Tell it to the Marine (2 page)

He’d heard a lot about the Sybarite Club but never had the occasion to visit the establishment. Surveying the room, he noted the servers in black outfits slipping in and out of the lounge, ghosts who didn’t disturb the guests except to take orders or deliver them. Three tables held couples or threesomes chatting over drinks. A fourth held only empty chairs.

Probably one of the dancing couples.

The booths were tucked into the wall making it harder to see who sat there.

“Mr. Westwood?” A slim waitress smiled up at him, a tray tucked between her arm and torso.

“Yes?”

“Your party is this way, sir.” She beckoned him down the red-carpeted steps into the lounge proper, and he followed her path through the club to a tall-backed booth in the back. Still acclimating to the low lighting, he couldn’t make out the occupant save for the slender feminine arm reaching for her wine glass on the table.

A curl of excitement twisted in his gut. He’d planned to keep the date low key, but the club, the music, and the atmosphere teased his anticipation. The waitress halted with a sweep of her arm to allow him to precede her.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Westwood?”

“Soda water with lime, please.” He preferred to keep his wits about him. “And bottle of whatever the lady is having.” If they were going to have a dinner, he could do at least provide her with her preferred wine.

“Of course.”

Free of the waitress’ distraction he turned back to the booth. A golden-haired goddess stared up at him. Sea-blue eyes seemed to catch every drop of light in the room and reflect it in shimmering azure. She rose to offer him her hand and his heart hesitated a beat.

“James?” Milk and honey flowed through her voice and his spine straightened, his cock already jerking into a salute. “I’m….”

“Lauren Kincaid.” He could only hope he wasn’t drooling like a lovesick fool.
Lauren Kincaid, movie goddess, is my one-night stand
?

Her candid laughter, low and throaty, tingled against his ears and he grinned. Shaking off his shock, he took her extended hand and shook it carefully. His larger hand totally engulfed her slender fingers, and he didn’t want to squeeze her with excitement.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her charming smile flashed with warmth that rolled over him from head to toe.

“Ma’am, you have no idea.” His date was Lauren Kincaid. The only chick flick star he would pay money to see. With or without a date.

Chapter Two

She rose with practiced grace. Years of performing in front of a camera with only a thirty-minute nap and a cup of decaf to stave off exhaustion had made her a master of poise and controlled expression. A talent she was immensely grateful for because she’d glanced out of the booth to see the tall, athletic man with his broad shoulders, tan skin, and sexy-as-sin smile a full sixty seconds before the waitress led him to her booth.

She barely managed to sit back and reach for her wine glass to steady her nerves and back-flipping stomach. If one could blend Hugh Jackman’s engaging smile and Dwayne Johnson’s broad shoulders with Chris Hemsworth’s physique, they would have created James. The description she’d received via text promised a six-foot four dining companion with sandy blond hair, a dimpled cheek and a passion for long conversations about “life, the universe and everything.” The Douglas Adams quote was enough to soothe her unease over a blind one-night stand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” And it was. Ironic considering she’d turned around twice on her way to the date, both times having to consciously recite the three reasons she’d allowed her agent to sign her up for the mysterious Madame Eve’s 1Night Stand. She wanted a night with a real man, with no vested interest in how she could help his career. She wanted to explore genuine options, to descend from the glass walls of exposure where being seen was what it was all about. And, she wanted a night that was just about her and the delicious man standing in front of her.

As they shook hands, she couldn’t help the smile pulling her mouth wide. She didn’t need to pretend pleasure at meeting him or the simple delight at the emotion rippling across his expression lighting up his slate gray eyes.

“Ma’am, you have no idea.” The cultured gentleman with the air of small town charm continued to hold her hand.

“Well, perhaps you can enlighten me.” Her knees quivered and she was glad she’d chosen the pale champagne silk dress with its bodice cupping top and floor length skirt. James released her with a hint of reluctance and gestured toward the booth.

