Slow Ride

Her hair brushed the side of his cheek. He closed his eyes, inhaled a fragrance of sweet sage and lavender. The weight and warmth of her generous body was more arousing than he’d expected.

He could sink into her.

Go deep, get comfortable.

Spend the night.

Maybe even longer…

He tightened their embrace until her voluptuous breasts were riding plump and full up against his chest, the locked charm trapped between them. In heels, she was almost his height. Maybe twenty-five pounds under his weight, which meant that her curves fit just right against him, filling his arms, his senses.

Their palms slid together in the heat. Rory panted in his ear. He’d stopped hearing the music, but the beat was inside him, and in her, too. He felt it in the heft of her soft breasts and the sensuous sway of her hips and the glide of their feet, perfectly in sync.

He touched his lips to her warm cheek. She turned her head away a fraction and his kiss slipped toward her ear. He lipped her lobe, making the dangly earring swing against his chin. His nose nudged it aside as he sought her neck, sleek and moist and infused with the rising scent of aroused female flesh. He nuzzled, he kissed, he licked.

Rory’s hand tightened against his. “Tucker.” She pressed her face against his shoulder and let out a soulful moan. “Sweet mercy. What are you doing to me?”

2

“FOREPLAY,” Tucker said against her neck. The hot whisper of breath and the vibrations of his voice produced a frisson that played through Rory like fingers running scales along the keys of a piano.

Foreplay. On the dance floor. Was he nuts?

If so, she was equally crazy from the heat. She didn’t want him to stop.

“Foreplay,” she echoed, trying to regain her senses. “Are you asking—or stating your intentions?”

His lips stopped mid-nibble. “Do I need intentions?”

“Everyone has intentions.”

“Not the kind that a father brings up with his daughter’s boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Slowly, she was coming out of the haze of arousal that had freed her inhibitions more thoroughly than a half-dozen body shots. A method she’d tried only once, in college, and promptly thrown up in a frat boy’s lap. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t asking you to marry me.”

Tucker chuckled. He gave her waist a squeeze—a friendly squeeze.

When had his hand moved from her derriere to her waist?

Ignoring the signs, she stayed in his arms, resting her chin on his shoulder and attempting to find the beat of the music that had previously come so natural and easy. But Tucker’s body was stiff against hers, and not in a good way.

He stepped back. “Thanks for the dance.”

Her mouth hung open. That was it?

“I’m sorry about—you know.” He gave a shock of his thick dark brown hair a self-conscious tug, leaving it in ruffled disarray. There was an easy charm about him that was boyishly self-effacing. She imagined that he was the kind of man who got away with murder by flashing his grin at the woman he’d wronged, a grin made only more irresistible by the deep, dimpled grooves it cut into his cheeks. Lost in that charm and smile, a woman would find herself forgiving any transgression.

“Sorry about what?” she said, giving him no easy out. If a guy was going to grope her on the dance floor and then run away, he could at least do her the courtesy of not apologizing.

“Getting carried away.” His feet shuffled. The grin had become sheepish. “I shouldn’t have been so forward.”

She followed him to the edge of the dance floor, grateful to be out of the revolving lights. “Please don’t look at me that way. I’m not your maiden aunt.”

“No, but we’re practically cousins.”

Inhaling, she straightened. “I don’t think so.”

“Maybe not.” Tucker’s gaze went to her breasts. She fumbled around, gathering up the lilac shawl she’d let trail across the dance floor, but in the end she resisted the impulse to cover herself. She was working on her body issues—had even progressed to posing for her Friday afternoon life-drawing class—and she would not allow Tucker Schulz to see how badly he’d rattled her composure. Even if her nipples were so hard they felt like hitchhiker’s thumbs sticking out the front of her dress.

Begging for a pickup, she thought with an inner groan. Pick me up and take me on a long, slow, sensuous journey.

“Nolan and Mikki…” Tucker’s raspy voice trailed off. His gaze was still pinned below her neck and a small thrill went through her when he licked his lips. His eyes were the eerie green underwater color of the turtle tanks at the aquarium, reflecting more than his reluctance. He wanted her, but he didn’t.

“What about Nolan and Mikki?” A lame excuse, in her estimation. He knew it and was using them, anyway, as a convenient out.

