Authors: Dc Thome
Tags: #Romance, #Contemporary, #Romantic Comedy, #Romantic Suspense, #Mystery & Suspense, #Suspense
Palm Springs Heat (2 page)
“I’m guessing you don’t like it too
sweet,” Danika said as she swizzled the concoction. The resulting amber liquid
looked tantalizingly evil as it sloshed into the goblet-cum-martini glass.
Finally, Danika dropped in a garnish of orange zest and a maraschino cherry
skewered by a tiny, bright green—
“Is that what I think it is?” Lara
bent to look more closely at the skewer, shaped like a little man, with the
cherry firmly affixed to his not-so-little manhood.
“You didn’t want a cherry?” Danika
asked.
“Oh, no, it’s fine.” Lara removed
the skewer from the drink and extricated the cherry from the skewer with a
click of her incisors.
“Nice.” The barkeep attached a
cherry to another miniature prong and popped it into Lara’s glass. “I’ve got a
feeling that whoever goes home with you tonight’s going to end up with a bit
more than he can chew.”
Suddenly, the music went quiet. All
eyes turned toward the steps that descended to the Upper Deck. Clay Creighton
himself was already halfway down. With his trademark Centurion in hand, he
absolutely basked in the spotlight. Lara’s mouth went dry, her heartbeat ticked
up a notch. Partly because her moment of truth drew near. But partly because
Clay was more handsome in person than in the photos she’d seen on everything
from the websites to print magazines and newspapers to late-night paparazzi
shows on TV. His dark hair was playfully tousled in front. His square jaw cut a
stark profile.
Just beyond his glow, in a glow of
their own, came the current denizens of The Rotation: Sun, Taequanda Davis and
Corynne McFee.
My god! They’re even more
gorgeous than I imagined!
Sun, tall and slender, her shiny,
jet-black hair bouncing and tickling her bronze shoulders, embodied elegance,
like a sexy cigarette ad from the 1950s. Taequanda, more athletic, wore her
hair up with spiral curls dangling to her eyebrows. The way she ran her tongue
across the purple gloss on her full lips suggested a sexual power greater than
Lara had ever perceived in another woman. Corynne had red hair and large eyes
that made her look like a girl-next-door type from an old movie. All three
stood bolt-straight, struck Miss America
poses and smiled dazzlingly.
“Welcome to the ICE House,” Clay
said, raising his right hand in a gesture of hospitality, “where the good times
begin—and never come to an end.” He paused for a cheer. “I see you’ve already
discovered that I keep a plentiful stock of the finest libations in the world.”
Another cheer. Several partyers
raised their drinks.
“And, I think you’ll agree I also
keep a plentiful stock of the most desirable examples of humankind.” The
cheering was appreciably louder—and the women were as enthusiastic as the men.
“Remember, there is only one rule here at the ICE House.”
Let me guess: There are no
rules.
“No inhibitions allowed!”
Well, that’s different.
Clay raised his glass in a toast as
the music ramped back up.
Lara had to admit it was an
impressive display. Garish and narcissistic, but impressive nonetheless.
As she sipped her drink, Lara
caught a glimpse of Anton Roche oozing toward Clay.
* * *
Clay smiled and nodded his way
through the crowd. Playing the part of the jaunty host was one of Fast Lane’s
Rules of the Road. “The host has to have his head fully in the game, or the event
is lost,” read rule No. 14. Even so, right now, Clay was faking it. The parties
had become tedious. They were just too much alike. The pulsing music. The
bobbing throng. Even the abundance of yummy flesh. And yet, Clay was, by his
own rules,
required
to look interested. It would be bad business for the
world’s foremost connoisseur of automobiles, ostentatious living and the human
female to show any sign of ennui.
And now, the gauntlet
. Women
would shake their stuff in his face, attacking him from all angles, hoping to
catch his eye with an eye to joining The Rotation. It didn’t help that every
woman on the deck was well aware that Sun’s setting time was approaching.
If only they knew.
He pasted on a smile as he talked
to a comely little thing. Or, at least, as she talked and he nodded now and
then. He wondered if she could tell he was phoning it in. Oddly, he didn’t care
as much as he would have just a few years ago.
What’s going on with me?
Clay found it impossible to focus on the waif’s chattering. Something about a
movie?
