Dear Love Doctor Page 7

  “Comfortable?” He asked the question as he stood beside the open passenger door.

  “Quite, thanks,” she said, her lips beginning to curve upwards.

  “I’m making a fool of myself, is that it?” Hunter knew the answer but asked anyway.

  Daffy smiled.

  Then, given how coolly she was acting, she did the most surprising thing.

  She leaned over and fluttered a kiss across his lips.

  7

  Daffy opened her eyes wide. Had she really done that? Kissed Hunter James!

  She ran her tongue lightly over her lower lip. He’d backed away a step, which was just as well, because at the merest taste of him, she was sorely tempted to be the fool. “Well, you did tell me to have a nice day,” she said, giving him an impish smile. She had to be careful or she’d betray just how much he affected her. “And now that I’m in a festive spirit, let’s go party.”

  Without another word, he walked around the car and slid in behind the wheel. Casting her a sideways glance, he said, “When is the last time you went to Jazzfest?”

  So he was going to play it cool. Daffy half turned in the seat and tucked one bare leg up under her. She wasn’t sure, but she thought he shifted a bit behind the wheel. Good. She was going to give Mr. Irresistible a run for his money. He might have forgotten or even been joking about his thirty-day challenge, but she sure hadn’t. ’Course, the only problem was that with every additional second she spent around him, she knew he hadn’t boasted idly.

  Darn him.

  At last she said, “Oh, it’s been a few years. How about you?”

  He stopped at a light. “Never miss it. At least not since I discovered it five years ago.” He flipped on the radio, tuning it to WWOZ, the local jazz station that broadcast live from the Fair Grounds. Marcia Ball’s vibrant voice belted out.

  “You must be a real jazz fan.” Funny, but she would have picked him for a rock kind of guy.

  “I guess you’d say I’m a fan of the total experience.” The light changed; they surged forward and in one smooth move, he now rested his arm on the back of her seat.

  Suddenly the Jeep seemed too small. Even though he wasn’t touching her shoulder, she could feel him on her skin. Right now, music and crafts weren’t the total experience Daffy was contemplating. She hadn’t had sex since she had sabotaged her blossoming relationship with Jonni’s last candidate for husband of the month, a new doctor in town.

  Daffy sighed. That was months ago.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Hunter said, and this time he did brush his fingertips ever so lightly across her bare shoulder.

  Sex. She almost said it. Instead, she swallowed the word in a mixture of cough and laugh and said, “Do you usually go this late in the day?”

  He’d moved his hand to the headrest of her seat. Grinning what she could only describe as a wicked grin, he said, “It depends what time my date gets off work.”

  “I really was leaving at five,” she said, feeling a need to defend her actions.

  “An assignment came in?”

  “I’m too honest,” Daffy said. “No assignment. I thought you might show up, so I decided to out-smart you.”

  “We sure are two people set on outsmarting one another,” Hunter said softly. “What do you think would happen if we declared a truce on that point?”

  Sex. Most definitely. Daffy glanced out the window, anywhere but at Hunter. Sex would be okay. Was she kidding? It would be great. And sex wouldn’t mean she’d lost the thirty-day bet. Turning back to him, she said, “Friends? We’d be friends?”

  Friends? Hunter studied her profile. “Friends” wasn’t the word he was thinking of, but it would sure do for starters. He moved his hand off the back of Daffy’s seat and extended it to shake hands. She accepted his hand, they touched for the briefest—and most electric—of moments, and Hunter had to hide a smile. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Placing both hands on the wheel, he began to whistle.

  He negotiated the thick traffic in silence until he’d snagged a parking spot just vacated by a station wagon full of singing, sunburned, and no doubt slightly beer-logged college-age kids. Ah, yes, the total experience of Jazzfest.

  Hunter leaned across Daffy, careful not to give in to the temptation to brush her knees as he opened the glove box. He came up with the tube he was seeking, pulled it out, and said, “Sun-screen?”

  “Great,” Daffy answered. “But you don’t look like a man who carries sunblock around.”

  “I’m naturally dark,” he said. Like his father, according to his mother. Not that now was the time to be thinking of his worthless old man. Not on a beautiful day like today, a day full of promise. “But this stuff comes in handy on fishing trips.”

