Can't Touch This (18 page)

I’
m so glad
Rory showed up when he did.  With his help, we finished the booth in twenty minutes flat.  When Witchypoo tried to make an issue of it, Rory sauntered over, whispered something to her that made her laugh, and then acted like it was nothing at all.  I turned in my paperwork, tipped Sid well, and downed a bottle of water.

“So, what’s on your agenda now?” Rory asks as we cross Market Street near the cable car stop on our way to the hotel.

I look down at my disheveled appearance.  “A shower.”

He smiles down into my eyes with fierce sapphire ones of his own.  “After that.”

I swallow the lump that’s quickly formed in my throat.  “Well, I want to ride the cable car and hang off the front, like the people on the Rice-a-Roni box.”

Rory throws his head back and laughs.  “You’re adorable.”

I sense a blush creeping up my throat, but I continue, thinking about Ted and Reagan.  “The only other thing is I’m meeting up later with people from work for dinner.”

He’s fixated on me as we tromp up the hill.

“What?” I ask, feeling a bit self-conscious.  “Is something wrong?”

He stops and turns me to look at him.  His finger traces down the side of my face from the temple to my chin.  Every nerve ending on my body is on alert and I’m riveted into place on the sidewalk.  People grumble as they walk by, bumping me.  It does nothing to knock me out of my trance.  I’m unaware of the city life shuffling around us because I’m absorbed in the depths of his face.

“It’s good to see you, Vanessa.”

“You too, Rory.”  I say breathlessly.  He holds my gaze for what seems like hours.  I bask in the adoration, although there seems to be something almost regretful in his eyes.  As if he has something to tell me, but won’t just spit it out.

Then he surprises me when he says, “You have great eyes.  There must be a lot behind them.”

My heart flutters in my chest and goose bumps run up and down my arms.  That’s one of the smoothest lines I’ve ever heard.  I wonder if he’s been practicing that one.

“Thanks,” I say, gulping.  “There is.  I mean, if you want to spend the time to find out.”  I surprise myself with my boldness.

Before I can say anything else, his lips connect with mine in a scorching moment that I sends zaps of energy through my body all the way down to my toes.  My senses soar to heights I’ve never experienced before and I know for sure that I want even more.

When I open my eyes, Rory’s beaming at me.  I smile brightly and we lace our fingers together as we continue along.  I like the way my hand fits inside his.  Warm and protected.  At the hotel, we break long enough to go to our rooms, freshen up, and check messages.

I have a voice mail from Ted.  “Hey, Virtue.  Reagan’s with clients and I’m in my room making calls.  We’re meeting up in the lobby at seven for dinner.  See ya then.”  It’s not so much an invitation as a must-do sort of thing.

Forty minutes later, Rory and I board the cable car at Market Street.  I push my way to the car and nab the spot up front on the left.  I spend the whole ride hanging off the front of the car like I’ve always wanted to do.

“Don’t fall,” Rory says, clutching my waist from behind.  I like the way his fingers curl into my hips protectively and I feel like Leonardo DiCaprio... well,
Queen
of the World, anyway.

The view from the trolley is amazing with the Pacific Ocean stretching out for miles.  But, wispy clouds and haze ride low over the Bay, blocking my view of the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Well, that sucks.  I wanted to see the bridge,” I say in disappointment.

“It’s typical,” he says.  “San Fran’s weather is consistent year round—a bit on the chilly side, with overcast skies.”

“Thanks for the update, Al Roker.  Now, what about wishing happy 106
^th
birthday to granny in Wichita?”

Rory first sneers at me, then he can’t help but laugh.

We hop off at Ghirardelli Square and walk along the waterfront to Fisherman’s Wharf where we watch the fishing boats unload their fresh catch of the day.  Restaurants line the street; as do vendors selling chili, crab legs, and delectable and aromatic foods.  Rory buys clam chowder in a sourdough bread bowl and we sit at an open table.  “Wanna share?” he asks, handing me a spoon.

“Sure.  Thanks.”  I’m a huge chowder snob, considering I live in New England, but I relish the contact with Rory.  I want to savor every minute of it.  As we eat, he tells me about his first visit to San Francisco five years ago.

“I had this crazy idea of working on a fishing boat,” he says, licking his spoon.  He stops for a moment when he sees me watching him.  My face heats and I drop my eyes to the soup as he continues.  “A buddy told me it was amazing here—you could blend in and never be seen.”