Barely managing to contain the wild butterflies rioting in her belly, she swept a smoothing hand across her hip before sitting. Fortunately pure silk didn’t wrinkle, so sitting wouldn’t leave a crinkled line across her ass.

Thank God I worked out this morning
.

He waited a beat until she’d settled before sliding in across from her. She was at once irritated and delighted by their private booth. Delighted for the intimacy of the small table and the privacy it afforded and irritated that he was far away, around the curve of the booth to sit opposite her.

Slow down. We can afford to take a moment and absorb. He hasn’t said much and the gorgeous packaging is just window dressing
. Her libido wasn’t remotely interested in the practical thoughts. She crossed one leg over the other, foot bumping his long legs under the table. A quiver of heat shivered in her belly.

“I have a confession to make.” Her first rule of dating shattered without a backward glance. She never started the conversation. After ten years of boring dates with men who only seemed to know how to talk about themselves, she’d learned the best barometer of her interest was to let her date take the lead. She could tell in five minutes or less whether dinner would make it to dessert or drinks afterward and within another ten whether they would be saying goodnight at the restaurant.

“Oh?” He shifted in the seat, the warmth of his leg stretching away from hers a fraction, allowing her crossed legs space but still close enough that she regretted insisting on a public meeting location.

“Yes.” Wrapping her fingers around the wine glass for courage, she tried to edge aside the schoolgirl jitters to meet his even look. “I’ve never decided to have sex with a man after one glance before.”

His mouth opened, a hint of shock flattening his dimples.

Way to play that subtle, Kincaid. Where did you learn your technique?
The Bachelor?

“Thank you, I think. And I’ll see your confession with one of my own. I
have
decided that I would have sex with a woman at one glance before.”

Straightforward, blunt-edged honesty without arrogance.
Where the hell has this guy been hiding?

“Oh?” She played with fire.

The waitress returned with a chilled bottle of wine in an ice bucket for her and a square, tumbled glass with ice and a splash of something clear and bubbly for him. “Would you care to hear the specials tonight?”

He glanced at Lauren, eyebrows raised in inquiry. Smile widening, she nodded a silent assent. “Please,” he told the waitress. She listed off several dishes, but Lauren barely heard her. He canted his head to the side, his expression attentive and patient throughout the full list.

“What would you like?” The smoky, sex-on-a-stick gray gaze slid toward her and she had to fight the urge to bite her lip.

“The parmesan encrusted salmon, fresh vegetables and lemon spears, white rice.” He was steak medium rare, and baked potato with butter and sour cream, and avocado bread.

He’s chocolate-drizzled cheesecake and white chocolate dipped strawberries, too. Stop drooling
.

The waitress smiled and disappeared with their order. Dabbing her mouth with the napkin, Lauren took a drink of wine to buy her composure some time. “So, how did that go?”

“How did what go, ma’am?”

“The woman you wanted to have sex with at one glance.”

“I don’t know. We just met.” It could have been a line, but the simplicity and directness coupled in his tone melted her reservations.

“Well, you will definitely have to let me know how that turns out.” She raised her wine glass.

“You will be the first to know.” He clinked his tumbler to her glass and grinned.

“So what do you do, James with no last name?”

He set down his drink and frowned. “I apologize. James Westwood, ma’am.”

“It’s a pleasure, James Westwood, and please, call me Lauren, not ma’am.”

“Yes, ma—Lauren.”

They both laughed, the artificial tension melting like the ice in his glass.

“I’m a psychologist, boring on the surface, I suppose. But a field I enjoy.”

“It doesn’t sound boring, I played a psychologist once.”
Lame, Lauren. Lame. “Look you do something
real
for a living, but I played one on TV
.” She swallowed another mouthful of wine to cover her discomfort.

“You were charming. I loved watching you trying to ferret out the murderer.” He turned his glass in an easy circle on its napkin.

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t have sent patients to me. I barely understood the issue the profilers were describing or why my character was so defensive.”
And can we stop talking about my career…isn’t that what bores the hell out of me when every other date I’ve had does it?