  Daffy shuddered. “You mean you actually stick worms on hooks?”

  Hunter unscrewed the cap off the sunscreen. “I have, but now I mostly go out in the Gulf for deep-sea fishing. Scoot around and I’ll do your back.”

  Scooping her hair to one side, Daffy gave him a long, scorching look before turning sideways. Her top was cut lower in the front than the back, but he still found an enticing expanse of perfect flesh beckoning to him. He squeezed out a drop of lotion and began on her left side, circling lower across her shoulders and then slowly onto the tops of her arms. He couldn’t swear to it, but he thought he heard her sigh softly.

  Good. As for himself, he was getting harder than the gearshift on his Jeep. The blues group on the radio crooned on and this time he definitely heard Daffy sigh. He’d better get out fast or they wouldn’t make it inside the gates of the Fair Grounds.

  Daffy had to be thinking the same thoughts. She shifted around. She too was breathing faster than usual. But instead of reaching for the door handle and doing the sensible thing of getting beyond his reach, she held out her hand and said, “Thanks. I’ll do my front.”

  Hunter nodded and handed over the sun-screen. He swallowed hard as she dabbed a spot of lotion above her right breast. The tight-fitting exercise top already did enough to call his heated attention to her full breasts, but when she started stroking the rounded line over the right one and moved in a sensuous path to her cleavage, he had to stare. No pretending to look elsewhere.

  “Are you trying to drive me nuts?” Hunter couldn’t stop from grinding out the question.

  Tipping down her sunglasses to reveal blue eyes now darkened almost to the color of midnight, she said in a voice of all innocence, “Friends don’t let friends get sunburned.” Then she plucked her hand from between her breasts, leaned forward, and dabbed a bit of sunscreen on his nose and forehead.

  “Ready,” she said, opening her door and slipping out.

  He followed, grumbling under his breath. He was the pursuer here, dammit. If anyone was going to drive the other one crazy with desire, it was supposed to be him doing it to her. Hell, if he didn’t cool down fast, he’d be doing something as stupid as writing to that useless Love Doctor. Which reminded him—he ought to go ahead and ask Daffy for any clues she might give him.

  Rounding the car, he smiled down at Daffy. No point in letting her see just how much she could ruffle him. She smiled back, rather impishly. Still looking down, he easily saw the reason.

  His shorts did nothing to hide the effect Daffy had on him.

  “Let’s go,” he said, beginning to walk rapidly up the block.

  She kept up with him, chatting away about how long it had been since she’d been to Jazzfest. The streets around the Fair Grounds were full of their own mini-festivities, with kids hawking bottles of water and beer sold from Coleman coolers, and old men offering their front lawns as parking lots. Always a way to earn a buck. Hunter smiled up at the sun, thankful to be out enjoying the day rather than working for survival.

  He bought their tickets at the gate, handed Daffy’s to her, and gazed around at the crowds still pouring in and at the early visitors, many now heading homeward.

  Looking down, he gave her hand the briefest of squeezes and s
aid, “Don’t get lost, okay?”

  She nodded. “What’s your favorite stage?”

  They continued toward the interior of the Fair Grounds, an immense expanse of trampled brown grasses and dusty walkways surrounded by food booths offering local favorites and stages pouring out everything from jazz to blues to zydeco to rock to rap to gospel. Hunter looked around and said, “Now, that’s a hard choice to make. Maybe the zydeco. What about you?”

  “Blues. With good blues, I can hear the singer’s soul.”

  “You surprise me, Daffodil Landry.” He stopped abruptly, in order to miss a herd of kids dashing across the pathway. She bumped against his side. Hunter dropped her hand and put his arms on her shoulders. “Okay?”

  “Yes. I don’t know why my comment should surprise you. Uptown girls have soul, too.”

  “Ah, yes, Uptown girls.” Hunter once again heard that interior voice warning him away. His friends he could easily ignore, but his own sonar of danger was another factor altogether. “Maybe you’re an exception. You and your sister seem pretty down-to-earth.”

