Sunny Says (7 page)

“Forget the damned sunglasses.”
The raindrops had escalated into a blowing drizzle.

“But mine are prescription. You
go ahead and put the top up on the car,” she said. “You can run faster.”

“Dammit, Sunny”—he dragged his
fingers through his hair—”you’re going to get soaked.”

“I told you that I won’t melt. I
like the rain.” Gesturing with her hand for him to go on, she turned and dashed
off in the opposite direction.

Muttering curses with every long
stride, Kale sprinted toward the Cadillac. Just as he fumbled the keys from his
pocket and reached for the door handle, the bottom fell out of the sky, dousing
him with buckets of rain. He let out another string of epithets and hurriedly
raised the top and rolled up the windows.

He grabbed one of the beach
towels and used the dry side to wipe the leather seats and console, then tossed
it into the backseat and waited for Sunny.

And waited.

And waited.

Where the hell was she?

He knew he shouldn’t have left
her alone. What if she was hurt? He uttered another colorful oath, jerked the
door open, and stepped out into the driving torrent. Immediately his clothes
were plastered to his body by the deluge and water sluiced off his head,
obscuring his vision.

The rain slacked off only
minimally as he ran back the way he’d come, calling her name over the pounding
waves. His imagination went crazy. He could picture her, her leg broken,
sobbing and helpless. Perhaps she’d gotten turned around and was wandering lost
and alone. Maybe she’d tripped and had been knocked unconscious.

A quarter mile south, he spied
her in the distance, meandering toward him as if she didn’t have a care in the
world.

She’d retrieved that silly
yellow hat and was wearing the bedraggled thing on her head—not that it did any
good. In the downpour, the waterlogged brim had lost its shape, and it flopped
down like a limp ruffle over her eyes, with rain coursing from the folds like a
gutter spout.

Every few steps she held her
arms out and twirled in circles, lifting her face to the rain. What in the hell
was she doing? Violent emotions pounded his gut. He was torn between wanting to
grab her and hug the daylights out of her and wanting to tear a strip off her
with a tongue-lashing she’d never forget.

As she neared, he ground his
teeth, then shouted, “Sunny! What in the bloody—” The rest of the words stuck
in his throat.

Her face was lit with a smile so
dazzling that it almost drove away the summer squall. And her wet shirt stuck
to her body like a thin film that \vas even more revealing than the bunched
shower curtain had been. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Less than an arm’s length
away, her nipples, dusky coral and hardened into peaks by the rain, drew his
eyes like a magnet and stole any rational thought from his brain.

He was vaguely aware of her
words as she said, “Did you get the top up? I found my glasses. Yours too.” She
held up one of the plastic bags. “And I was able to recover most of the shells.”
She held up the other bag.

He was still fascinated with her
breasts. His gaze seemed glued to them. Her pert nipples seemed to entreat him
to touch them, stroke them.

Of its own volition, his index
finger reached out and slowly circled one tightened areola. She looked down at
his hand, then up at him. Beneath long lashes clumped with raindrops, her eyes
were very large, very blue, and filled with wonderment.

A raging rush of hormones left
him breathing rapidly and conjuring up flashes of the beach scene in From Here
to Eternity. He rubbed his palm over the swell of her breast. She didn’t speak;
she only watched. Never had anything felt so sweetly erotic to him.

His conscience told him to put
his hand in his pocket, the girl in the car, and his libido on hold. His id
told his conscience to take a hike. He could no more resist the temptation of
her lush lips than a cobra could resist the charmer’s flute.

“Tell me to stop,” he said
thickly.

She looked up at him with those
big blue eyes and said, “Why should I do that?” Her lids slowly closed. “It
feels wonderful.”

“Oh, hell,” he groaned, and
captured her mouth like a starving man at a banquet.

Her lips were damp and cool, but
her tongue was wet and warm. Her breast was soft in his hand.

With his free arm, he lifted her
close against him. Her body was so small and delicate that her bones felt as
fragile as those of a dove.

With the rain washing over them
and desire firing his blood, he felt like a steam boiler about to explode. He
wanted to rip off her clothes, lay her on the wet sand, and take her while the
surf rolled over them. Never had he wanted a woman so badly in his entire life.

He struggled for control,
allowed himself one last lingering taste of her, then pulled away. It was the
hardest thing he’d ever done.

He took her arm and strode
wordlessly to where the Cadillac was parked and opened the door.

“Get in the car,” he said,
grinding out the words and balling his fists to keep from taking her in his
arms again.

“But, Kale—”

“Get in the bloody car!”

On Thursday, when Sunny and
Estella met Kale in the hallway of KRIP, he gave them a barely perceptible nod
and strode past without even a polite remark.

“What is wrong with that man?”
Estella asked as they sat down at the makeup table. “He acts like a tiger with
a knot in his tail.”

“Beats me,” Sunny replied. “He
and Foster have been closeted all week, and the only way I know he’s in the
house is that I hear the shower running in the bathroom. He hasn’t said two
words to me. Anytime I try to make conversation, he just scowls and growls.”

“Did something happen between
you two last Sunday? He’s been acting peculiar—make that more peculiar—since
your trip to Padre.”

Sunny shrugged and focused her
attention on adding extra mascara to her lashes and more blush to her cheeks.

“Come on, fess up. Something
must have happened.”

“Well, one minute he seemed to
be . . . enjoying himself, and the next he did a hundred-and-eighty-degree
turn. I think the rain dampened his spirits.”

“Define ‘enjoying himself.’”

“Well, you know”—she waved the
brush in her hand—”enjoying himself.”

“Mmmm.” Estella gave her a smug
smile. “Did the boss make a pass at you?”

“Define ‘pass.’”

Estella rolled her eyes. “Pass:
touchy, touchy; kissy, kissy; come to my place and I’ll show you my etchings.”

