Dance of the Crystal (7 page)

They looked up. A waitress had materialized, placing a small basket of nachos and a bowl of salsa on their table. “Two for one if you order two entrees.”

Crystal smiled. “I love margaritas.” She looked expectantly at him.

He had been all set to order Dos Equis. But hell, he could get them anytime. Thor’s Hammer was known for its selection of beers on tap, not for mixed drinks. He nodded. “Make that two.”

“Coming right up.” The waitress disappeared.

“So, tell me, Soren Thorvald,” Crystal said, dipping a nacho into the salsa, “what kind of a bar do you run?”

Okay,
now
he was on solid ground. He thought he actually came out sounding coherent as he explained,

“It’s a pub, actually. Twelve stools at the bar, four booths, couple of tables. Small dance floor, sometimes we have live jazz. Pool table. Hamburgers, chili, fries. Easy-to-make, easy-to-eat food. Nine different beers on tap—”

She had been bringing the nacho to her mouth. A chunk of salsa slipped off and landed on the exposed curve of her right breast. Without thinking, Soren leaned over and swept it off with his index finger. Then jerked back, his face as hot as the beer mugs that came out of his industrial-strength dishwasher.

He glanced around. No one seemed to have noticed. Thank God. He grabbed his water glass and drank down half of its contents.

Then he snuck a look at Crystal. She sat there, mouth open, nacho poised in midair, probably pissed and unsure how to react. Until he looked into her eyes. They were meltingly soft, like warm chocolate ready to drizzle on ice cream.

“Not fair,” she murmured. “You’ll have to let me return the favor. Later.”

Soren knew his face must have paled, because he felt all the blood rush to his cock. This was so not him. He had to think before he acted. Then remind himself not to act. At least, not around Crystal.

“Here we go,” chirped the waitress, setting down two humongous stemmed bowls with salted rims. “Are you ready to order?”

“Not quite,” Crystal said as Soren sat there with his tongue too numb to speak.

Later, Soren would realize that he couldn’t recall a single thing he’d eaten, a single thing he’d said. But he remembered the movement of Crystal’s mouth as she forked a piece of enchilada into it, as she bit into a jalapeno, as she sipped her gigantic margarita through a straw. As she licked her lips after licking the salt off the rim of her glass with a glistening red tongue. As she smiled at him.

He awoke from his entrancement when she asked, “Do you have anything special planned for dessert?”

All he could think of was, he wanted Crystal for dessert. To touch her, to taste her. But that would be like entering a spider’s web and getting all tangled up and ready to be spit-roasted.

“Since this dinner is my treat,” Crystal was saying, “I have a suggestion.”

Soren dragged his attention away from his thoughts and focused on the sound of her voice.

“Soren?” She placed her hand on his arm. Her fingers, he noticed, were long and slender, with short oval nails done up in a pale pink. As far as he could tell, she wore no jewelry except the crystal between her breasts.

The thought of her breasts drove his gaze to them, to the spot he had touched. A tiny streak of red remained where he’d missed. His cock, as stiff as the table leg, twitched remembering the velvety texture of her skin. Had he been that hard during the entire dinner? Damn, the woman was messing with his mind.

“Would you like some homemade apple pie for dessert?”

“Uh, homemade?” Soren asked cautiously.

She laughed, a delicate, feminine sound. “I even make my piecrust from scratch. With real butter, and to heck with what the so-called gurus say about trans fats or carbs or whatever diet is fashionable this month.”

Oh boy. He rarely bothered with dessert, much less anything homemade. He took his meals at the pub, and while the food was hearty, dessert wasn’t on the menu. Didn’t go with beer, which was his big moneymaker. His mouth began to salivate at the thought of tart apples and cinnamon in a flaky crust, warm and fragrant from the oven. He’d have to dig way down deep in his memory to remember when he’d last had fresh apple pie.

“Sure. I could go for a piece of pie.” He tossed his napkin onto his empty plate and pushed back his chair. Reaching for his wallet, he looked around for the waitress.

“Uh-uh. It’s my treat, remember?” Crystal stood as well, digging into her handbag. “The auction. I paid for the privilege of buying you dinner, remember?” She pulled out a credit card, in the process dropping a folded bill to the floor.