This girl is good-looking enough. Nice rack. Face. Lips. Some hips
would be nice.
He uncharacteristically allowed his
eyes to wander, breaking Rule of the Road No. 1: “Make a woman feel like she’s
the center of the universe.”
A familiar face emerged.
“Clay! Great party,” Roche effused.
“Anton…thanks. Have you met…” He
turned to the comely little thing, expecting her to say her name, but she
missed the cue. “Um…this is Anton Roche.”
“Cool,” she said.
After an awkward pause, Clay said, “Anton
invented the top you’re wearing.”
“Really? I have three. Presents
from three different men.”
Roche’s nod had a distinctly
sardonic edge.
“Funny, though,” she giggled, “I
thought you’d be gayer.”
Clay staved off a laugh.
Funny—I
thought the same thing. At first.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Roche
said without an ounce of contrition.
The hint flew right past her, so
Clay filled in the blank. “Anton and I have some business to discuss.”
“Okay, cool,” she said, but
her mouth continued to engage. Clay watched her lips bob and wondered how
anyone could be that self-absorbed.
Clay smiled, patted her on the
shoulder and turned away.
Roche put his mouth close to Clay’s
ear. “The woman I told you about is here.”
“Great,” Clay answered. There was
enthusiasm in his voice, but not in his heart. Sure, he had listened to
everything Roche had said about this wonder woman named Lara. But Clay remained
skeptical. Someone was always bragging up some woman. But the matchmakers
rarely, if ever, got it right. While most women who angled to join The Rotation
fully understood it was a business proposition, few understood the process. The
process was everything, but it was also a closely guarded corporate secret.
Fast Lane thrived on mystique.
“That’s her, over by the railing,” Roche
said, pointing out Lara.
Hmmm…tall. Not Amazon
tall; a good height. Classic lines. Slim, but in a healthy way.
No
obvious signs of collagen or silicone. Definitely works out. Not too cool or
pouty or hey-don’t-I-look-like-a-model or I-think-I’m-some-kind-of-goddess.
Roche leaned into Clay. “You like?”
“I do.”
But why
?
There must be a reason. After all,
he was Clay Creighton, and Clay Creighton knew women.
2
Glancing back, Lara saw Clay moving
toward her.
“The view is amazing from here,” he
said.
Lara continued to focus on the
moonlit waves. “Yes, I love the ocean.”
“Me, too,” Clay said. “But I’m not
talking about the ocean.”
Clay stepped next to Lara, close
enough to feel the heat of her body.
“That’s quite a line,” she said.
“Do you use it often?”
“No, actually, I try never to use a
line more than once.”
“That must be difficult.”
“Oh?”
Lara looked back at the ocean. “I
know who you are.”
“It’s true, I meet lots of
women.But I don’t use a line on every one of them.”
“Because they’re always interested?”
“Because I’m
not
always
interested.”
Oh, this guy is smooth.
“That’s not what I’ve read.”
“Then you’ve been reading lies.”
“I’ve been reading your website.”
“Like I said.”
Lara looked at him. His smile and
that golden sparkle in his eyes.
Easy to see why so many women are
interested.
She sipped her drink.
“Roche has been telling me about
you,” Clay said.
“Nice things?”
“I guess he thought it was up to me
to find out the naughty things.”
Lara chuckled. “
Another
line?
You must really be interested if you’re willing to use up two.”
“Okay, we can put the naughty
things on hold. That still leaves us plenty to talk about.”
“Where should we start?”
“How about—”
A coquette who packed way too much under
her blouse, considering how little meat hung elsewhere from her bones, put a
hand on Clay’s shoulder and her mouth close to his ear.
“Hey stud,” she said, “wanna go
play? I brought toys.” She rubbed her “toys” against him.
Clay nodded apologetically to Lara,
then turned to face the woman, who had obviously imbibed more than her skinny
frame could process, and looked directly into her eyes.
“You are delightful, but I’m
already speaking with this other lovely lady right now. So, hold on to that
thought, and maybe we can explore it later.” He arched an eyebrow to signal for
a nearby security man to help the wobbly woman away. Then Clay turned back to
Lara.
“Sorry about that.”
“You don’t have to apologize. I’m
sure it happens all the time.”
