Blind Heat
by
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2010 by Delta Dupree
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
eISBN: 978-1-4523-6828-3
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Chapter 1
Amid the war between the sexes, new battles break out every day.
Tonight's private gala was no different from any other showing. Art enthusiasts crackled with excitement seeing new works on display and meeting the artists of pricey creations. But some people never ceased to amaze Fletcher Maguire. A few of those sightseers had a lot of frigging nerve.
"I was liking this artist's southwestern scene, the one we saw hanging in the Blue Room. This one…Doesn't the model illustrated remind you of a chick from college? I forgot her name," the woman said, tilting her head to one side. "Didn't the football jocks call her the Blowjob Goddess?"
Every muscle in Fletcher's body flexed. These broads couldn't possibly know his ex-wife.
Her gal pal chuckled noisily. "Blowjob Extraordinaire by some. Deep Throat by others."
Uncouth as her partner.
"Fits. Look at the size of her mouth, the bulge of her throat," the woman went on. "This Breeze character has her swallowing somebody's willy. Bet it's his own since the pig thinks he's wielding an oversized mallet."
Mallet. Not a bad description, but yeah, sometimes he used it as such, banging the hell out of a woman's snatch.
"Check out her eyes," she continued, "beautifully drawn, and so real looking."
"I think the crow's feet were an afterthought," her friend included.
"Not so much crow's feet as lightning bolts. What do you want to bet he loved her once? He has no respect for her now."
Perceptive or just plain lucky, this novice know-it-all had the damned audacity to give her unprofessional opinion in his family's gallery. Who appointed women to slaughter a man's ego? Were they put on the planet just to jack with his mind? Somebody should redefine "involuntary manslaughter." Evidently, this lady had been bred to taunt the male species, thinking she knows all. In her frigging dreams. The only time a woman's finesse played on his one vulnerability was in bed. Or with tears.
"Want to take a guess at what she did to tick him off? Don't even think about it, Dionne," she said. "No, she didn't bite him. He's vain, wouldn't show her bloodied fangs and his punctured willy." They giggled like scheming kindergartners. Obscenely.
"Joni Hammond," his half brother, Mitch, whispered, picking up on Fletcher's obvious curiosity. Smiling, he nodded toward a quartet of Phoenix's upper echelons who passed by, all carrying crystal champagne flutes. "She's known for her pottery work. Talented. Successful. Word has it she can be subtle and prickly. She arrived late. Sill gave me short minutes."
"And?" Fletcher asked, wishing he'd heard the response on "what she did." No outsider knew what went on behind closed doors.
Mitch shrugged. "Just glad she's here. I've been trying to lure her to Maguire's four or five years. Didn't sound like she would make it this time, either. Her email said she was busy preparing for a function after Christmas," he said. "She showed up at one of Gordaff's private affairs last year."
"When?"
"November," Mitch replied. "Think you were out of town."
Fletcher had spent most of the month overseas. No wonder he didn't recognize the name. Still, hearing any artist badmouth his work stung like a mother whether he knew the person or not.
He gave Hammond the complete head-to-toe perusal. Rich golden highlights accented her mahogany hair. Her sleeveless, waist-length top matched the tapered, suede pants colored sable brown. Was she flaunting Tina Turner's sensational legs? Doubtful. This broad was probably too conservative for his tastes anyway.
A worldwide traveler, he carried an affinity for exotic women: hot Brazilians, Jamaican queens, sexy Tahitians, among others. Naturally, his Vietnamese ex-wife had occupied the top spot once upon a time.
Hammond's meaty ass looked damned good. Lifting mud had kept her arms shapely—nice cut like the First Lady's trim ones. She wore needle-thin high heels; nail-me-now shoes, according to Mitch. From the backside, yeah, nice. About-face, up close and personal, this criticizer wouldn't meet a model's rank.
"Is she showing any work, decent work?" Fletcher asked.
