I heard him rub his hands together briefly and then they were on my back. He slid his palms over the small of my back, spreading the sunscreen out in both directions from my spine. Gentle fingers massaged the cream into my skin.

"This stuff is the bomb," he told me casually. Evidently he couldn't see that my very cells were melting under his touch, torched with the atomic blast of his attention. "You'll never burn with this, but eventually, you'll tan a little bit. Just a little healthy bit."

I turned toward the knee resting at one side of my head. Time to say something--anything--nonchalant. "You've sure got a healthy tan."

"Yeah," he agreed as he began the top half of my back, "it makes me feel good. I spent a lot of years looking as ghostly as you do. But not by choice."

"Were you in prison?" I wanted to make a joke, even a lame one. His hands were doing things to me. I was ready to roll over, jerk that excuse for a bathing suit off his body and fuck his brains out.

"You could say that." The tone of his answer backed the bitch in heat part of me down a few notches. He'd said something important. He'd said it into my back and I couldn't see his eyes, but I knew all the same that there was a clue there. I rolled over and looked at him.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I was pretty much locked up for a lot of my childhood. It's a long and complicated story."

"I've got a lot of time on my hands right now." He avoided my gaze and went to work on my legs.

"Maybe another time."

He worked the lotion into my thighs. The sun had to be getting jealous of the radiation coming from me. I felt his thumb slide over the line of my bikini no more than an inch or two from my clit. I could feel myself swelling, hardening and weeping with want. It was a miracle he couldn't smell the musk of my desire. I shifted up to my elbows and watched him linger just a few more seconds on the sensitive flesh of my upper thighs. Then his hands moved down the length of my legs, carefully covering every inch of each one.

"You get a double dose of rays when you're out at sea. The water reflects them back at you so it's really important to protect every little bit."

He took my left foot in his slippery hands and started to massage it with his slick hands. "
Oh God,"
I thought
, "not the feet."
My feet have always been one of my secret erogenous zones. Not that any man had ever known that. I just knew how good it felt when a good beautician gave me a real foot massage. Connected to a pair of hot male hands, the tootsies nearly made me come unglued. A small groan of pleasure escaped, I couldn't hold it back.

"Sensitive feet?"

I gave him a mute and sheepish nod.

"Mine are too." Then he smiled at me, all impish and child-like, as if he'd made a great secret confession. It made me laugh out loud and move a little bit closer to jumping off the edge. Abruptly he slid off of the chaise and into the water. When he surfaced he turned toward me, arms over the edge of the pool. "Sorry, I had to get in. I was . . . overheating."

If that was code for getting a hard on I didn't want to know. I was losing the logic war fast. The battle could have easily been won at the toes.

Chapter 14--Morgan

I had to get in the water fast. It needed to be a lot colder than it was to do the job, though. I leaned up against the side and kept my promise to myself. I was not going to pressure her. I was not going to push. "
Down boy, down
!"

"
Talk to her. Talk. To. Her
." Pretending she was someone other than who she was struck me as a grand idea. She could be a guy or someone's mother in my head. I fought to think of what I might say to a person who wasn't Lara. Small talk is what I was after.  Small talk would magically make
me
small where I desperately needed to be. I couldn't risk having her see my angry tool practically busting a hole in my swimsuit. I made a note to self: mankini = bad, bad, bad idea.

I cleared my throat and threw up the first thing that came to mind after 'what do you do?' 'Cause I already knew what she did.

"Did you grow up in Ft. Lauderdale?"  She was sitting up rubbing the sunscreen into her arms, finishing the job I started.

"Boca."

"That's right, I forgot FAU was in Boca." I'd forgotten just about everything at that moment in time. I tried a slightly less stupid question next. "Did you ever consider going to FAU?"

"Not really. I was anxious to get on with my life.  Leave the nest. My parents were great, but . . ."

I could see that she was struggling to find the right words. "But?"

"I hate to sound ungrateful. My parents loved me--love me--a lot. But I'm an only child. I have a couple of PhD. parents. Sometimes my childhood felt like one long seminar. I used to hate being an only child. Other people had siblings to share all that attention."

"Yeah. I understand. I would have been lost without my sister."

"Clarissa?"

Having Lara say my sister's name startled me. I must have looked shocked.

"I Googled you. That first night. I couldn't sleep after our little encounter in the ki--galley."

"I never apologized to you for that. What a way to start your job, huh?"

"It was unique, for sure."

"Well, I am sorry."