Sunny ignored her. She brushed
her hair and sprayed it with a light mist.

“Well?” Estella prompted.

Sunny heaved a big sigh. “You’re
not going to let this go, are you?”

“Uh-uh.”

“He kissed me.”

“Ohhhh, I see. And Little Miss
Don’t-Bother-Me-I’m-Interested-Only-in-My-Career put him in his place and
stomped on his male ego.”

“No.” Sunny dropped her gaze and
riffled the bristles of the hairbrush with her thumb. “He ended it. He pushed
me away and acted like an absolute troll all the way home.” The memory squeezed
painfully at her throat, and she looked up at her friend. “I guess he was
disappointed. I know I’m probably not as sexually sophisticated as the women he’s—”
She swallowed the tightness in her throat and tossed the brush on the table.

“Aw, honey, there’s nothing
wrong with you,” Estella said, taking Sunny’s hands in hers. “Don’t let that
network-stud image throw you. He’s such a cold SOB that he probably wouldn’t
know what to do with that thing in his pants if it stood up and whistled ‘Boogie
Woogie Bugle Boy.’”

Sunny stifled a giggle. “Estella!”

“It’s the truth. Forget that
turkey. In another few days, he’ll be outta here. Come on, let’s have one of
those famous smiles.” She stood, flung out her arms, pooched out her belly, and
pasted on a wide, theatrical grin. “It’s showtime.”

Sunny couldn’t help laughing.

When they walked in the newsroom
for last-minute preparations before airtime, Sunny asked, “Where’s Hulon?”

The floor director looked
disgusted and gestured with his head toward the windows.

“Oh, no, not again,” Sunny said.
She hurried to the end of the room and stuck her head through the open window. Hulon
was outside, huddled in his usual corner of the ledge. “Hulon! What are you
doing out there?”

His eyes were squeezed shut and
a tissue was pressed to his lips. “I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to jump.
This time I’m really going to do it.”

Sunny’s shoulders slumped as she
heaved a sigh. “Hold it a minute. We’ll talk.” She kicked off her shoes, took a
deep fortifying breath, and threw one leg over the windowsill.

A strong arm snaked around her
waist and dragged her back inside. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Sunny blinked up at Kale Hoaglin,
who looked angry enough to chew the mainmast off a schooner. “I’m going out on
the ledge to talk to Hulon.”

“No,” he said, lifting her by
the waist and setting her out of the way. “I’ll talk to our neurotic anchorman.”
He stuck his head out the window. Sunny crept up behind him and leaned forward
to listen. “Hulon, haul your butt in here. Now.”

Hulon shook his head. “You don’t
understand. I’d rather be lying crushed and broken on that parking lot than
facing those cameras again. I’m terrified of that little red light. I have
nightmares about being devoured by exterminator cameras with laser eyes. I’ve
tried to tell Foster again and again, but he won’t listen.”

“I’m listening. Give me a few
days to come up with a solution.”

Hulon laughed sardonically. “I’ve
heard that line before.”

“Five minutes till airtime,” the
floor director called.

Kale raked his fingers through
his hair. “You haven’t heard it from me. Be in my office at
ten o’clock
Monday
morning.”

Hulon looked pensive, but he
didn’t move.

“We’re on the air in less than
five minutes. Either get in here now or jump.”

“Kale!” Sunny exclaimed, shocked
at his callousness.

He turned around, his irritation
evident. “Hell, he’s not going to jump. I’m sick of the manipulative little
bastard’s grandstanding. Have you forgotten that his antics almost got you
killed?”

“He’s very disturbed, Kale.”

He raked his fingers through his
hair. “I’m disturbed too. Damned disturbed. Will you have dinner with me after
the broadcast?”

“Dinner?” she said, surprised at
his invitation. “Okay.”

With a minute to airtime, Hulon
sheepishly slid into his chair behind the desk. Sunny patted his arm. “Everything
will work out fine. You’ll see.”

*    *    *

Sunny and Kale sat in a secluded
alcove of a penthouse supper club overlooking the city. They had watched the
sunset and enjoyed the growing darkness as the lights twinkled on in the town.
Round-globed street lamps along the seawall and strings of bulbs on the barges
and restaurants on the T-Heads and L-Heads glistened over the dusky water. The
Harbor
Bridge
became
an arch of golden luminaries. The long, curving jetty, which protected the
downtown basin, was a serpent of glowing lamplight stretched across the bay.

“It always amazes me how
beautiful the city is at night,” she said. “Look over there. It’s like a
fairyland of ethereal crystal ice palaces lit by fireflies.”

Kale craned his neck to see. “You
mean the refineries? It’s the lights on the plants and treatment units
reflecting off the silver paint that makes them look like that.”

Sunny laughed and shook her
head. “Are you always so literal? Where is the poet in your soul?”

“I think it got lost in the
mountains of
Afghanistan
.”

“Squint and look again.”

He followed her directions and
peered to the north. “Ah, yes, I believe you’re right. Definitely ice palaces
wrapped with strings of Christmas lights. I see them now.”

“And the Miradores Del Mar, the
Overlooks by the Sea, along the seawall are exquisite at night.”

“You mean those Moroccan-looking
gazebo things?”

She cocked an eyebrow. ‘“Gazebo
things’?”

“Sorry.” He squinted his eyes. “The
Miradores are like spun sugar structures atop a wedding cake.”

She laughed. “Nice try, but no
cigar.”

The waiter arrived with their
entrees. Dinner was very pleasant, romantic even, with candlelight and fine
wine accompanying their scallops and shrimp. They talked of trivial things
while they ate, of college days and family, funny experiences, favorite authors
and music. Sunny learned that Kale could be a charming conversationalist when
he put his mind to it.