Real Women Don't Wear Size 2 (15 page)

As she finagled her way through the crowd, her purse strap slid back and forth and made her nipples even happier to be here. It’d have been nice to forego the accessory altogether, but she needed something for her condo key, if nothing else. And in addition to the basic necessities, Clarise had the single sheet of potential fantasies tucked inside the tiny handbag. She’d ripped it out of her notebook and decided to bring it along. Why, she didn’t know, since Ethan hadn’t bothered to make the trip, but even so, it was there, in her purse, and reminding her of the fantasy. Besides, she could realize that someone else rocked her world, right? It could happen. Then again, Jake Riley, potential rock-her-world guy, had asked her to accompany him to the beach, and she’d turned him down. Didn’t her heart realize that Ethan Eubanks was a lost cause, and she should move on? Evidently not, but maybe, during the next few days, she’d convince it to at least consider the possibility.

Clarise sighed. If she were truly going to enjoy the excitement and experience the nuances of Gasparilla, she needed to loosen up, attempt to capture the wildness around her and let it set her inhibitions free. Maybe for Jake Riley. He’d had a “look” when he asked her to go sightseeing earlier. Had his intention been to see her sights? And why had saying yes seemed so hard? Wasn’t that what she wanted? Some gorgeous hottie seeing her as hot too? Yes, it was. But she simply had to get accustomed to the thought of getting naked with a guy that, well, wasn’t Ethan. She breathed in deeply and inhaled the blended scent of spicy food and alcohol. It was a very alluring smell.

“I can do this,” she whispered, as she smiled at a street vendor, then continued to move through the congested crowd. Another hand fondled her behind at some point, and she fought the impulse to scream. She turned quickly, but of course had no idea who’d copped a feel, and every unaccompanied man behind her smiled guiltily. Super. Clarise picked up her pace and moved away from the groping huddle. Her heart pittered so quickly in her chest, she was surprised her boobs didn’t jump out of hiding merely from the vibration. She swallowed hard, blinked a few times to make her eyes adjust to all of the neon, then swallowed again in an effort to clear her ears of the throbbing from all of the noise. It’d help if she were a little more comfortable in her surroundings. In spite of her daring clothes, she still felt like a nun in a brothel.

Spotting a daiquiri booth, she edged her way through the crowd in that direction. Wasn’t drinking part of the fun? Naturally, she needed to experience one drink, or two. She’d never tried the slushlike beverage, but she’d heard they were deliciously fruity and undeniably addictive. She decided one wouldn’t do any harm; she wouldn’t drink too much, merely enough to put her more at ease with her surroundings.

“I’ll have a strawberry daiquiri,” a woman called from her perch at the elongated bar.

“Sure thing, gorgeous,” the bartender said, moving to one of the contraptions behind him.

The woman grabbed a pirate hat off the man at the next stool and placed it on her head. “I’m plundering,” she announced to the man.

“Me too,” he returned, then leaned forward and kissed her until the woman on his opposite side yanked him away.

“We’re leaving,” she declared.

The lady at the bar smiled and watched them leave through the crowded exit. “Works for me,” she said. “I’m keeping the damn hat.”

Clarise sidled up next to the woman, whose stolen hat promptly poked her in the eye. “Ouch,” she said, though she wasn’t sure anyone could hear her over the roar of the daiquiri machines and the rumble of the crowd.

The woman had heard, however, and she turned toward Clarise and smiled. “Sorry.” She wore a tight pale yellow T-shirt and no sign of a bra whatsoever. As if to emphasize the fact, she also wore a nipple ring, which pressed against the clingy fabric like a tiny speed bump on her boob.

“No problem,” Clarise responded.

Speed Bump slid her cash across the black lacquer bar, her flaming pink nails stroking the bartender’s fingers before releasing the bill, then she accepted the humongous drink. After taking a rather unladylike gulp of the concoction, her mouth went flat, and the eyes beneath the hat zoned in on Clarise’s chest. “Damn, they look real.”

Clarise swallowed past a flame of embarrassment. “Um, they are.”

“Holy shit! You serious?” At her exclamation, several people within a three-foot radius, since that was as far as any voice hoped to carry in this chaos, turned and joined in the gawking.