“Welcome to my life.”
“Poor baby, always being hounded by
women.”
“Sarcasm. I like that in a woman.”
“I didn’t mean to be sarcastic.”
“Me either,” he said. “Sarcasm is
honest. I don’t get a lot of that.” He turned toward the ocean. “She did have
one good idea. We could go somewhere else. Get away from this loud music. All
these interruptions.”
Oh, my god! The plan’s working!
And with so many hot, young bodies everywhere. What did Roche tell this guy?
Lara’s training clicked in.
She wasn’t exactly lying. But she absolutely needed to keep cool.
“I didn’t bring any ‘toys.’”
“I don’t know about that,” Clay
said, his eyes scanning Lara up and down. “I’m not asking you to share them. We
could start out just talking. Anton said you know something about race cars.”
Clay escorted Lara past the hot
tub, crammed with a dozen people who had shed most, if not all, of their
clothing, to steps that vanished between huge rocks.
“You’re not going to leave your own
party?”
“You know about that rule?” Clay
beamed. “I have another rule that takes precedence in this case: Never pass up
a chance to spend quality time with an alluring lady.”
“That’s a rule I don’t want you to
break.”
They descended to just above where
the waves rammed the cliff and shattered into billions of crackling, foamy bubbles.
They crossed a bridge over some jagged rocks and approached two wide glass
panels. Clay clicked a button on a key fob and the panels slid apart.
He extended a hand to help Lara up
a step. “Welcome to the War Room.”
* * *
The War Room had a decidedly
retro-lounge feel, about as guy as you could get, with sports memorabilia
dominating the décor.
So much stuff.
Footballs signed by the quarterback
of every Super Bowl champion. Helmets. Goggles Michael Phelps wore while
winning a gold medal at the Olympics. A seat from a classic Porsche. And photos
of Clay with star athletes, world leaders and movie stars. Lots and lots of
photos. Clay with LeBron. Clay with Venus. With Barack. Stephen Hawking. Vin
Diesel.
Clay crossed over to a bar, where
he punched a few numbers to make music play from acoustically perfect hidden
speakers. “You like Esquivel?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Brandy?”
“Why not?”
“I have Remy and Camus.”
“Either one.”
Clay held up a heart-shaped bottle.
“The Camus comes from a single vineyard from the Borderies district.”
“Sounds great.” Lara wasn’t
lying about Esquivel. She associated the avant garde Mexican jazz pianist with
her father, who had played his records all the time. Brandy she knew less
about.
Clay put two amethyst-colored
crystal brandy snifters on the bar and started to pour, but stopped abruptly.
“You know what? Let’s go with the Remy.” He put the stopper back into the Camus
bottle, unceremoniously tossed out the shot of cognac he’d already poured, then
got out a new snifter and a striking decanter that looked liked it was made of
quicksilver.
“Louis the Thirteenth,” Clay said.
“Black
Pearl
.”
Lara could tell from his tone that
this was something special.
“Black
Pearl
.
Wow,” she said, trying to sound knowledgeable.
Clay poured about a shot and
a half into each tulip-shaped glass and handed one to Lara. He swirled his,
then sniffed it. Lara followed suit, and found it pleasantly aromatic. They
pinged glasses and sipped. It tasted velvety and smooth, completely lacking in
the throat-clenching bite that years ago had moved Lara to swear off
brown-colored liquor.
Not as bad as I thought it would
be
. “Exceptional,” she said.
“There’s a story about a
Japanese businessman who paid $34,000 for one bottle,” Clay said.
“Thirty-four
thousand
?” Lara
felt instantly guilty for thinking she might not finish what was in her glass.
“I didn’t pay that much,” Clay said
reassuringly. “Connections.”
Lara peered into her glass.
“So, do you like it?” Clay asked.
“Oh, it’s great. I mean…Louis the
Thirteenth. It doesn’t get any better.”
“I meant the room.”
“Oh.” Lara looked around. “It
could—”
“—use a woman’s touch?”
“If this is the place you bring
women when you want to impress them.”
“Actually, this is where I go when
I don’t feel like impressing anyone.” He was as creamy and smooth as the
ganache in a Lindor truffle. And just as much a threat to the heart. Lara was
sure he could make any woman feel he was her destiny.