Tucker looked away. “I’ll leave that up to her to tell you, but the upshot is that you and I—” He broke off, serving up another helping of the appealing grin-and-shrug. “We’re better off as friends.”

“If that,” she said.

Surprised by her resistance, he caught her hand. “Aw, Rory. Don’t be like that.”

Despite herself, she melted. Not difficult when he’d already reduced her to a liquid state.

She kept her face solemn. “Tell me. Does the boyish charm always work when you’re prying yourself out of a sticky situation?”

He was no longer fooled by her stern tone. “Pretty much.”

She laughed and gave him a push. “Go on. Get out of here.”

He half turned, then threw another dimple shot over his shoulder. “Friends, right? I can tell—we’re destined to be good friends.”

“Sure. That’d be just great.”

Story of my life. Idly she twined the necklace chain around one finger, holding the charm in her palm as Tucker made his getaway. He was immediately snared by a curvaceous redhead in blue spangles who was offering him her locket before they’d gone three steps.

Unlock the possibilities? More like unlock the door of your place or mine.

The white-gold suitcase charm in her palm achingly reminded her that though she may have spruced up her outsides with the help of new designer clothes and a gym membership, inside she was still locked in the same old pattern, lugging the same old baggage.

She sighed. For a brief moment Tucker had seen her as a beautiful, desirous woman, but she’d ruined that with her insistence on keeping his intentions candid and aboveboard. As well as her failure to believe in her own attractiveness.

Almost ten years had gone by since Bradley Carr, her long-term boyfriend from college, had dumped her mere days from the altar, simply because he’d caught sight of some wannabe Bo Derek while taking the trolley. After the wedding had been canceled, the girl and Brad had used his and Rory’s honeymoon tickets to Cozumel. That they’d suffered Montezuma’s revenge and broken up on the plane trip home was Rory’s only small vindication.

Since then she’d resolved innumerable times that she would not let one bad relationship affect the rest of her life. The statute of limitations for feeling sorry for herself was up and over and o-u-t, out.

Rory looked around the club, seeing size twos everywhere.

Affirmation time. I am a confident, successful woman with great skin and va-va-voom curves. I don’t need a man to complete me, but someday I will find one to appreciate me.

Just not at a key party.

AN HOUR LATER the charity event was on its downward slide to that time when those still hanging on to their locks and keys had to either match up or call it a night. Rory had put in her time and was ready to go, but she had Mikki’s car keys and there was no way she’d leave her sister to her own devices, especially when the man who’d broken her heart was on the premises. Tucker’s hints about the couple had roused Rory’s curiosity. So far, Mikki had managed to dodge all questions, slipping off to the bar to order another drink whenever Rory brought up Nolan’s name. Extremely worrisome behavior.

Waiting for Mikki to return, Rory sat alone, gnawing her lip as she watched yet another couple match up. The lucky pair proceeded to the stage where Maureen Baxter handed them a prize and dropped their ticket into the wire bin containing all the entries for the evening.

The impending raffle for the grand prize of a weekend at Painter’s Cove resort in Mendocino was the unofficial wrap-up to the evening. Surely then Rory would be able to leave. Lauren had already disappeared, after being spotted early on with a smoldering Johnny Depp look-alike. Some sisters had all the luck.

A sloppy drunk in a Niners jersey staggered off the dance floor with the bottle of beer that had obviously been his only constant companion for the evening. He waggled his key at Rory.

“Why not?” she said with a sigh, and held out her necklace.

The guy aimed his key at the tiny lock on the suitcase and missed by a mile, thrusting the miniature key into her cleavage instead. He emitted a high-pitched giggle. “Missed my mark.”

“Let me.” She pried the key from his sticky fingers and inserted it into the lock. No go.

She returned the key with a relieved smile. Thanks for small favors.

However, her “possibilities” were rapidly dwindling. She scanned the room again, telling herself that she was looking for Mikki, not Tucker. She’d spotted him frequently in the past hour, seemingly trying his key on every girl who caught his eye.

Had he found his match yet?

Not that she cared. Life was too short to waste on men who ran hot and cold—hot when they were one-on-one and their sap was running, cold when their friends showed up and suddenly they didn’t want to be seen with the “fat girl.”

Lauren would gasp and say, “But you’re not fat!”

Mikki would say, “Screw ’em if they don’t appreciate you.”

