Wicked Games

And despair did not fit at all with what she knew of Doug Storey.

His kiss, on the other hand, was the one she remembered from Coconut Caye. Wild and hungry, reckless and hot. His tongue possessed her mouth, stroking over and around and along the length of hers, stirring both her body and her blood. Her heart raced, her breasts tightened, her sex quivered.

And then he was done, setting her away as quickly as he’d struck.

She sat back, stunned speechless by his shift in mood and emotion, thinking that she really had no idea what it was that made Doug tick. For months she’d enjoyed his company, but until hit with the news of his upcoming move, she hadn’t thought about Doug’s deeper appeal.

She’d really been stupid not to take him more seriously, not to learn what she could while she’d had the chance. A chance she now might never have.

“So,” she began, reaching for her napkin and dabbing it at her mouth. “What were we talking about?”

Doug sat up, stabbed at a bite of chicken, swirled it through a smear of papaya glaze on his plate. “About what you said to me during last summer’s vacation.”

“No. I’m sure that wasn’t it.” Think, think, think, Kinsey. Think. Why could she remember in great detail her rum-soaked ramblings from over a year ago, but nothing they’d said before that kiss? “The café. We were talking about the café and your design.”

Doug sighed, then shook his head, a momentary surrender, but she knew he’d be back. “My idea would actually have given the place more the look of a diner. But I went there with a reason after seeing what they’d been offered previously.”

“Which was?”

“They wanted retro.” He snorted. “And, no offense to anyone at Warren Sill, but I didn’t see a lot of thought in any of the concepts.”

Interesting. He wasn’t even settled into the job yet and the penis wars had already started. “Maybe it was a case of the group’s frustration in dealing with that particular client. I mean, why go all-out when faced with what sounds like guaranteed failure?”

“I don’t buy it.” He shook his head. “That’s a bogus way to work.”

She should’ve known he wouldn’t understand anything less than a commitment of two-hundred-plus percent. “Maybe, but it’s human.”

“Well, it would certainly account for the cliché after big stinkin’ cliché I saw. Booths and counters. Red vinyl. Black-and-white-checkerboard floor tiles. As if the designs were all dialed in.”

“Booths and counters say retro to me.”

He shrugged. “Sure. They say retro to everyone. But there’s a difference between retro and authentic. I read a New York Times quote once that basically said when it comes to retro fashion, historical accuracy is often beside the point.”

“And your diner design was authentic.”

He shook his head. “It was actually more reminiscent of a railroad dining car. True historic diners were prefab, usually stainless steel with porcelain enamel skins. I didn’t go quite that far.”

She felt her mouth tipping up in a smile. “Actually, I know that about diners.”

Doug blinked and then he grinned. “So? Astonish me with your brilliance already.”

“It’s a long strange series of coincidences that make the entire thing sound like fiction.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and settled back into his chair.

There he went again, making her feel like she was the center of his world. It was the sort of attention she was used to receiving before sex, not after, and it raised Doug’s rating a number of notches on her mating scale.

“I’m not sure if you’ve ever heard Sydney talk about her friend Izzy? Isabel Leighton?”

Doug shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

“I’ve heard her talk about her off and on, but only met her last year. The funny part is that I already knew her. Or I had known her, way back when we were kids and last names didn’t matter,” she explained, adding a cheery laugh.

“This is the truth being stranger than fiction part, right?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Izzy’s uncle works for my parents. He does lawns, theirs and several of their long-time neighbors. He put in my mother’s backyard pool garden.” She fluttered one hand expansively.

“Anyway, Izzy and her mother lived with her uncle Leonard for a while after her parents divorced, and he used to bring her along when he worked weekends. He’d take me with them to lunch at his mother’s diner, where her mother worked.”

“And it was original.”

“Yep. The whole long counter, the stainless-steel panels and spinning stools that Izzy and I had way too much fun playing on.” She shrugged, grinned. “They lost most of the original structure years ago during Hurricane Alicia. Anyway…” Ugh. Why was she rambling on?

Her cooking might not kill him, but she was definitely on the right track for babbling him to death. “That’s the extent of my diner-specific brilliance. And I really am sorry your concept didn’t work out. Nothing like starting off on the wrong foot, huh?”

Doug made a face as if blowing off her concern. “I suppose being the brunt of an inside joke didn’t sit well, but I’ll live. And I’ll hold on to the design.”

“And you should. You’ll get a chance to use it later. The railroad car idea sounds like a lot of fun. I can see the serving staff dressed like porters or engineers.”

“My thoughts exactly.” He pushed his plate away, rubbed his hands together with way too much glee and returned them to her legs. He tossed her robe open so that she was exposed from her toenails to her panties, before pulling the garment completely off her shoulders.

And then he reached for the papaya glaze.

Kinsey held her breath as Doug lifted the spoon toward her, and she curled her tongue to catch the sweet drizzle he poured. Except that he continued to pour even after she’d closed her mouth, dripping the sticky fruit glaze over one bare nipple before moving to the other.

Shudders rippled through her as she waited for Doug’s next move. Finally, he made it, leaning forward and lapping his way around one breast, from the underside to the upper curve before settling his lips over her tightly drawn nipple and licking her clean.