Clarise suddenly remembered 4-H day in elementary school. One of her classmates brought his prized bull, and all the kids had taken turns gawking at the underside of the big animal, at those big, heavy balls. Not exactly the memory she’d expected to surface at Gasparilla. She shifted on her barstool. “Yeah,” she managed, then cleared her throat and turned toward the bartender, who was also checking out her goods. “I’d like a daiquiri, please.”

“What size?” Given the direction of his gaze, she wasn’t sure if he referred to the drink she’d ordered, or the Robinson Treasures beneath her tube top. Clarise opted for the drink. “A—big one,” she said, thinking she was going to need all the help she could get in order to loosen up around this crowd.

The bartender grinned, displaying straight white teeth and two deep dimples. Clarise’s insides fluttered. He had tousled blond hair and an athletic build, like a baseball player. Definitely a guy who worked out, she surmised, watching his biceps flex against his orange Daiquiri Shop T-shirt as he leaned forward on the bar.

She moved her attention to his eyes. Green. Well, dadgum. For a moment there, she thought she had a winner. She really wanted blue eyes on her Mr. Right, and the bartender wasn’t what she was looking for, anyway. She wasn’t the “sex with a stranger” type, or she didn’t think she was. If he’d had blue eyes, though, she’d have probably thought about it a little harder.

“We’ve got fifteen flavors,” he said, leaning toward her face but stalking her boobs. This time, the image that sprang to mind was from the Discovery Channel. A tiger, crouched down, gliding through tall reeds toward an unsuspecting zebra. Clarise swallowed, and felt rather . . . striped. Nervous, she scanned the spinning apparatuses stretching down the back wall of the bar. With the clear front panels and the twirling mixtures inside, they reminded her of the washing machines in her apartment complex—without the clothes, and with lots of ice. Most of the flavors seemed fairly self-explanatory. Strawberry, pineapple, peach, mango. But the one at the end, the bright red one with three initials emblazoned on the top, caught her attention.

“What’s DOA?” she asked.

“You go, girl,” Speed Bump encouraged, lifting her Styrofoam cup and giving Clarise a playful nudge in the arm. “No better time than Gasparilla to throw caution to the wind; that’s what I always say.”

The bartender snickered. “Shelby, you should slow down. The parade hasn’t even started yet.”

“And I’m gonna get a helluva lot of beads, Rob,” Shelby slurred, then fell off her seat. Two guys standing nearby gladly helped her back to her feet, then they happily accepted her wet kisses of appreciation. “Go for the DOA, cutie,” Shelby continued. “With tits like those and that drink helping you ride the wave, you’ll definitely get everything you want out of tonight’s parade.”

Bartender Rob simply shook his head as Shelby winked, then turned and sauntered through the crowd, heading back toward the street.

“What is DOA?” Clarise repeated.

“The strongest daiquiri we make,” Rob confided. “Dead On Arrival. You needing something strong?”

Clarise jumped as someone bumped into her chair—and grabbed her right butt cheek. “Yes. Definitely something strong.”

For the umpteenth time since he left Birmingham, Ethan rolled an impressive list of obscenities toward anyone who’d listen. Unfortunately, in the excitement of the parade in progress, no one listened, or cared. His flight had been delayed because of an uncommon snowstorm in Nashville. Snow, Ethan thought, as his body temperature continued to steadily rise, due to Tampa’s humidity and wall-to-wall crowd. There certainly wasn’t a chance of snow
here
in January. Nope, snow in Tampa would probably happen whenever it snowed in hell, which was exactly how hot Ethan perceived the temperature now. Of course, part of his body’s heat could be attributed to a frustration peak the size of Everest. Between the delayed flight and the cabbie who’d gotten turned around in Ybor City—a cabbie who drives here daily, for crying out loud—and the resort manager giving Ethan’s room to someone else, he was pretty damn hot, and he hadn’t even seen the reason for this trip. Yet. But Clarise Robinson was somewhere in this crowd, and he was bound and determined to find her—before some other lucky ass did.

Figuring she’d stay close by the condominium resort he’d selected for the company employees, he decided to check out both sides of the street on that block. He’d been elated when he booked his own room this morning after someone had a last-minute cancellation, but when he’d shown up late, he learned they hadn’t been willing to hold the thing, and now there was none to be found. Ethan wasn’t sure how to handle that problem yet, but before he tackled it, he wanted to tackle an intriguing brunette friend, if he could find her. So where was she?