"She shipped in a few high-dollar pieces," Mitch replied. "Truth is she's good. We sold a trio of vases ten seconds after the doors opened. Somebody snapped up a signature ewer combo five minutes later."
She sold quick when he hadn't sold shit in months. Blinking rapidly, frustrated, Fletcher rubbed his eyes as his vision blurred. The color of Hammond's outfit bled into a mass of distortion. Hell, not now.
"You all right, Fletch?"
"Tired." He'd arrived late into San Francisco from Tokyo, missed his connection to Sky Harbor airport, which made him tardy for tonight's fete after three grueling weeks in deep hell. "Need sleep."
"Not me. Not tonight. I intend to get to get next to Hammond's partner. She's a combination Halle/Angelina. Volcanic sex written all over her."
"Get your nose out of the air, Mitchell. Reel your tongue off the floor and keep your frigging pecker inside your pants," he whispered back, his vision clearing. "We're center stage in the gallery, for God's sake."
Mitch was four years younger at forty-two. Blindfolded, even wearing earplugs, he'd single out a woman's specific pheromones from fifty paces. "Chill out."
Fletcher had chilled for the last few months. Taming man's libido took effort. Life had more important offerings than sex, but staring at the potter's luscious ass again jolted the entity hanging between his legs. Too much time had passed since he'd made contact with a woman's soft body.
"I want you to meet her. Ms. Hammond," Mitch called out.
She spun around with her sidekick. Damn. She looked better than expected. Fletcher stuck a finger into his shirt collar, tugged at its sudden tightness. Had to be the tie's knot he'd quickly assembled.
"I want you meet my brother. Breeze." The intro was intentional when Mitch could've used Fletcher's given name. He was good at priming people to start some hell.
Her exquisite eyes sparkled mysterious, dark amber behind square black glasses. Her complexion glowed deep bronze. Sensuous lips glimmered burgundy, the same shade as a fine red wine. On the other hand, conservative fit old dames. Two silver bars kept her vest from showing nipples. She wasn't flaunting a huge rack, but she had enough wallowing material to torment the shit out of the male population. She smiled brilliantly. Genuine? Or it was possible that she realized he might have heard her comments and faked it.
Fletcher inhaled. The light scent of her perfume, delicate as a fresh mountain breeze, teased his nostrils. He reached to shake her hand. "Pleasure," he said, feeling electric softness, expecting calloused fingers to scrape skin from his palm. After all, she was a potter.
"Likewise." Lusty voice, deep and throat. Sexy as hell. A tremor transferred from her delicate hand to his. He would've held onto her slender fingers longer, absorbing her stimulating currents, had she allowed.
"And your friend?" Mitch asked.
"Dionne," the woman replied. Some facets of her face did resemble two of the planet's hotties.
The best of Arizona had ventured into the family's posh gallery.
Mitch signaled the nearby waiter, snagged a pair of flutes for the ladies, then two more, passing one to Fletcher. "I hope you're enjoying yourself." He kept his gaze pinned to the Berry/Jolie replica. "Have you toured Maguire's entire facility?"
"We've seen parts," Dionne replied. "Impressive. Well put together."
"I thought so as well," Mitch, the city's top playboy, said. He cupped her elbow, escorted his latest toy away. "Allow me to show you more of my gallery."
"He worked her, and she fell for it for now. Nice meeting you." Joni Hammond walked off.
Fletcher huffed. Forgotten like a bad day. Eyes focused squarely on the potter, he watched her engage in conversation with an elderly couple who, evidently, knew her work. The old dame pointed, waving her free hand, ecstatic about some misshapen bowl of all things.
Circling the gallery, he spoke with several people he'd known for years. A few expressed their interest in his newer paintings, just not enough to add a buzz to his waning demeanor. The life of an artist was often boring without having brushes.
"Breeze."
The stunning brunette hurried toward him, her purple skirt tight all the way down to her ankles. Uncovered, CiCi Felario's outstanding legs easily commenced car-horn symphonies. She flaunted two brazen habits. The first, rubbing her breasts against his chest to say hello.