Her mother, Emma Constable, would not even understand the issue. Rory had inherited her height and shape from Emma, who carried herself with the grace of a queen and had not a shred of self-consciousness about being zaftig. As mortifying as Rory had found her mother during adolescence—a time already made bad enough by dint of a body that was six inches and thirty pounds bigger than most of the other girls—she’d learned to live with Emma’s openness about all things sexual.

The woman collected male admirers with an ease that was astounding. Even inspiring. Rory’s foster sisters had called it Emma’s mojo. There could be no better proof that sexual attraction wasn’t only about bodies, but brains, as well.

Unfortunately, Rory’s brain still got more action than her body. Even so, she was hopeful. Always hopeful.

But not desperate.

She undid the catch on her necklace and slipped off the damned thing. The prizes didn’t matter to her. What hurt was that she’d let herself believe, for a short while, that she might meet someone who’d not only see the inner her, but be equally enticed by the outer person.

She knew she wasn’t unattractive. There’d been a handful of admirers over the years. But she’d never be a Barbie doll with a twenty-two-inch waist, and that narrowed her options a lot.

Suddenly her pulse leaped. There was Tucker, near the bar. No key partner yet.

He was in a conversation with a man Rory had noticed throughout the evening, moving from woman to woman with his key out. The slavering hound-dog type.

The man gestured. Tucker talked fast, looking right at her for a couple of seconds before deliberately turning away. Her face flushed with heat as they surreptitiously exchanged keys.

“Ready to go?” Mikki plopped onto a stool and put her chin on her hand. Her eyelids lowered sleepily. “What’re you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Rory said. There was no reason for her to believe that Tucker had palmed off his key—the key that he’d avoided fitting into her locket—on the other guy.

No reason except her own self-doubt.

She grabbed the evening bag that matched her boutique version of an ethnic batik dress. “Let’s go.”

“Wait.” Mikki pushed back her tousled hair. “Did you find your key partner yet?”

“Nope, and I’m giving up. I’ll drop the necklace off at the door in case someone else wants to try it.”

“What about the prizes? The movie tickets?”

Rory was an avowed film buff, but not even tickets to a red carpet premiere would entice her to stick around. “I’ve had enough humiliation, thanks, Mikki. I’m leaving. Unless you’d rather get a ride home from Nolan, I suggest you come with me.”

“Nolan. That son of a—” Mikki sputtered peppery insults as she climbed off the stool, looking a bit wobbly. She’d definitely been drinking more than diet cola.

Rory took a firm grip on her sister’s arm. “I’m not letting you get away this time. Are you ready to tell me what happened between you and Nolan?”

“Make that what didn’t happen.” Mikki extricated her heel from the rungs of the stool and pulled herself upright. Her blue eyes sharpened through the haze of alcohol. “Namely, our divorce.”

“What!”

“The rat bastard told me the divorce was never legal. Right before he smiled and stuck his key in my lock.” Mikki was clearly outraged by the encounter. “Then he went and walked out on me before we collected our prize! But never mind.” She patted her purse. “I’ll be much happier at the B and B in Napa without him.”

Rory’s mind was pedaling to catch up to speed. “You and Nolan are still married?”

“Technically.” Mikki let out another colorful oath. “But not for long. I’ll take care of that damn fast, lemme tell ya.”

“Before you rush into anything, it wouldn’t hurt to take some time to think the situation through.” Rory had always believed that despite Mikki’s injured pride, there remained a strong connection between her and Nolan, her first true love. Maybe even her one and only.

But her sister wasn’t in any mood to listen to reason. “Hey, Tuck, old friend!” Mikki waved. “Come say bye-bye.”

He lifted a hand in acknowledgment and headed their way.

Rory rolled her eyes. Super. Maybe now he’d try his key on her, but the joke would be on him because the guy he’d exchanged with hadn’t approached her, either. Tuck’s odds were still the same.

“No match?” Mikki said as she leaned in to kiss Tucker’s cheek.

He gave her back a pat. “I guess it’s not my night.”

A sly smile appeared on Mikki’s face. “Rory’s still unattached.”

Rory put on a cease-and-desist look, but Mikki didn’t stop. Apparently she was getting payback for her big sis refusing to hand over the car keys when she’d wanted to run from Nolan.

“Go ahead and try her,” Mikki cooed. “You two might be a perfect fit.”

