Forever Blue. Suzanne Brockmann
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floored.
Blue McCoy wanted her. He wanted her. He was actually physically attracted to and interested in the tall, skinny, gawky, awkward Yankee tomboy, Lucy Tait.
Oh, she had no misconceptions about the extent of his desire. It was purely sexual. There were no emotions involved. At least not from his end. But it was clear from the look in his eyes that if she went on this date with him, he was going to do his damnedest to see that she didn’t get home tonight until well after dawn.
A clear and extremely erotic image of Blue pulling her down with him onto his bed at the Lighthouse Motel flashed through Lucy’s mind. Tangled arms and legs, seeking mouths, straining bodies, skin slick with sweat and desire… Strobelike pictures bombarded Lucy’s senses, along with a thousand other thoughts.
She had been plenty reckless and wild before—but never in her personal life. As crazy as she’d been with her career, Lucy had always been extremely careful when it came to relationships. But ever since she’d first laid eyes on Blue McCoy at age fifteen, she’d desperately wanted to run her fingers through his thick, dark blond hair.
Lucy knew she meant nothing to Blue and would no doubt continue to mean nothing to him, even if he slept with her. She’d never made love to a man before without knowing that their relationship was going to grow, without hoping for some kind of permanence. Yet Blue was in town for only a few days—a week at the most. Chances were that he wouldn’t be back. Maybe not for another twelve years.
As she gazed up at Blue, he reached out and touched the side of her face, gently wiping what was no doubt a smudge of dirt from her cheek with his thumb. His hand was warm, warmer even than the rain, and his touch sent a wave of fire spiraling through her, down to the depths of her very soul.
She couldn’t help herself. She reached up and touched his hair. It was wet, but still soft and thick. It was remarkable. One small movement and she was living one of her wildest dreams.
Blue’s eyelids grew heavy at her touch, heavy with pleasure—and satisfaction. He’d won, and he knew it.
“I’ll pick you up at 1900…seven o’clock,” Blue said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Or would you rather meet me over there, at the club?”
Lucy found herself nodding. Yes. “I’ll meet you there,” she breathed. Dear God, yes, she was going to do this. She was going to go to this party with Blue McCoy, and later… Later, she was going to live out one of her most powerful, most decadent fantasies.
It wasn’t until after he walked her back to her patrol car, until after he went inside the Grill for the rest of his lunch and his duffel bag and with a nod headed toward the motel, and until after Sarah drove by in her little black Honda Accord, giving Lucy a toot of her horn and a big thumbs-up, that reality crashed in.
What the hell did Lucy think she was doing? Was a one-night stand with Blue McCoy—no matter that he was the man of her hottest dreams—worth the talk and gossip and speculative looks she’d have to endure weeks and even months after he’d gone? Was one night—or even two or three nights—worth the silence that was sure to follow? Because Lucy had no false expectations. Blue would not write. He would not call. He could be killed on a training mission, and she’d be the very last to know.
Could she really love a man she knew would be loving someone else, some other woman, this time next month—or hell, maybe even next week?
She wished she could call Edgar, wished she could tell him about Blue’s invitation, wished they could talk it over, hash it out. But even though Edgar wasn’t around, Lucy knew exactly what he would have said.
Go for it.
Edgar was the only person Lucy had ever told about her high-school crush on Blue. He was the only one who had known that she still carried a torch for a guy she never even really knew.
Yeah, go for it was what Edgar would have said.
And then he would have reminded her to have safe sex.
Safe sex. Now there was an oxymoron if Lucy had ever heard one. A condom would help with some of the physical dangers. But what about her emotional safety? What kind of protection could she use to ensure herself that?
Down at the police station, Lucy went through the motions, taking a shower; putting on a clean, dry uniform; filling out the forms and reports. But all afternoon, she asked herself the same questions over and over again. Could she really go out with Blue tonight, knowing damn well where it was going to lead?
The answer wavered between Edgar’s possible go for it and no. No, it wasn’t worth it. No, she couldn’t do this. Could she? How could she pass up her wildest, hottest sexual fantasy?
But every time she told herself no and started to pick up the phone to dial the Lighthouse Motel, where Blue was staying, Lucy remembered the liquid desire in his eyes and the hot touch of his hand on her face.
She remembered the answering pull of her own longing and need, the promise of a wild, reckless passion the likes of which she’d never known.
And she knew exactly why she’d said yes.
CHAPTER 2
Lucy pulled her truck into the Hatboro Country Club’s elegant driveway, feeling out of place. She parked in the back lot, unwilling to leave the keys to her trusty but beat-up old Ford four-by-four with the valets. She couldn’t stand the thought of them snickering as they pulled it alongside the Town Cars and Cadillacs. She also wasn’t sure she could handle walking in the front entrance of the posh country club wearing this little black dress she’d borrowed from Sarah. Little was the key word. It was sleeveless, with a sweetheart neckline and a keyhole back, and it hugged Lucy’s body, ending many, many inches above her knees. On Sarah, the tight skirt had been short, but Lucy was at least four inches taller than her friend. Aided further by high heels, the dress made Lucy’s long legs appear as if they went on forever—an effect, Sarah had pointed out, that would not be lost on Blue McCoy.
Lucy glanced in one of the mirrors that lined the hall as she went in the country club’s back door.
Sarah had fixed her hair, too, piling it on top of her head. It seemed as if Lucy had casually swept it up off her neck, but in reality the carefree look had taken the solid part of a half hour to achieve.
She was also wearing more than her usual dab of lip gloss. Mascara, liner and shadow adorned her brown eyes, and blush accentuated her wide cheekbones.
Lucy looked like…somebody else. Instead of skinny, she looked slender, her legs long and graceful. Instead of girl-next-door average, she looked exotic, glamorous and mysteriously sexy.
Blue probably wasn’t going to recognize her. She could barely recognize herself.
Which made sense, because Lucy certainly didn’t recognize this odd sensation she felt, knowing that she was here to meet a man who was practically a stranger—a stranger who could very well be her lover before the night was through.
Blue McCoy.
But he wasn’t a stranger. Not really. After all, he’d been her hero for years. He was pure masculine perfection—if you went for the big, brooding, enigmatic type. And Lucy definitely did.
Music was playing in the country club’s big ballroom, and it filtered down toward Lucy. She started up the stairs, heart pounding; she knew that Blue was somewhere up there near that pulsating music.
The country club had undergone changes in its interior decor since the last time she had been there. She couldn’t remember what color the thick wall-to-wall carpeting had been, but she was positive that it hadn’t been this deep, almost smoky shade of pink. The wallpaper was different, too, a muted collection of flowers and squiggles, in tasteful off-whites and beiges and various shades of that same dark pink.
Her high heels made no noise at all on the plush carpeting as she moved down the corridor toward the ballroom.
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