“I love cities.  Being an Air Force brat, I’ve lived in some out of the way places.  That’s why I love Boston,” I say.  “I get the atmosphere of a big city without losing my identity.  I can’t stand small town Generica where everyone knows your business and all of the stores and restaurants are the same.”

“I know what you mean,” he notes.  “I need to be in a place where I can disappear into a crowd.  I hate to bring attention to myself.”  He tosses a crust of the bread bowl to a flock of pigeons who bound in and attack, fighting each other for a nibble.

The man can’t help but bring attention to himself with his six-foot plus athletic frame and blond hair that’s a bit too long right now.  His eyes alone stand out like two sapphires in the snow.  There’s an edge to him, a danger, a roughness.  I’m indisputably drawn to him and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

A bit bowled over by this realization, I try to slow my crazy pulse and find out more about this man than I’m falling for.  I ask, “Did you grow up in a small town?”

“Yeah, Everyone Knows Your Business, Indiana,” he says with a sneer.  “Couldn’t wait to escape.  You all done here?”  Rory clears his throat, shifting his stare back to the bowl of chowder for one last bite, thus ending our brief “get to know me” chatter.

“Um, sure.  Yeah.”  Usually men love talking about themselves; it’s in their testosterone.  Rory doesn’t want to seem to open up at all.

He takes my hand in his and tucks it into his coat pocket.  “Let’s walk down The Embarcadero and see the sea lions.”

He wraps his arm around my waist and brings me so close that I can almost feel his heartbeat through his windbreaker.  I like that I have an effect on his metabolism, too.  I’m certainly no wanton sex goddess, but he makes me feel sexy.  And wanted.

We wander into the touristy Pier 39 area filled with specialty shops, bay view restaurants and other fun attractions.  The pier provides visitors with postcard views of Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge—when the fog lifts—and the skyline.

“I need to get some batteries for my camera,” he says.  So, we pick our way through the crowd and into a shop of knickknacks, jewelry, and San Fran memorabilia.  He wanders off and I take in the jewelry display.  My eyes fall to a pair of silver and opal dangle earrings.  I hold them up to my ear and notice Rory’s reflection in the mirror behind me.

“Those are dazzling.”  He wraps his hand around to rest on my stomach.  “Or maybe it’s just you,” he whispers.

My stomach lurches uncontrollably in a lovely ache of need and want.  His eyes say everything his words won’t.  There’s desire smoking in his eyes.  Especially when he’s looking at me like that.

I can’t put a name on my feelings.  Is it love or just lust?  Or is it the high from the intrigue we’ve got going on with our stealth interaction.  I give the pierced earrings back to the sales girl and turn to Rory.  “Did you get everything you needed?”

“Actually, I need one more thing.  Why don’t you look around?”

I go over to the postcard rack and pick out one for William:  a semi-clad, buff, beefcake guy stretched out over the Golden Gate Bridge with the caption, “Open your Golden Gate.”  Perfect for him.  I pay for the card and shove it into my purse, looking around for Rory.

He surprises me.  “Wanna go see the sea lions now?”

“Sure thing.”  He takes me by the hand and leads me out through the innumerable shops and hordes of people to the end of the pier.  I luxuriate in the feel of his fingers pressed against mine, protectively guiding me through the hordes of people blocking our way.

We round the corner and I lean over the wooden railing to look at a pile of slick sea creatures, who, according to the sign, took up residence here after an earthquake.  Several sea lions slide up onto the pier, pointing their noses up as they bark gleefully.

“They’re so adorable,” I say.  “I wish I could take one of them home as a souvenir.”

Rory turns to me.  “Why don’t you take these home instead?”

He places a small tissue-wrapped item in my hand.

Hastily, I unfurl the paper and gasp.

Out pop the precious opal and silver earrings.

T
ed has dinner
reservations for us at a restaurant not too far from the hotel.  He and I hop a cab and Reagan’s supposed to meet us there.  When she walks in, though, my treacherous heart trips and falls when I see who arrives with her.

Kyle.

I had no idea he was coming to San Francisco.

“Well, this is a surprise,” I say, barely able to comprehend that he’s here.

“Vanessa, you look great tonight,” he says, pulling the chair out for me.  The man has manners, I’ll give him that.