Before she initiated the second antic, Fletcher snagged her busy hand. "Frisking again, CiCi?"
"Always, when I'm in need," she whispered, walking five fingers up his jacket's lapels. "And I'm in need of you. Let's see if I still have the power to bring you to full tilt."
Was three times a charm? "Not happening."
"Why?" CiCi knew how to work a pout. "We both enjoy running the risk of being caught. I promise not to make a sound, love."
Their first exploit had occurred during an opera performance. CiCi was good. He'd tilted faster than a pinball machine. "Not happening." He'd cured his libido of dick hoppers. Too many women used their bodies to gain control of man's wits.
"I could try."
To his left, the potter's lips curved into a coy smile. It wasn't for him. She approached the stately gentleman moving toward her, hugged him, caught Fletcher's stare then ignored him, pressing her glossy lips to the new fellow's cheek. Smiling radiantly again, she led him away.
Another hopper, Fletcher bet. She'd worked the room, worked every male within touching distance.
"Distraction doesn't become you, Breeze," CiCi said, cutting into his thoughts. Long red nails slipped between his shirt buttons, toyed with his chest hairs. Once upon a time, he'd spring into action after her first come-on. "Don't tell me I've fallen out of grace with you."
"Look for Mitch. He'll satisfy your enthusiasm," he replied, his gaze following the potter's slow-swaying hips. Joni Hammond was the embodiment of pure grace.
Leaving Cici to sulk, Fletcher accepted another glass of champagne. He sipped on the bubbly while cruising the gallery rooms.
The gala would soon be over.
Tomorrow, paperwork. With luck, the final mission would be complete by late December. Without him as team leader. He was due R&R, and Thorndike Security Industries had agreed. The company didn't expect him back on duty until after January 1. Use or lose vacation time. If boredom set in, he'd make tracks to the office in a heartbeat. Sitting around on his dead ass, twiddling his thumbs, wasn't his style. He lived for work, which included going to war for his country.
"Hey, big brother," Mitch said. "I've talked Dionne into having dinner. How about joining us?"
"I was looking forward to—"
"Joni's as hungry as I am," Dionne said. She looked back at Mitch. "Dutch, of course. We'd refuse otherwise."
Hoppers never balked on free tickets. Fletcher checked his watch, grimaced. He glanced in Joni's direction. The potter was preoccupied with the same attentive black man, hanging onto his arm, whispering into his ear, probably setting up the night's entertainment. "Looks like she has other plans."
"How about we meet you at the restaurant in an hour?" Dionne asked.
He stared at the potter's curvy ass. Plenty of time to wrap up the current business deal.
"Perfect," Mitch confirmed.
As Dionne sashayed away, Fletcher asked, "Why in the hell do I need to be there?"
"She was reluctant. I figured if you and Hammond tagged along, she'd relax."
"Must've recognized a pack wolf on the hunt."
"Bite me." Mitch shoved both hands into his trouser pockets. He grinned when Dionne nodded acceptance. "My Ben Franklin says the volcano erupts tonight."
"Twenty," Fletcher countered. His brother chased snatch way too often, made the capture most times.
"Fifty."
"Done."
"I'd wager you could—"
"Not on your life." He wanted no part of another hopper.
At half past the hour, pacing back and forth inside the restaurant's waiting area, Fletcher turned toward his brother. "This is bullshit." He should've known better. Hammond was too busy cozying up to a pleasure recipient. Hoppers were good at their professions.
"Let's just get the table," Mitch said. He'd checked the parking lot twice. "Damn women are always trying to lead a guy on."
The front door swung open. Joni's sultry voice and laughter filtered through the entryway. "Gentleman, sorry we're late."
He bet she was sorry. He eyed her from head to toe. She'd changed clothes, wore a slinky, black number covering her legs when he wanted to see if hers looked good. What happened, suede soaked up her man's fluids? Quickies were a guy's best friend—in, out, no strings attached.
