Chapter 6: Scott's Second Chance

“Your stories aren’t empty tales about people jumping into bed and nothing else,” he told her. “They’ve got teeth. They’re about people I feel like I know, in believable situations, who also happen to be very much in touch with their sexuality. And it's clear that you do your research, too. That first story that I read, about the Navy corpsman, could have been me, except he was older and had a higher rank.”

There...he’d given her something about himself. Would it work? Before, she had obviously not wanted to talk to him or get to know him, but now she looked at him with a searching glance. He let himself hope for a moment, because he liked her eyes on him. But then she looked away, picking up her drink again and taking another sip, and he decided that he would rather leave than be left. He’d made a fool of himself long enough.

Gathering the tattered remnants of his dignity like a cloak around him, he prepared to step away, determined to ignore the inexplicable ache he felt growing like a ball of iron in his chest. He had never been especially good at talking to women, so why he had thought he could interest this one was beyond him. Her silence was his cue to leave.

“Well, I’ll be off now. Sorry I bothered you. Enjoy the rest of your evening!”

He made his voice crisp and impersonal, grasping at his control and summoning up a smile before downing the rest of his drink. Then he placed his glass on the bar and turned sharply away.

“Mr. McCallum, please forgive my…lack of hospitality.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. She was clearly thinking hard about something, but he said nothing, waiting, half turned, to hear what else she had to say.

“Perhaps we can sit outside where it’s quieter and I can answer any questions you have.”

He squelched the sudden urge to grin like a fool, recognizing the huge concession she was making and feeling immensely grateful that she had decided to give him another chance. He would try again to persuade her to take him seriously, even if he had acted like an impetuous ass before.

“Another glass of wine?” he asked, and ordered a second drink for himself when she refused one.

This time he let her lead the way to a quiet nook on the wide porch that wrapped around the town hall. Waiting for her to choose a seat and then sitting across from her, he sipped his drink and watched her try to compose her features and settle her spine against the high-backed wicker chair she had chosen. Her body language was as fascinating to read as her words were. He could see why her stories held him spellbound. She was just as enchanting in person.

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“So, aside from wanting to have dinner with me, what would you like to know?”

Lola had no idea how provocative a question she had asked the man who sat watching her the way she imagined a cat might watch a mouse. He looked at her hungrily, as though only she could satisfy his desires. She had closed herself off from men a long time ago, but it did not stop her from recognizing the signs of desire in Scott McCallum’s gaze. She watched him clearly trying to decide on a good answer.

“I’m not quite sure where to start,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression.”

She decided then that he wasn’t dangerous, just a little crazy. Surely he didn't think his actions in the last hour had left the right impression? Still, the thought that he wanted to grab her attention made her smile. Who would ever have thought that a man who looked to be more than a decade younger than her fifty years would knowingly flirt with her? She certainly hadn’t.

“Are your stories based on personal experiences?”

He asked the question she had probably heard more often than any other one over the years. Lola smiled wryly. Someone should give her a dollar every time she was asked that question. She'd spend it on one of her favorite things...perfume. She shook off the odd disappointment she felt at his lack of originality. Why did she care that his question was boring?

“I suppose the thought of such an experienced woman would make some men salivate,” she answered, trying to keep the sarcasm and cynicism out of her voice, “but I have to confess that most of the stories bear very little resemblance to my life. There may be an event that triggers the inspiration for a story, and my female characters may exhibit some of my personality traits, but as a whole, my stories are entirely fantasy.”

As soon as she uttered the last word, she knew she had given him an opening she hadn’t meant to do, and she cringed inwardly, hoping he would be less intuitively intelligent so he would miss it. Her hopes were dashed when he asked almost immediately,

“Fantasy? Are you saying the stories represent your sexual fantasies?”

His eyes watched her closely, his face expressionless as he sipped his drink, and Lola groaned inwardly. He may be a little bit obsessed, but he was too damned smart for his own, or her, good. She wrestled with a way to respond that would not give away any more of herself than she was willing to give to a stranger.

“I think all writers’ stories represent their fantasies,” she finally said, lowering her eyes to the table between them.

She couldn’t keep looking him in the eyes and equivocating as she had just done. She was too bloody honest and it irritated her to have to speak in half-truths. It also angered her that he had put her in that position, until she recalled that she had been the one to use the word which triggered his troubling question. She didn’t want to be the pathetic woman who had no sex life and who had no other way to relieve her sexual frustrations than to write them out in her stories.

His silence was becoming unnerving and she finally raised her eyes to look at him, only to find him watching her with a small, knowing smile playing about his lips. Lips she didn’t want to look at or be aware of as more than a part of his face. A face that she was not supposed to notice had high cheekbones, a tempting mouth – my God, it was sin personified! – and dark eyes to match the color of the thick hair on his head. The cleft in his chin made her ache with a need to touch it, and the hint of a dimple was driving her crazy with desire. She felt herself coloring up, and stood abruptly, suddenly desperate to put as much distance as she could between herself and this man who was definitely a threat to her peace of mind.

“Well, if that’s all, I must get going, Mr. McCallum. It was nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening!”