I want to tell him he looks amazing, too, but I can’t find the words that seem to collide in the back of my throat no matter how nice those gray slacks fit his legs or how soft his skin looks from the obvious fresh shave.   I’ve got to break the tension in the air hanging in the midst of his spicy cologne that curls its fingers out to tempt me.

“Who let the dog out?” I ask with a grin, even though my pulse is trilling away.

“Jiles and the Willies thought it’d be a good idea for me to meet with customers, especially with the big demo launch,” Kyle says.  His smile is bright and genuine.

The four of us share a quiet dinner, indulging in a semi-expensive bottle of Chianti, compliments of Ted’s expense report.  I sense Kyle smiling at me through my dinner of swordfish, Cabernet and shallot reduction, and mashed potatoes.  I’m slightly self-conscious when he looks at me in such a soft manner.  Then, before the tiramisu arrives, I have that vision of us together again.  Clear as day, as if I’m looking at a memory instead of a possibility.  A house, 2.3 kids, a dog, and a minivan.  My throat hitches and I start to cough.  I reach out desperately for my glass of water.

Reagan moves toward me.  “Are you okay, Vanessa?”

Ted starts to smack me on the back, but Kyle stretches his arm and does it instead.  Reagan hands me her water.

I’m not interested in Kyle Nettles.

I’m not.

I can’t be.

I’m interested in Rory.

What the hell is wrong with me?  Must be residual affects of the Atavan.

“Something went down the wrong way,” I manage to say.

My hands shake a bit as I regain my composure.  I shift my eyes to view Kyle out of my peripherals.  His hand rests on the table so close to my arm that I can almost feel the heat radiating from him.  He smells so damn good, intoxicating my senses.

I’ve got to ignore Kyle and his… everything he does to me.

Fortunately, Ted’s all business for the rest of dinner, carping about customers and software updates.  “The demo numbers aren’t as high as predicted because of that damn license agreement.  You’ve got to get rid of it.”

“I can’t do anything about that,” Kyle adds.  “I’ve talked to Jiles, but his mind is made up.”

“Yeah, man, but you’ve got to get rid of this stumbling block.  It’s slowing down the sales process,” Ted adds.

To block out the corporate babble, I play with the dangly earrings Rory bought me.  My secret connection to him.  We’re supposed to hook up later at the Starlight Room on the top floor of our hotel.  If I can break away and get there.

Outside after dinner, Ted lights a cigarette and asks, “Where to next?”

“I thought I’d turn in early,” I say.

“No way,” Reagan says, wrapping her arm around me.  “This is our first trip together and we’re going to do it up right.”  She holds out her cell phone and start moving her finger over the screen, checking possibilities on Yelp, Foursquare, and UrbanSpoon.

If I’m not able to get away from my co-workers, I have to at least find a way to get to where Rory will be.  I don’t want him to think I’m ignoring him.

Wreathed in a miasma of Ted’s cigarette smoke, I wave my hands about and quickly suggest, “Why don’t we try out that bar at the top of our hotel?  Looks pretty cool and we won’t have far to go to our rooms if we get blitzed.”

Kyle laughs, “They have dancing up there, too.”  He smiles at me and I wonder why chill bumps graze my arms, my body betraying me.  Must be the evening air.

 “Sounds like a plan,” Reagan says with a smile.

When we step off of the elevator into the Starlight Room, Rory is one of the first people I see.  Good thing I’m decked out in a new red wrap-around Anne Taylor dress because this place is like a swanky cocktail party.  The 30’s style glamorous nightclub has luxurious high-back booths, red curtains, and mirrors.  The classy crowd is grooving to the swing sounds of the small six-piece orchestra.

We take a booth, date-like:  girl, boy, girl, Kyle.  Impatiently, Ted signals for the waitress, who is wearing a long, formal evening gown.  He pretentiously asks to see a cocktail menu.  When he moves to light a cigarette, our waitress stops him.  “It’s against California state code to smoke here, sir.”

Ted swears under his breath, pushes out of his chair, and asks us to order him a Dirty Martini.  Then he makes his way back to the elevator to go outside for a smoke.  I order a yummy drink called The Cable Car, made of lemon, sugar and Captain Morgan’s.

I watch Rory moving to the music with a woman I assume to be his client.  He’s doing much better than he did in Atlantic City, not flailing his lanky legs as much.  The woman laughs up at him.  I’m jealous, but it’s because I want to dance with him.  Should I cut in?  Probably not or someone will accuse me of hobnobbing with the enemy.