Tucker looked at Rory and raised his brows. She nodded grimly. There was no avoiding it.

“Stranger things have happened,” she said through gritted teeth. She lifted the necklace off the table, pinching the chain between two fingers. She held it high, at arm’s length.

Her eyes speared Tucker. “Dare you.”

“I’d be happy to.” With a blameless innocence that was as fake as a nugget of fool’s gold in Rory’s estimation, he caught the dangling charm in his fingers and took the key from his pocket. It slid into the lock and turned with a snick, springing the miniature suitcase open. He pulled out the slip of paper printed with their number—178—and a section to fill out with their contact information for the raffle.

Rory stared at Tucker. He didn’t seem surprised. Nor disappointed. What an actor.

Mikki applauded drunkenly. “I knew you two were a match.” She gestured at her sister’s shawl and the similar hue of his shirt. “You see? Color-coordinated. It must be destiny.”

Rory forced a smile. “Since when do you believe in destiny?” Mikki wouldn’t trust her future to something as flimsy as destiny; she believed in fighting tooth and nail for what was right.

“I don’t.” Mikki’s nose crinkled. “But you do.”

Rory snorted, though she couldn’t argue very strenuously. She’d been raised with Emma’s belief system, which incorporated homespun common sense with the wisdom of the Dalai Lama, the teachings of the Eternal Sunshine Church of Peace, Love and Understanding, the Bible, runes, Tarot cards and even the occasional visit from a Jehovah’s Witness who’d knock on the door at Garrison Street and soon find him or herself with an invitation for supper.

“You two work this out and I’ll go up and get our prize,” offered Tucker.

As soon as he was gone Rory said, “I’m going to kill you,” to her sister.

Mikki had no fear. “How come? Tuck’s a wonderful guy.”

“He didn’t want to try his key on my lock.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Trust me. I’m not his type.” Or so he wanted to think.

Mikki focused with one eye, her head wavering. “And you know this how?”

“He doesn’t even remember me,” Rory admitted. She dropped the necklace, Tucker’s key still inserted, into her bag. “We met once, when Lauren and I threw that party for you and Nolan after your elopement. Tucker looked right at me tonight without so much as a soupçon of recognition.”

“You’ve changed a lot, Rory. And my marriage happened years ago.” Mikki’s one open eye clouded. “Ancient history. I barely remember those days myself.”

“You are such a liar. You’ve never resolved your feelings for Nolan, but at last you two have a second chance to work out the marriage.”

“Second chances are for wishy-washy women. That’s so not me.”

“You know what Mom would say, don’t you?”

They looked at each other and repeated, “‘The wheel never stops turning. What goes around, comes around.’”

Mikki scoffed. “That and a chorus of ‘Hakuna Matata’ might buy me a cappuccino at Starbucks.”

Although a lot of the crowd had cleared out of Clementine’s, the remaining guests were gathering around the stage where Maureen was about to announce the raffle winners. Rory and Mikki joined the applause as she read off an approximate total of the money they’d raised tonight for the building fund. An impressive amount. The transitional house for troubled girls in crisis, already under construction, was ensured a good foundation.

“We’ve done our duty for Baxter House.” Rory grabbed Mikki’s arm. “Let’s get out of here before Tucker comes back.”

“This is why you don’t have a lover,” Mikki protested as she was towed away. “You back up and turn around at the first bump in the road.”

“As opposed to you, the Pint-Size Steamroller,” Rory said. “We all have our ways.”

Tucker’s voice stopped them. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” Rory said, not stopping.

“The ladies’,” Mikki said, stopping. With a wriggle, she tugged the hem of her mini over her thighs. “You keep an eye on Rory for me.”

Reluctantly, Rory stopped and turned toward Tucker, clasping her shawl and purse against her abdomen. Despite the big fans whirring up near the vaulted ceiling, the club was quite hot. Damp strands of hair clung to her neck and cheeks. Her makeup had probably melted long ago.

“I put our number into the raffle.” Tucker held out two tickets. “And we won a couple of movie passes.”

“Super.” She peeled away one ticket. “We won’t even have to sit together.”

His brows pulled down into a frown and for an instant she was hit with a wallop right beneath her rib cage. Regret…longing. Sharp enough to steal her breath.

Was she so afraid of being rejected that she wouldn’t even take a chance?