He knelt down to retrieve it for her. And came face to face with her navel. He could visualize himself licking that navel, thrusting his tongue inside it, nipping at the edges of it.

A string of four-letter words dammed up behind his clenched teeth. What had they put into that margarita to make him think like that? He didn’t even
like
women.

He felt her hand on his shoulder. He looked up. She looked down at him with a tender expression.

Maybe he was so screwed up that he’d dreamed it, but he could have sworn she mouthed a soundless

“Later”.

* * * * *

Her heart was pounding so hard she wondered if Soren could hear it.
Tonight
, she thought. It would happen tonight.

Touching the remote mounted on her visor, Crystal waited for the garage door to lift then drove the Beetle inside. The overhead lights came on and the door descended behind them. With a hitch in her breath, she turned to Soren. “Ready?”

She unlatched her door, triggering the car’s interior light, which illuminated half of his face. He looked slightly stunned. She wondered how often he drank margaritas. Admittedly, those portions at the restaurant were at least a double, even with all the ice. She’d left half of hers in the glass.

Well, he’d follow or he wouldn’t. If he didn’t, he’d be locked in the garage overnight. She made sure of that by stowing the remote in her purse. Fishing for her keys, she unlocked the inner door, flicked on some lights and waited in the hallway. With relief she saw him get out and close the door. Still, she thought he dragged his feet like a man going to the gallows as he climbed the two steps to the house level.

“Just flick that dead bolt and engage the chain, would you?” she tossed off casually as she headed—at a slow pace, to be sure he wouldn’t run back out—into the living-dining room. “I’ll get a pot of coffee started.”

Her seduction skills were practically nonexistent, Crystal fretted. She’d always expected that The One would make all the overtures and she’d just melt into his arms, the way they did in romance novels.

Reality was different. Reality made her wonder if the crystal was wrong after all. It had been quiescent all evening.

On the other hand, maybe the way to a man’s bed
was
through his stomach. She’d put up her apple pie against any other dessert east of the Mississippi. So maybe the crystal only pointed the way and she had to do all the work.

So be it. She wasn’t afraid of work.

“I have regular Colombian, decaf, vanilla and—”

“Regular is fine.” Soren had followed her through the dining area and into the kitchen, whose white oak counters made an ell around two sides of the room. He pulled out one of her French country chairs from under the round oak table near the windows and sat in it, watching her work. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.” She gave him a quick smile as she measured the grounds and flicked the switch to start the coffee perking. Then she turned to get cups. And smacked her hip into the opened cutlery drawer. She snuck a glance at Soren, hoping he hadn’t noticed her clumsiness. It seemed to her that she went through life a half-inch off. Paper cuts, bruises, hairpins falling. More than once she’d gotten her fingers caught in a closing screen door or an elbow banged on a piece of furniture.

Resisting the urge to rub the bruised area—dang it, wouldn’t you know it was on the exposed part of her hip—she arranged china, silverware, sugar, creamer, and linen napkins on a black lacquered tray.

She lifted the tray and carried it to the table.

And almost dropped it when she saw the intent look on his face.

He popped up off his chair like a jack-in-the-box. “Uh, you want me to take that?”

“I’ve got it.” She bent down to set the tray on the table. When she straightened, she saw he continued to stare at her. Specifically, at her boobs. “Something wrong?”

“No. I was just thinking.”

She cocked her head to one side. “About what?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, and his gaze finally swept upward to her face.

“We aren’t at your grandmother’s house.”

A smile blossomed on her face. “Why, no, we aren’t. Is that significant?”

“Crystal.” He looked as though he was waging an inner war. “Dammit, come here.”

Instead of waiting for her to comply, he stepped forward and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her flush against him. He buried his face in her hair and mumbled, “Christ, you’re more seductive than that apple pie on the counter.”

He took her head in both hands and kissed her like a man who’d been away from civilization for years.

His tongue thrust into her mouth, and she opened for him like a blossom unfolding its petals.

Her arms wrapped around his waist. She tugged at his blue polo shirt, pulling it from his jeans. Skin. She needed to feel his skin. There it was, hot and smooth under her palms. She thrilled to the intimacy of her hands roaming up and down the bumps of his spine. Shivers ran across her skin as he did the same to her waist, the exposed expanse of her hips.