Her hair was different, parted on the side, brushed behind one delicate ear where three clear stones glistened. Which of her clients dropped hard-earned cash on her? Maybe the jewelry, he bet fake as a three-dollar bill, was payment for services rendered. Not a hopper on the planet was worth it.
"No problem at all," Mitch said, his hand at the small of Dionne's back, urging her forward. "We would've waited longer. Pierre, we're ready."
His brother was too full of shit. Grumbling under his breath, Fletcher fell in stride behind his dinner partners.
When the ladies declined stiff cocktails, Mitch ordered a pricey bottle of chardonnay.
"Grey Goose, neat, three olives," Fletcher told the waiter. This was going to be a long, tedious night. "Make it a double."
Fatigue had influenced his vision for some time now. Tonight, he was dog-tired. He rubbed his eyes then refocused on the menu's fuzzy words.
"Their escargot is excellent," Joni said, "if you're into snails. Great celery salad or you might want to try their field greens, drenched in the best raspberry dressing ever."
"I'm not starving."
Thirty seconds later, she said, "My favorite entrée is sweetbreads. Steak Diane can be superb. I like mine medium rare. We could share if you like."
"I'm not into sharing."
His little brother rapped on the table. Fletcher lifted one eyebrow, wondering what the hell problem he had. What was with the evil glare? Mitch finally went back to the discussion with Dionne.
Sweetbreads was Joni's choice. Since he couldn't read one item on the menu, he chose Steak Diane, anticipated hearing a "moo" coming from the plate. Plus, field greens. For the hell of it, he ordered a dozen oysters on the half shell. To his luck, the waiter said they were new to the menu.
He ate heartily over the next ninety minutes, but he checked his wristwatch a half dozen times. Between courses, he'd crossed then uncrossed his legs. Twice, he'd bent over to retrieve his napkin. With Joni Hammond ignoring him, he got a good look at her calves the first time. The little black dress had a nice split. Bolder on the second viewing, he lifted the linen tablecloth.
Tina Turner definitely has a worthy competitor.
"Excuse me, sir."
Shit. Busted. He looked up. Seeing the grinning thirty-something waiter hovering by his side, Fletcher casually relaxed in the chair, pinning the man with a deadpan glower.
The waiter lost the smile. Clearing his throat, he set the dessert tray between the ladies. They couldn't resist the delicacies. Fletcher begged off. Sweets put him on a hypersensitive ledge, mentally and physically, wiring him.
"There's a swank new club not far from here," Mitch said. He gulped the last of his liqueur. "We can swing by, check it out."
"Count me out," Fletcher replied quickly. Since his dinner partner had little to say to him during dinner, what the devil would they talk about among teenagers?
"Makes two of us," Joni said. "I have a few things to finish up tonight."
Like what, a rendezvous rematch?
"Unpacking, getting the last of my stuff ready to drop off tomorrow. Mitch, you did say someone would be in the building by nine, right?"
Good God, man, get a grip.
"Charles'll meet you," Mitch replied. "Meanwhile, I'm hoping Dionne won't disappoint. How about it, pretty lady? This club isn't one of those loud teeny-bopper joints."
"Go on," Joni said. "Have some fun."
Left alone with the potter for whatever length of time, the situation looked grimmer by the seconds. "So as not to intrude, I'll catch a cab." Fletcher folded his napkin, set it on the table.
"Joni can drop you off, can't you?" Dionne asked.
"Sure, she can," Mitch piped in. "He doesn't live far from here. Ten minutes to the other side of the 101 at this time of night."
Fletcher didn't want this woman or any other near his home. "Taxi's fine."
"Oh, what the hell," Joni said. "Let's get the bill paid so we can get on the road before the temperature drops to zero."
Fletcher plastered his best "marvelous" glare on Mitchell, the grinning idiot who let any stray cat trespass on his townhouse property.
Following Joni to the valet station, he kept his gaze on her swaying hips. She worked them, and she continued ignoring him while the runner brought her car around.