Working his way through the partying crowd reminded him of his college days, when he’d attended a Def Leppard concert and sat in the bump-and-grind section. Like the crowd from back then, there was hardly any way to maneuver through this Gasparilla pack, but he was unyielding and had a distinct advantage—he was bigger than the skinny college kids who made up the majority of the crowd. Of course, it took every ounce of every muscle working together to push his way through the madness. Thank God he worked out.

After a futile pass down one side of the street, he crossed between two floats and headed down the other. By the time he neared the end of that block, he’d nearly given up hope of finding Clarise in the overactive and damn imaginative crowd. How many swords were utilized in a single Gasparilla anyway? Ethan smirked. Obviously, he’d gotten too hot and too irritated if he was considering the number of swords surrounding him. How was he supposed to find one woman in this madness? And why hadn’t he seen even one of his employees, people who would undoubtedly be able to tell him where to find Clarise?

Screams of excitement pulsed through the air, beads soared from the top tiers of elaborate floats and women lifted their shirts all over the place. The latter would’ve normally caught his attention and held it, at least momentarily, but not today. Today, he was only looking for one woman’s display, and he’d rather it not be a public viewing, thank you very much. Ethan moved to the street corner and prepared to pass to the other side again when a man’s eager proclamation piqued his interest, as well as the interest of every other male within earshot.

“Have mercy! It’s coming off!” he bellowed.

Ethan turned toward the guy, a bearded swashbuckler, at least six-foot-five, who evidently could see the entire span of the crowd on the opposite side. With Ethan’s six-two, he didn’t have as abundant an advantage, but he could still follow the man’s gaze to see where his attention had landed. The sight made his stomach clench. How the hell would he stop her now?

A kaleidoscope,
that
was the way Gasparilla affected her senses, like a kaleidoscope, similar to the wild tie-dyed vision she’d experienced at the Body Boutique. Yeah, that was it, with jazz music, instead of Blondie. She blinked a few times, took it all in, swiftly changing colors and shapes and patterns, pirates and beads and masks, music and dancing and fun. Clarise sucked on the straw of the monster-sized drink, but the potent red wonder was gone. “Dang,” she said, frowning at the cup.

The guy next to her, well, one of the guys next to her—there were several now—laughed. “Here, babe. Let me throw that away for ya.” He took the gigantic cup and freely tossed it. She hoped it went near a trash can, but she lost sight of it in midair. Heck, she didn’t approve of littering. She started to tell him, but a hiccup caught her unaware and caused another low-rumbled laughter from the fellow, who stretched a hand in the air to snag a glittery strand of emerald beads.

“I want some,” she said, eyeing the loop he draped around his neck. He had several now; Clarise had none. You’d think he’d offer to share. Another of her new best friends brought a beefy arm around her back and leaned close. His breath was hot and smelled like rotten fruit, or really strong alcohol. She attempted a baby step back.

“Honey, you show what you’ve got hidden under there, and I guarantee you’ll get your share of beads.”

Clarise looked down. Her top was still on? And after all that practicing at home? “Oh, right.” She moved her fingers, which were quite fumbly, to the top of her chest and waited for the next float to come. The front of it resembled a mermaid, her long, flowing blond hair trailing behind her to form the body of the structure, where crew members tossed beads to chest-baring women. As if signaling her approval of the action, the mermaid’s breasts also bulged forward, bare and bountiful, with big pink nipples that looked like rosebuds. Clarise decided she was practically the only woman here whose boobs hadn’t seen the light of day, or night, as the case may be, and it was high time for that to change. She held her breath as the front wheels of the trailer passed, then watched a good-looking man on the top tier give her a nod of encouragement.

“You want them, darling?” he asked, dangling the most beautiful beads she’d ever seen from his fingertips.

She nodded, and fought the way it made her head spin.

“Then show me.”

Clarise pulled down the front of her top and smiled.

Grinning like a thief, he immediately flung the beads her way. Whoops and hollers echoed in her ears . . . and a firm hand yanked the fabric up her chest. She dropped her newly acquired booty and lost sight of it amid all the shuffling feet on the street. Then she looked up and glared at the large palm still pressed solidly against her chest.