His fingers dipped into the crevice of her buttocks.
Yes
, she wanted to shout. She moved artlessly against him, rubbing against his man’s bulge, wanting to feel it with her hands, bare on bare, but didn’t know how to ask, how to show him by deed what she wanted.

With a growl, he shoved her away. “Damn.” He plowed the fingers of both hands into his blond hair, mussing it enough to make him look less formidable. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ll just go and—”

He stopped. Just as if he had fallen off a cliff in the middle of a sentence.

“Hell. I don’t even know where I am. If you call a cab, I’ll—”

“Oh no, you don’t.” She took a step forward. He backed up. Just enough for him to fall back into the chair when she gave him a nudge. “I spent a good deal of time making this pie, and you’re not leaving until you have your fill.”

The spitting and soughing of the coffeepot signaled the end of the brewing. “See? The coffee’s ready.”

She shrugged. “Kismet.”

Soren just sat there, feeling like he’d been hit on the head with a two-by-four. This little firecracker had apparently set her sights on him and he wasn’t going to get out of here anytime soon.

So why was he fighting? Rolf would have had her pants off already. He’d have asked why Soren overanalyzed everything and then wound up taking no action. Hell, Crystal wanted him, he wanted her.

No questions, no commitments. So what was the problem?

Should he lie to himself and say he’d stay only because he wanted some homemade apple pie?

The clanking of silverware on china roused him from his self-flagellation. He zeroed in on the dessert plate she’d placed in front of him. The rich scent of cloves and cinnamon teased his nostrils. In spite of himself, his mouth watered. Damn, but he did want some homemade apple pie.

Picking up the fork, Soren cut off a chunk and stuffed it into his mouth. He closed his eyes and savored the taste of tangy apples, sweet brown sugar, and something heavy, a splash of brandy maybe. Mmm, heaven.

His piece of pie was almost gone before he realized Crystal stood in front of him. Holding a round carton. Smiling a bemused smile.

“I guess it’s too late to ask if you want some vanilla ice cream on it?”

He looked over at her place setting. She hadn’t even had a single bite while he’d scarfed down his pie like a shredder sucks up paper. The tips of his ears burned again. Of social graces, he had none. A gentleman would have waited for his hostess to sit down before digging in.

Soren knew he was no gentleman.

She pivoted on a bare foot—when had she shucked off her shoes?—and walked away from him. Soren almost groaned aloud at the expanse of skin she exposed when she stretched upward to set the ice cream back in the freezer.

Then she returned to stand in front of him. “Do you want some more?”

Soren fought to keep from caressing her belly, her breasts, with his eyes. He forced his gaze upward to her dark, dark eyes, eyes that seemed to be all pupil, with barely a rim of brown iris. He swallowed.

“Yeah. I want more.” But more of what, was the question he didn’t want to answer.

“Soren, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” But he wasn’t sure. Not at all.

“Are you afraid of me?”

He tried to manufacture a laugh. It came out like a scratch. “There isn’t much I’m afraid of, babe.”

There. That sounded good. Fearless.

“Excellent.” With no warning, she sat sideways on his lap and snuggled her luscious ass onto his crotch.

He was a goner.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and started placing artless kisses on his temple, his nose, his cheek, little nibbles on his ear, all the while wiggling, wiggling, as if trying to get the tip of his cock right…

there
.

On a groan, Soren took hold of her waist with his big hands to lift her off his boner, but succeeded only in moving her a slight inch for a better fit. Oh God, she felt wonderful, all soft and warm, her hands touching his shoulders, his arms, then around to roam over his back.

“Bloody hell.” He half-stood and, holding Crystal by her hips, finagled their bodies so that her legs were splayed then sat down again, with her legs wide apart on his thighs and her pussy planted firmly on his rock-solid cock. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the thought that he’d make a mint if he could manufacture women’s crotchless jeans for situations like this. He couldn’t get close enough to her to suit him.

She took to lap-dancing as though she’d earned her way through college with it. She squirmed and wiggled and rubbed her pussy against his cock with seeming delight. What little finesse he’d ever learned deserted him. Instead of tackling that row of tiny buttons, he yanked up her sweater to expose her breasts.