He was casually dressed in jeans and a faded, red t-shirt with 'Arlington Park Racetrack' on the front, no doubt a relic from his former life, reminding her of his newcomer status, but it didn't matter what he had on. He wore it with such easy grace it could have been the latest Armani.
"You're using eggplant to make a sexual innuendo? That's pathetic, even for you." She hoped he sensed the humor in her voice. This time she was determined to be gracious.
"No, I'm not making innuendos, I'm merely offering advice on the proper selection of an eggplant. It's a critical decision important to the outcome of what you're making." He smiled at her, mischief apparent. She felt a rush of excitement, which she quelled firmly. She wasn't going to let him get to her. She positively would not look at his mouth, with those full lips.
"Oh, please. Eggplants have sex? That's ridiculous. How come Martha Stewart's never mentioned this?"
"Well," he winked at her, "if you promise not to stab me with that cucumber you're holding, I'll explain. We gourmet cooks consider the gender of an eggplant a serious matter."
She felt the heat in her face as she put the cucumber down. She hadn't even been aware she was holding it. Lordy, this man wrote the book on being charming, and, for sure, she couldn't resist something as bizarre as sexing an eggplant.
"Okay, you win, Mr. Martin. Explain, please."
"First of all, call me David." His smile dazzled her. She watched his hands; the way they roamed sensually over the pendulous fruit.
He handled them like—never mind
.
While willing the heat in her cheeks to go away, she saw him select four fruit and arrange them stem end down in the bin. In a fair imitation of a lecturer, he continued with a flourish, "Observe the blossom end of these four."
She looked and saw a dry brown spot. "So?"
"Notice how untidy the scar on three of them is? It's irregular and disorganized. Splotchy, you might say; just not able to get it together." He paused for effect. "They are females."
With a look that said, 'Watch it, Buster,' she waited for the punch line.
"Now, this one," he indicated the fourth scar, "is almost perfectly round, small but organized, and, I might add, the fruit is quite well shaped and attractive, with appealing firmness."
A good-humored wink took note of her skepticism. "This is a male. You'll find the females full of seeds and bitter tasting. The males are smooth and sweet." His smug look dared her to challenge him.
She was pretty sure this was some sort of come-on, but she was too intrigued to interrupt. Regardless, the riotous sensations his presence generated within her were making her uncomfortable. She wanted to leave. "Okay, I'm impressed. I'll let you know how it turns out." Placing the fruit in her basket, she started to pass by.
He moved in front of her, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "If you'll allow me, I'll cook it and serve it to you for dinner tonight, at my house. I make an excellent Eggplant Parmesan."
A Greek god waggling eyebrows?
She was right. It was a come-on after all, thrilling, but she didn't dare fall for it.
Did he really think that suggestive caressing of a vegetable was going to get to her?
Her inner voice clamored a warning.
"Sorry, Mr. Martin. I am neither interested nor available. I thought we covered that the other night."
"Damn, I did it again, didn't I? I have a sense of humor that gets me into trouble too often. I apologize, again."
The forlorn demeanor was enough to make her relent, a little. "You never apologized for the first time."
"A regrettable oversight for which I beg you to let me make amends. Can I buy you a cup of coffee, over there in the Deli section where we can get a table? Please, I apologize better when I'm sitting down."
Helplessly, she felt her sigh turn into a smile. What was it about this man, besides the obvious, that she found so appealing? She enjoyed him even when he behaved like a jerk. He was playing her, and she'd end up feeling like a fool again, but so what? There was the slightest glimmer of hope that maybe they could have something going between them.
"Okay. Just coffee and neutral conversation, very neutral."
"Thank you." It sounded heartfelt.
Taking charge of the shopping cart by grabbing the handle, he pushed it toward the deli as she walked beside him, fantasizing that they were a couple, and wondering where this was going to lead.
David wondered the same thing as he considered his next move. He hadn't forgotten her insult at the supper, implying that he was nothing but a worthless flirt. It still rankled him, so why did he persist?
Because you want to make love to her, stupid. You'd take her to bed in a New York minute if you could manage it.