“Or we can go as friends,” she amended. Safe territory.

The tightness in Tucker’s jaw relaxed. “That’s better.”

Of course. He was a nice guy, Nolan’s buddy. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so he was determined to do the friends thing. She could be a good sport and go along with it, no problem. They could both pretend that he hadn’t snacked on her neck and squeezed her ass under the guise of dancing, then changed his mind when the fog had cleared.

She could also pretend that she didn’t know about his attempt to avoid her with the switched keys.

“Entry to the grand prize raffle is officially closed,” Maureen announced from the stage. She pointed into the crowd. “You, gorgeous. How about coming up here to spin me ’round?”

A blond beach god vaulted up to the stage and gave Maureen a twirl before proceeding over to the barrel holding the numbered tickets. “Oo-oh,” Maureen said into the microphone, fanning her face. “Suddenly I’m so dizzy.”

The bantering continued while the hunk cranked the handle. The mesh drum whirled. Rory craned her neck toward the swagged alcove that opened to the bathrooms. Mikki wouldn’t slip away, would she, out of a misguided attempt to throw Rory and Tucker together?

He’d put his hand between her shoulder blades and nudged her toward the crowd.

“The grand prize tonight is an all-inclusive, three-day weekend at Painter’s Cove in Mendocino. Our lucky couple will stay in one of their luxury suites—”

Several in the crowd tittered. Maureen wagged a finger and put her mouth up against the microphone, dropping her voice to a husky intimate tone. “Sleeping arrangements to be determined by private consultation.” She went on to list amenities such as private pool and spa, plus a number of gratis appointments for massages and facials and a tee time at the golf course. Finally she signaled for a drumroll before reaching into the basket.

To a cheer and the crash of a cymbal, Maureen waved the chosen bright pink ticket overhead. Her chiffon sleeves fluttered. “And our winner is—” she unfolded the paper “—number one hundred seventy-eight!”

Rory was poking through her purse, looking for Mikki’s keys.

Tucker gripped her elbow. “That’s us. One seventy-eight.”

“Oh, no. I’m sure you’re mistaken. We’re one eighty-seven…”

“Tucker Schulz,” Maureen read off the ticket. “And Rory Constable! Woohoo, Rory!” She put a hand over her eyes and searched the crowd. “Is that you, honey? Come on up and get your prize.”

Suddenly, Mikki was pushing Rory toward the stage and Tucker had her hand, helping her up the steps. She felt herself flushing, going awkward and tongue-tied, the way she often did when she was the center of attention. Her desire to be more self-assured was not always matched by the execution.

“Rory is the owner of San Francisco’s own Lavender Field, the chain of bakeries that supplied the desserts that those of you not on low-carb diets have been enjoying tonight.” Maureen’s boisterous laugh rang out. She gave Rory a hug before returning to the mike. “And Tuck is an electrician who’s promised to wire Baxter House free of charge. Let’s give our lucky couple a hand, folks. We couldn’t have selected a more deserving pair.”

Tucker said “Thanks” into the microphone.

Rory plastered a smile on her face, then gave a little wave at Mikki, who was swinging a fist in the air, hooting and hollering.

Maureen took over again and thanked everyone for their support for the cause so dear to her heart.

Gratefully out of the spotlight, Rory faded away to the side of the stage. “I can’t believe we won. And you didn’t even want to—” The words choked off.

Tucker stood directly in front of her, his fingertips resting on her bare arms, burning holes in her concentration. “Didn’t want to…?”

“Be my key partner,” she blurted.

“What makes you say that?”

“I saw you exchange keys with some drunken guy. Before, near the bar.”

An expression that looked a lot like guilt bled into Tucker’s face. “I wasn’t avoiding you, Rory. The guy approached me. I didn’t know him from Adam, but he’d had no luck with his key and he, uh, I guess his eye was on a certain woman…”

“And your key fit her lock? That makes no sense.”

Tucker hesitated. “My original key may not have, but he knew his didn’t. He’d tried his key on her. And everyone else.”

“Except me.” Rory tipped her chin up. The hell if she’d let him see her humiliation at being considered the very least desirable woman in Clementine’s. This was worse than being picked last for dodgeball in gym class, but at least it hadn’t been Tucker who’d avoided her then. Tucker, a man she still found extremely attractive, despite her attempts not to.