“I don’t know. You disagreed on the underlying cause, and as it turns out you were right. The triggers were not psychosexual and indirect, but directly related to his immature understanding of social interactions due to a lifetime of bullying. The man literally couldn’t comprehend kindness, which was why the perp kept coming back to see your character week in and week out. You were the first one to accept him for who he was and why, when he experienced the break, he didn’t hurt her and she was able to talk him down.”

“Well, when you put it that way…I was brilliant.”

He laughed, a kind, cheerful sound devoid of any condescension or judgment and she grinned.

“Half of my job is listening, hearing what a patient says. Too often we don’t really listen to the people around us. We talk to them, we listen to them talk, but we don’t hear them. We judge people whether it’s a social situation or business relationship, we categorize the worth and value of their words before they even open their mouth. In some cases, we label them and box them up as people and never allow them to step beyond those parameters because we don’t want to hear it.”

The waitress returned with a pair of walnut apple salads sprinkled with feta cheese, then quickly and efficiently left them to their privacy.

“How can we not want to hear the people we care about?” Lauren picked up her fork and speared an apple slice. “Doesn’t the act of conversation suggest that we want to hear what someone else is saying?”

“Yes and no. When we talk, we want the person we are speaking to, to hear us and share our emotions with regard to the topic of conversation. Case in point, you wanted to relate to my profession so you mentioned what you played on television. It’s not the same thing and you were a bit embarrassed about it, but….” He waved his fork at her when she opened her mouth, the already mentioned embarrassment creeping up to warm her cheeks. “But it also demonstrated that you were trying to empathize with me. You did hear me and you wanted to create a common space for our conversation.”

“And here I thought it a little vain and pretentious by asking you to pay attention to my career, and I hate bringing up my career.”
Thank God for dim lighting. I must be beet red at this point
.

“But you’re an actress—it’s what you do. Why would it be vain or pretentious to bring up your body of work?”

She crunched the apple thoughtfully, considering her answer. “Because…it’s lame? I have people who come up to me all the time, acting like they really know me or really love me because they saw me in some movie or some program and it gives them the right to this intimate acquaintance with me. I deal with actors and their egos all the time….”

Why is it always so hard to put my thoughts into actual words? Do I really need a script for this?

“At the risk of sounding clinical, you have every right to refer to your career and your experiences for the purposes of conversation and worry about the awkwardness that I might be interested in you only for those experiences.” He chewed a mouthful of salad, gaze never wavering. “For the record, you stole my breath away in
Once Smitten, Twice Shy
, but any intimacy I want to experience, I want to do so with the woman across the table from me, not the lady on the screen.”

“You’re direct.”

“Best way to avoid miscommunication is to say what you mean. Mean what you say.” The wry hint of self-deprecation didn’t escape her.

“You didn’t sound clinical…okay, maybe a little…but I like that you seem to understand my babble.”

“It’s not babble. It’s conversation. We can talk about your work. We can
not
talk about your work. You can finish that salad and dance with me. Or we can talk about the Cowboys….”

“That’s a sports team, right?” She hid a smile behind another bite of salad, the sweet tart of the apple enhanced by the smooth, smoky feta and lemony lettuce.

“I know. You’re a Raiders girl.”

“Actually, I’m more of a Lakers girl. I look fabulous on those big screens sitting courtside.” She grinned when he laughed again. She loved the deep, throaty quality of his laugh without any hint of nasal distraction or worse, the polite tee hee of humoring the blonde.

“Been to any games recently? A lot of the guys recorded them. I can check it out for myself.”

“During the playoffs. My agent wanted me to make nice with the lead in the movie I auditioned for—you know, see and be seen, get some buzz on TMZ—and see if the casting director went for it.” The tabloids loved her ringside positioning next to the Hollywood bad boy with his oversexed reputation and permanent bachelor status.

She hated that part of her job. The auditions were professional, but all the ‘play for the press’ made her look like an exhibitionist. Lately, a desperate exhibitionist trying to cling to her youth.