So she held men with neither property nor money in contempt, did she? Stubbornly, he wanted her to be attracted to him in spite of her belief that he was a man without means or ambition.
He stopped at a small table with two chairs. "Your pleasure, ma'am? Coffee black? Cream? Sugar?"
"Just black, thank you."
He left her sitting, and returned shortly, balancing two cups of coffee and an offering wrapped in a napkin.
Hoping she'd enjoy his humor, he winked and said, "I'm a risk-taker. I thought I'd add a scone and hope you wouldn't think it too forward of me." He added a careful measure of pleading to his look, and watched her expression soften.
Aha. Progress.
"Okay," she acknowledged. "Truce. Maybe I've misjudged you a tiny bit. Maybe you're only misguided and a bit wrong-headed."
"Thank you, I think. Oddly, I don't even know your name. Not fair. You know mine." This time she laughed. His heart caught. He was in real trouble.
"That's right. We never got far enough the other night for introductions. I'm Lindsay Keith." She held out her hand.
He took it, enjoying the strength combined with softness, and the unmistakable, electric charge he felt, holding it. She smiled at him and the room grew brighter. She even smelled good.
"You have the most delightful scent about you," he commented before he thought, then braced himself for her reaction. Why the hell couldn't he keep his mouth shut? She surprised him.
"I'm wearing one of my own fragrances. I'm a perfumer. I own a shop downtown. Have you always wanted to own a restaurant?"
His happiness bubble burst. There it was again. She was fishing for information about his financial status. He answered casually, judging her reaction.
"Yeah, but I don't want to work that hard. There are more important things in life than money. I already work three nights a week, so I get by." The look on her face held enough understanding to set off alarm bells in his head. Had he carried his deception too far?
"It sounds exhausting." Scorn colored with amusement crept into her voice.
He gazed at her, unbelieving. She thought he was some kind of a lazy bum. She couldn't see he was teasing? He liked her—hell, yes he did—and that she so quickly believed the worst, stung.
"At least as tiring as running a little perfume shop." It just came out—from some stupid, juvenile need to spite her for not responding to him when he tried to impress her. What next? Standing on his head?
Her cheeks flushed with color. Oh, hell. He was screwed. He'd made her mad with that damned spontaneous remark. Whatever her reaction, he deserved it.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."
"Yes, Mr. Martin, I believe you did." This time she was really steamed, but even worse, he saw the hurt in her eyes.
God damn it.
He didn't mean to hurt her. It tore him up.
"You are one of those tediously predictable men who thinks a woman can't possibly have the business skills to gain success by her own efforts."
He couldn't help smiling. She sounded like an enraged feminist.
Oops.
When her expression changed to one of intense dislike, he knew she had misread his smile. She thought he was mocking her.
Reaching for her shopping cart as she stood, Lindsay settled an intense look on him, as though she had just turned over a rock and found something revolting. "I don't see any need for us to have any sort of conversation in the future. Have a good life." She walked off.
He watched her go with regret. He'd made an error in judgment. She didn't like immature men with an unwillingness to commit to anything beyond their own pleasure. Neither did he, so how could he judge her?
What the hell got into him? Every time he was around her, his foot ended up in his mouth like some green, sex-starved teenager. Ah. The operative word here: 'sex-starved,' with a heavy dose of frustration thrown in. In every way possible, she appealed to him more than Anne had. He'd never experienced this intense attraction. He didn't think of himself as a passionate man, so where did this come from?
Lindsay had lit a small spark of hope in his soul. Maybe this time, he could have that deep connection to another woman that some other men experienced. He knew, in his heart, that Lindsay Keith could be that woman. Yeah, provided he could make her believe he wasn't an irresponsible jerk just getting by on his looks, on the prowl for a little booty.
If the shoe fits, buddy. Your whole life you've had women because of your looks and money. Women were always there, without any effort on your part. You've finally met a woman you want. She's not interested, and you haven't a clue what to do about it. Well, hell, it's not something you can look up on Wikipedia.