  Daffy kicked one toe into the dusty ground and shrugged. She could have assured Hunter that being born with a silver, socially correct spoon in one’s mouth wasn’t the key to happiness. But the last thing she wanted to do today was get into a philosophical conversation that would end up with her losing out on a great time with Hunter James. “Want to see just how down-to-earth I am? Let’s go second line in the Gospel Tent.” Daffy loved the New Orleans tradition of spontaneously parading to music.

  Hunter leafed through the schedule of events that had come with the tickets. “They’re on a break for another fifteen minutes. How about a little two-stepping in the meantime?”

  “Okay.” Zydeco wasn’t her strong suit, but today she’d try anything, especially when Hunter captured her hand. They strolled off toward the Fais Do-Do stage. Between the still strong late-afternoon sun and the sizzling warmth generated by Hunter’s touch, Daffy reveled in her pleasantly overheated state. Skirting around one of the craft marketplaces, listening to Hunter humming what sounded like “When the Saints Come Marching In,” Daffy decided life couldn’t get much better.

  Until after seven o’clock, when the Fair Grounds closed. Then, ah, then things would get even hotter. She held Hunter’s hand just a little more tightly and smiled up at him. The sounds of a zydeco band were growing louder.

  “Daffy, hey!”

  At the sound of her name being called, Daffy halted, as did Hunter. Looking around, Daffy spotted two couples, both of whom she’d grown up with. It was a fact of life that a New Orleanian could never go to Jazzfest without running into at least a few friends and acquaintances. But just once, Daffy wished they’d outrun the statistical chances.

  “Friends of yours?” Hunter was checking out the foursome descending on them.

  Daffy nodded and exchanged greetings with the two men and women, whom she introduced as MeToo, SuSu, Bienville, and R. J.

  R. J. shook hands with Hunter, and Daffy could have kicked him because of the sympathetic way he was looking at her date. He probably wanted to pull Hunter aside and warn him to have nothing to do with her. Daffy smiled her most brilliant smile and, knowing what the response would be, she said, “We’re just going to try a little two-step. Want to come along?” MeToo hated anything Cajun and would refuse the invitation.

  “Slumming, Daff?” Bienville asked the question as he wrapped an arm around MeToo’s shoulders.

  “Just taking in the Jazzfest experience,” Hunter said.

  SuSu shook a spot of dust off her pink linen blouse. “It’s always so dusty out here. I don’t know why I come.”

  “Because I asked you to,” R. J. said. “So, Hunter, are you the one and the same Hunter James whose company created a whole new way of ensuring cyber-security?”

  “We do specialize in that field,” Hunter said.

  Daffy perked up. Was Hunter that famous? To R. J., whom she’d dated and dumped three years ago, after which he’d rebounded and married SuSu, she said, “Hunter is the soul of modesty.”

  Hunter grinned. “Why, thank you, Daffy. It’s pretty much true that the security systems we’ve created far surpass anything else in the market.”

  R. J. whistled. “I’m glad I bought that stock, even if I did miss out on the IPO.”

  Hunter nodded. “It’s holding its own, even during the market shakedowns.”

  “Anyone want another beer?” MeToo tapped her foot on the ground. “I’m thirsty.”

  Bienville, who’d been silently standing by, said, “I’ll get you one.”

  “I’m afraid too much business talk is boring,” Hunter said. “And that zydeco is calling. Nice to meet you.” He held out his hand and Daffy slipped hers back into it.

  And just like that, they escaped the foursome and threaded their way into the dancing crowd.

  Masterful, Daffy thought, enjoying Hunter’s guiding touch as he led her into the vigorous Cajun waltz. Let him boast; he deserved to.

  Hunter let the music wash away his irritation. The woman in pink reminded him strongly of Emily, hanging on to her man while making eyes at other guys. And the one named R. J. had looked at him with such a mixture of sympathy and jealousy that Hunter could draw only one conclusion: he, too, was another one of Daffy’s jilts. Jeez, how many did she have?