"It's okay. It's your boat . . . your home. Rachel and I never bothered to put clothes on to get a drink from the fridge in the middle of the night."

"Rachel?"

"My roommate in Lauderdale."

"I've never lived with anyone. I think I'd be difficult."

"The best roommates are opposites, I think. At least that's what I think makes Rache and I work."

"What's she like?" I figured if Lara thought of Rachel as her opposite, I could get a pretty good idea of what Lara thought of herself. I considered that important information.

"First of all, she's drop dead gorgeous."

"Doesn't consider herself gorgeous
." I noted this without surprise. It was easy for me to tell when a woman thought of herself as a real beauty. There were plenty of clues. Lara gave off none of them.

"She's very practical and calm."

"Thinks of herself as impractical and anxious
." Not as expected. I'd noticed a little nervousness, but then I kept walking in on her and surprising the shit out of her. But the impracticality?  The most impractical thing in the world would have been for her to kiss me back when I came on to her on the sea deck. Instead, she did the 'logical' thing and pushed me away.

"She's very grounded. She knows what she wants."

"
Confused
." That was interesting.

"And she's got a great sense of humor."

That one really threw me. From what I'd seen so far, Lara seemed to have a fine sense of humor. When she wasn't being an ice princess, that is.

"How long were you roommates?" I prompted.

"We're still technically roommates. On what I'm being paid, I can afford to keep my half of the apartment."

"How much is that?"

She looked at me in shock. "You mean you don't actually know what you're paying me?"

"No, because I'm not the one paying you. I explained all that to you before."

"I didn't really believe it."

"Well, believe it." I sucked in some air. I was about to take a chance I'd never taken. I was going to try to win points with a woman by blowing her away with how much I
didn't
have. "If you Googled me you know about my father. He's one rich motherfucker. But he's made it his mission in life to see that I have just enough of his fortune not to embarrass him. I take care of this boat and he gives me enough to get by. I own nothing. I control nothing."

Her mute response told me I had gotten my point across. I was a vastly different person than the one she wanted distance herself from.

"I may well inherit a fortune, but don't get any ideas. My father is a robust sixty-one years old. And the Wolf family is known for the longevity of its members. My great grandfather only recently died. He was well into his nineties." So you see," I smugly concluded, "you were wrong about me."

"Only partially. You're not rich . . ."

"And I'm not a spoiled brat! Believe it or not this boat is a lot of work."

"It is, but you don't do the work. Even I know that if you were managing the operation you'd know what your people got paid."

"That's not fair. My father has an accountant for that." Then I remembered more of what she'd said. The bit about not accomplishing anything. "You're right, though. I'm a glorified caretaker. It isn't much of an accomplishment."

"Why don't you get a job?"

"Because I don’t hate my life enough. I hate it just enough to hold myself in contempt, but not enough to do something about it. I think that's exactly what Jackson Wolf intends."

"Why would your father want that?"

"Because deep down inside he hopes I . . . he wishes I . . ."

"What, Morgan? What does your father want?"

"He wants to know I'm not my mother's son." It slipped out quietly. I hadn't intended to take it this far. Hadn't intended to reveal that much of the crazy that made me who I was. "They had issues," I added lightly. "But that's way too much darkness for this sunny day."

She smiled a little confused smile, but thankfully she didn't pry. I pushed myself off the side and glided to a recessed cooler at the pools edge. There was a chilled bottle of Chardonnay waiting for us.

"Wine?" I asked as I held up the bottle.

To my surprise, she didn’t crab about having to do dinner or anything like that. She slipped into the water and swam up beside me. "Sure, that sounds perfect." She seemed to understand a barrier had been breached but she also had the good sense not to press the edges of the envelope just then.

We killed the bottle of wine quickly and started on another. Lara sat next to me on the underwater seat, our nearly naked bodies simmering in the tepid water.

I managed to turn the conversation toward her life. She told me about the high school years. Those painful, awkward, find-yourself-years when she felt her intellect was tattooed on her forehead for all to see.

"I don't know how it was where you went to high school, but in my neck of the woods there was nothing cool about being smart or making good grades."

There would be time later to tell her that I was virtually cloistered in a tiny prep school for those all-important years. It was my turn to listen.

"I know I let my parents down. They try so hard not to express their disappointment, but it's there, all the same. They had one shot at producing a prodigy and they wound up with a friggin' cook. And I couldn't even manage to succeed at that."

"What makes you think you aren't successful?"

"The least I could have done for them is turn out to be a modern-day Alice Waters or at least a household name like Rachel Ray."