Hot Contact. Susan Crosby
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wanted to skim his hands over her incredible body, to feel the weight of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the firm fullness of her rear. He settled for a long, leisurely kiss that she kept trying to deepen and he kept thwarting. He knew he had to leave her wanting more or she wouldn’t call him, so he gave her enough to think about but not to satisfy. Gave himself a lot to think about, too, like what it would be like to make love, a foreign concept to him in the past six months.
He pulled back. She opened her eyes. Her skin was drawn taut over her cheekbones. He let his gaze wander lower as she watched. Her nipples were hard. She arched her back just enough that he noticed the unspoken invitation to touch. He declined, counting on there being another time and a better place.
“Adios,” he said, forcing himself to leave her. He walked around his car and got in, then didn’t look back until he was far enough away that she couldn’t see him glance in his rearview mirror.
She wasn’t staring after him, however, but was strolling back up to Scott’s house, her hips swaying, the ruffled hem intoxicating in its undulating rhythm. She didn’t glance in his direction.
After a moment he smiled. He’d met his match.
Three
Arianna tapped Joe’s business card against her thigh as she stared out her living room window at the typical hazy Southern California morning. She had his home number. Why procrastinate?
Dumb question. Because of last night, that’s why. Because of the kiss. The almost-as-good-as-sex kiss. How could she ask him to help her now? He would think she kissed him to get him interested, to lure him so that he would cooperate. Nothing was further from the truth. She’d gotten carried away—rare for her.
She was also hesitating because she hadn’t yet recovered from last night’s nightmare, the one that had been haunting her for weeks. The one that had spurred her toward Joe Vicente.
Arianna turned from the window and sat at her piano, a shiny, black baby grand that dominated her apartment living room. She tapped out a few random notes, then eased into scales. When her fingers were limber, she played a piece she’d composed, a complex, demanding song still being refined.
After playing the final chord, she sat up straight, set her hands on her thighs and enjoyed the quiet for a moment. Then she talked to herself.
Okay, stall over. Bite the bullet.
She grabbed the portable phone and dialed. He answered on the third ring.
“Good morning, it’s Arianna Alvarado,” she said, as businesslike as possible.
“Good morning back,” he replied, a sound suspiciously like laughter in his voice. “And thank you for being specific. It could’ve been embarrassing if I had you confused with the other Arianna.”
Oh, he knew how he affected her. “The sun hasn’t broken through,” she said, forging ahead, “but I’m inviting you to lunch anyway.”
“Don’t trust yourself to have dinner with me?”
The underlying sensuality in his voice appealed to her way too much. She started pacing. “Yes.”
“Yes, you don’t trust yourself?”
“Yes, I trust myself, but I’m inviting you to lunch.”
“Sorry, but I’m headed to my parents’ house. I expect to be there all afternoon.”
Her heart slammed into her chest. Even better. She could meet his father. Talk to him. “Can I meet you there?” she asked.
A long silence, then, “At my parents’ house?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t usually bring a woman home until the tenth date.”
Like your ex-fiancée? “Will you make an exception?”
Silence again. “Sure, why not?” He gave her the address and directions.
“I have to make a stop first,” she said. “Can I bring lunch with me?”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
“Is there anything I shouldn’t bring? Allergic to shellfish or anything?”
“No allergies here.”
“Okay. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” She hung up then went in search of something to wear to meet his parents. His father. A man she’d never met, a man whose name she didn’t know until a month ago, but whom she’d hated for twenty-five years.
Arianna pulled into a circular driveway of an impressive Spanish Colonial mansion and parked near the garage. She bypassed the front door to jog down a side path into the backyard where she saw several linen-covered round tables with umbrellas set up near the large, tiled swimming pool. The view of the Hollywood Hills was incredible.
She spotted her mother twining elegant leaf garlands around the umbrella poles. Arianna forgot what today’s event was. A fashion show, perhaps? Something to raise money for a worthy cause, probably. That was what her mother did for a living ever since she’d married Estebán Clemente, international movie mogul, when Arianna was twelve.
Estebán had changed their lives in immeasurable ways. But one topic was never brought up for discussion—Arianna’s father.
“Mom!” she called.
Paloma Alvarado Clemente never hurried. She carried herself with grace and dignity, her skin and make-up flawless, her striking silver and black hair styled in a fashionable bob. She wore brightly colored designer clothing, and jewelry that clinked and clanked—a striking silver necklace and bracelets crafted by artisans from her native Mexico.
Paloma waited for Arianna now, a serene smile on her face, her arms opening wide to gather her daughter close. Her perfume wrapped Arianna in memories. She nestled for a few seconds longer than usual.
“Everything looks beautiful, Mom. What’s the big event?”
“A luncheon for my book club.”
Arianna leaned back. “I didn’t know you were in a book club.”
Her mother brushed the hair from Arianna’s face and smiled. “We started it a few months ago. It’s mostly an excuse to eat and gossip. We take turns hosting.”
“And you’re doing your own decorating? I’m impressed.”
“That’s part of the rules. I didn’t iron the tablecloths myself,” Paloma added in a whisper.
“A small cheat, Mom.”
Paloma walked them to a table where she continued winding the leaf garland up the umbrella pole. Taller than her mother, Arianna took over as it reached the top then taped it there.
“You are looking demure today, mija,” Paloma said, eyeing Arianna’s jeans and white blouse.
“Good. That’s the look I was going for.”
“Are you undercover?”
“No.” Well, sort of, she thought. “I’m meeting someone.”
“Someone special?” her mother asked.
“Mike Vicente.” Her heart pounded as she said the name.
“No.” Paloma’s face went ashen. She clasped her daughter’s hands. “You cannot. Arianna, you cannot. I forbid it.”
Arianna squeezed back. “I have to know, Mom.”
“Why? What good can come from this now, after all these years?”
“My good.” See how important this is to me, Mom. “I need to find out what happened to my father.”
“If they didn’t know then, how can they know now?”
“A