The rituals of courtship were not anything he ever wanted or needed to know. He wished he knew some now. This was stuff you should have learned in high school. He was off studying quadratic equations. He gave a wry shrug, falling back on an old cliché. The bad news, as far as she was concerned, is he had alienated her forever. The good news is that he knew her last name.
Ozark mornings were addictive, David decided, as he emerged from the kitchen, onto the porch with his mug of coffee in his hand. He succumbed to the lure without a whimper, settling into a chair, with his feet up.
Porch sitting, java in hand, breathing in the fresh air before the last of the summer heat returned, was a daily ritual—a chance to think quietly before he went inside to his office to work.
Squirrels busied themselves with the pre-winter task of finding food, insects hummed lazily; drifting in the early day sun. The thunderous pounding of a Pileated Woodpecker attacking a succulent, dead tree, rattled the peace of the neighborhood.
Restless energy plagued him this morning, the result of thinking about Lindsay. He still rankled from her rejection, but his gut told him this woman, who had stirred emotions he thought long forgotten, could play an important role in his life. Never had a woman bedeviled him like this.
He heard the toaster, and the sound of a cabinet door opening. Sarah was in the kitchen making her breakfast. Would she opt for coffee or orange juice before she joined him? She didn't like coffee. She only drank it, he knew, so he'd complain and tell her it wasn't good for her. She liked to goad him into arguments. Typical teenager, he supposed.
"Morning," he said, noting, as she came through the kitchen doorway, the glass of orange juice in her hand. The prospect of an argument faded with the expression on her face; she clearly had something on her mind that she hesitated to bring up. He wasn't going to like this.
She didn't waste any time but sat down and dove right in. "Uh, my friends, um, Tiffany, and Ashley, and Madonna, are going to get a tattoo. Is it okay if I get one, too?"
Tattoos? Shit! Another 'father' thing I hadn't anticipated.
He frowned.
"Where?"
"You mean, 'where's the tattoo place?'"
She was stalling. Major conflict ahead. Trying to keep disapproval out of his voice, he said, "No. Where on your body do you intend this to be?"
Wary now, she replied, "Uh, we thought we'd do the one that looks like barbed wire, around our wrist, like a bracelet. Ashley says it's real swag."
"Absolutely not." How could she even think it? He had a personal prejudice against tattoos. My God. His beautiful daughter, mutilated. He saw Sarah's temper begin to heat, ready for confrontation.
"Why not?" she demanded. "All the girls are doing it. They'll hack me and won't hang with me if I don't."
"And I don't care if it's swag and you're hacked, whatever the hell that is. No, and that's final." His voice growled, but he couldn't help it. How the hell did he deal with this? He had no solid ground to stand on. Tattoos were a button she should not have pushed.
"I assume these so-called friends are the same ones who encourage you to dress like a bag lady, and wear that crummy mascara that makes you look like a raccoon?"
Eyes wide, she stared at him. Shocked, he guessed, because he never commented on her appearance, no matter how bad.
"You can forget it, and don't even mention piercing while I'm in charge. You aren't going to do that, either."
He was disappointed with her. He could see that she knew it and she wanted to cry and say she was sorry, but she stubbornly held back. Damn it, he felt about as low as a cockroach. Again he had handled it wrong. He tried another approach.
"Tattoos are a fad. You'll be sorry it's there when you get older, and plastic surgery is the only way to remove them. I forbid you to do this. Am I clear?" Hell, he sounded so pedantic, but some things weren't worth being nice about.
"Yes." Her voice caught, on the edge of tears. She sat avoiding his eyes, mashing her toast with her fingers.
He gentled his voice. She was contrary, and impulsive, but only fifteen. Still a child, but almost a woman.
"Sarah, in the adult world, you'll want to be taken seriously by people who have the power to give you opportunities. That won't happen, especially for a woman, if you have visible tattoos. They label you, and are often unacceptable, especially for a woman, in a business environment.
"You'll have to trust my judgment for now. You don't have the experience." He paused, searching for words and tried again. "You haven't lived long enough to know how to make wise choices." He tried to lighten up with some humor. "I'll bet Donald Trump doesn't allow visible tattoos in his boardroom."