His jaw went slack. Who taught this woman to drive a tank? The Hummer was top-of-the-line. He thought to help her into the big rig, except she hiked the little black number up shapely, bare limbs and climbed inside. Crap. While he stood cemented to the sidewalk, mesmerized seeing her naked thigh, she tipped the valet attendant. He should've paid for the ride-along service.
"Coming?" Joni asked.
He hustled around the rear end to the passenger side, eyeballing every detail on the expensive wheels. "What is this thing about?"
"Transportation. What do you do, waste money on taxis every day, thumb, or hit the two-legged trails? You don't look like racing material." She cranked the engine, gunned it.
Running twelve miles was his norm. This woman's full-color picture sat beside the word "brash" in Webster's Dictionary. He refused to answer a stupid question by a brazen hopper.
"Where to, Cold Wind?" she asked.
"What?"
"You heard me. Most men are full of hot air, but you are full of—"
"Take the 101 North." He didn't have time to listen to this crap. Should've flagged down a cabbie.
"What, rather, who turned you into such a thorny character? The woman in the painting?"
Hell's bells.
"She resembles a coed we once knew. Can't remember her name. She came to the States from somewhere in Asia. Beautiful woman. She turned every male head, had the ladies screaming foul."
Which head? Unwilling to engage in this conversation with a yakker, Fletcher counted backward from a hundred. She couldn't keep her mouth shut for long.
"Couldn't be the same person, could it? Is it possible?"
This was leading nowhere. "Take the next exit then hang a right. Fourth stoplight, take a left."
At the intersection, the potter graced him with a curt stare. "No answer again?"
"Light's green."
So what if he was a son of a bitch? Hammond had no right inquiring into his private life. No one delved into his past without authorization. Even with clearance, they'd have to dig through a quagmire of bullshit. They'd still never find out a damn thing.
At least she kept her mouth shut. "Pull into the driveway straight ahead."
The Hummer came to a stop. Out of courtesy or just wanting to give back the same shit she'd given him, Fletcher held out his artist business card emblazoned with Breeze. "Thanks for the ride. Send me an email about your next showing in town." One he'd deliberately forget to attend.
She didn't take the card. Instead, she flicked the interior light on. Eyebrows arched in tandem, Joni said, "Golly, Cold Wind, why would I contact you when I don't even like you?"
Mitch was right. She was subtle. Damn prickly. The bitch. He rolled out of her hotrod, shoved the door closed.
Hell's frigging bells. He'd forgotten to reset the alarm system's effing outdoor lights. Or Mitch had. Running late, he'd raced through the shower, dressed, hurried back out to the taxi in nine minutes flat.
Fletcher knew every inch of his property: rock and vegetation placements, every nook, cranny, and slope. He marched across the wide, flagstone walkway. His house backed up against a rocky hill, overlooked the neighborhood into Scottsdale proper. Only two street lamps lit the darkened cul-de-sac.
At the front door, he rubbed his eyes. Not again.
He fumbled the key chain. Seeing the keyhole was a quandary in itself. Jabbing the key at the lockset only caused the chain to flip out of his grasp.
"Son of a—" As he bent over, the doorframe tagged his forehead, stunned him. "Goddamn it!" he bellowed, staggering backwards.
Fletcher dropped to his knees. Scraping away fingerprints on flagstone didn't produce the brass, and he tensed, alerted by footsteps heading in his direction. Unarmed and near blind, he tuned in, blocking out sounds from screeching crickets, distant car engines, an overhead jet's roar, poised to spring at the intruder.
Dim light flashed. High-heeled feet braced apart. Sexy split showing shapely calf up to a muscled thigh. Penlight held by none other than Joni Hammond. Why was she still here?
"Porch light might help," she said, "but since you're on the outside looking in."
"I don't need your help."
Keys jangled. "Which one works the security door?"
Fletcher got to his feet. "Just give me the keys." The hell if he'd let her inside his home. No woman other than his mother had crossed the threshold of his existence in years. Male maid service had been difficult to find.