  Glancing down at her, dancing easily and freely in his arms, he could honestly say he didn’t care if they numbered in the hundreds—as long as they were all in her past. Oh, it drove him ballistic to think of her with another guy, a funny thought for him to be having. He was involved in a simple chase-and-catch, nothing more. He’d enjoy the next few weeks and move on with his life, to his next flirtation, until he met the woman who would rule his heart forever and ever.

  And the chances of that woman being Daffodil Landry were slim to none. Fidelity—mutual fidelity—was a given in his expectations. And from what he’d heard, there wasn’t much chance of that gift coming from Daffy.

  Her skin gleamed and her breasts rounded up even more fully from her brief top as they dipped and swayed and circled the dusty field of dancing couples. Let the future take care of itself. Today he’d live for the moment.

  The band stopped and Hunter and Daffy joined all the other dancers in applause.

  Flushed and happy-looking, she said, “That was marvelous. I had no idea I could even follow the Cajun two-step!”

  He brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. “You follow beautifully,” he murmured. She was standing against him, tight and close, packed in by the crowd. Their legs were practically en-twined and a lightning strike of heat coursed through him. Placing his hands lightly on her shoulders, he made no effort to hide the effect she had on him.

  Daffy tipped her face up to his. “You lead beautifully,” she replied.

  The band struck a note and Hunter heard the crowd start to shift into dance mode as the two guys playing the spoons hammered on their metal-washboard breastplates.

  But Hunter wasn’t moving, not except to lower his hands to Daffy’s waist.

  She wriggled against him and all he could do was thank the stars they were in full public view or he would have taken her then and there.

  With a soft sigh, she parted her lips and Hunter forced himself to pull back, to fight the temptation to taste that beautiful, inviting mouth. Too much too fast was not the right recipe for success with Daffodil Landry. “Ready for the Gospel Tent?”

  Daffy rocked back. “Gospel Tent?” Her voice was dazed from desire.

  Hunter grinned. She was his for the taking. “Sure, let’s go get some of that old-time religion.” Some vocal amens might be just what he needed to cool his own hard-on.

  His hands back on her shoulders, he guided her from the mass of dancers. They were halfway to the Gospel Tent before she seemed to come back to earth.

  “You should probably be labeled with a warning notice,” Daffy said.

  That made him smile. “And what would the l
abel say?”

  “Danger. Do not touch.”

  “And if you were labeled, what would yours say?”

  Immediately, she answered, “Danger. Explosive.”

  He laughed, but then realized that with all the warnings he’d been given, laughing was the last thing he should be doing. Running in the opposite direction from Daffy was no doubt the recommended option.

  “Ooh, Hunter!”

  He stopped. He’d know that female voice anywhere.

  “Friends of yours?” Daffy said, a wicked smile on her face as she repeated his own words to him.

  Emily, with Roger in tow, descended in a flurry of cheek kisses that put Tiffany Phipps quite in the shade. Hunter performed the introductions, hiding his reluctance behind the company manners his mother had drummed into him. Emily was one woman he refused to call friend. Roger he actually felt sorry for.

  “You were naughty to skip my party,” Emily said.

  Daffy picked up quickly on Hunter’s tension. She also noted the woman’s wedding ring—a carat at least. She had no business gunning for Hunter.

  Turning to Daffy, Emily said, “Hunter, Roger, and I go way back. Only now that he’s rich and famous, he doesn’t have time for us folks back home.” She pouted in what was supposed to be a becoming fashion, Daffy supposed, and lay a possessive hand on Hunter’s forearm. Daffy was pleased to see Hunter shift his arm free.

  “Where’s home?” Daffy asked the question, realizing she’d never asked Hunter. Well, it wasn’t as if she’d spent much time with him. Yet.

  “Ponchatoula,” Hunter answered before Emily could. Daffy noticed he didn’t apologize for missing her party.

  “And fancy running into you way down here in the city at Jazzfest,” Emily cooed. Roger nodded, more bored than threatened. “I know,” Emily continued, “now that we’ve bumped into each other, let’s make up for that missed party. We’re heading over to the Acura stage.”

  “That’s going to be a great performance,” Daffy said, almost surprising herself by how swiftly she thought up the lie, “but we’re going to have to miss it. I’m on my way to visit my aunt in the hospital and we were just heading to the exit.”