Call Me Wild Read online

  “Either is fine with me.”

  “Wine it is.” He pulled a bottle of red out of the wine rack and went about opening it without the usual fuss she’d seen guys use. “I was up in Washington State last year, and I got this incredible merlot, Velvet Devil. I liked it so much, I bought a whole case.”

  She stuck “independently wealthy” under background. It was fiction, right? She couldn’t very well have a hero who was broke. She saved her work and smiled at what she’d accomplished. “Can I help at all?”

  “Sure.” He took the butter and sour cream out of the refrigerator and set them on the counter. “You can put these on the table. I think the salt and pepper are already out there. Oh—and the salad.”

  She ferried them all to the table, folded the napkins she found in a bowl on the sideboard, and placed them under the forks. At least that was one thing she knew how to do. By the time she returned to the kitchen, Fisher had the steaks and potatoes on serving platters, and the peach thing sitting on top of the stove.

  He picked up both platters. “All we need now is the wine and glasses. They’re hanging over there.” He nodded in the direction of a glass-front cabinet. Sure enough, wine glasses hung just below it.

  Jessie grabbed the bottle and two glasses. When she reached the table, he took the wine, set the glasses by their plates, pulled out a chair, and waited.

  She wasn’t sure what the heck he was standing there for until he took her hand and seated her. “Yeah, sorry. I missed that one completely.” She shut her eyes and did her best not to blush, not that she could control it, but if there was a way, she really wished she’d figure it out. That knowledge would be good right about now.

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  Again, it was to her. But then she wasn’t used to men treating her like a girl. She wasn’t used to men treating her like anything but one of the guys.

  Fisher stabbed a steak. “Medium rare for you.” He placed it on her plate and passed her the potatoes. “So, what kind of book are you writing?”

  “Genre fiction.”

  Fisher cut his steak. Jessica did a great job of avoiding his gaze. The red tinge to her cheeks confirmed his feeling that it was probably covering up something pretty juicy if it would cause her to blush. Erotica? God, wouldn’t that be cool? He could help her come up with some interesting scenarios and positions. Since he’d met her, he couldn’t look at her without thinking about hot sex. Shit, the thought of her just writing hot sex was enough to tent his pants.

  “Which genre?”

  She looked away as if she was deciding which lie to tell him.

  “What are you hiding?”

  “I’m not hiding anything.”

  “Okay, sure.” He finished chewing his meat and picked up his wine, swirled it around the sides and watched its legs as it flowed back into the bowl.

  “I’m writing a romance.”

  “What kind of romance?”

  “Contemporary.”

  He nodded. “That’s a smart move. I read an article recently that said romance readers read on average ten books a month. Did you know it’s the only genre that’s actually increased sales during the recession? That’s amazing. They said a woman would put down a steak in the grocery store and opt instead to buy a pound of ground beef and a romance.”

  “You read that?”

  Fisher cut his potato and loaded it with butter and sour cream. “Yeah, I read all kinds of things. Do you belong to RWA?” Jessica’s blank stare told him no. “Romance Writers of America. It’s a national group that has local chapters all over the country.” One of his patients belonged to it and was a New York Times bestselling author, not that he could mention it. Sometimes HIPPA really sucked. “There’s a chapter in Boise.”

  Jessica took a sip of wine and watched him over the rim. “No snarky comments?”

  “Why? I always thought they were darn good books. I’ve even read a couple. Of course, I didn’t really know they were romances before I picked them up. I’m told what I read were cross-genre. Once I got hooked on a particular author though, I read her other stuff too. It wasn’t until someone asked if I was buying them for a girlfriend that I put two and two together. I don’t know what the big deal is. Most books have a romance subplot at least. Look at The Bourne Identity.”

  “True. I never thought about it. I’d never read a romance until a few weeks ago.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  She held up her finger. “One: the covers were enough to put me off food for a month. Come on, I wouldn’t have been caught dead carrying around a book with Fabio on the cover.”

  “Yeah, but that’s all changed now. Have you looked at the romance covers lately?”

  She speared a piece of potato and chewed. “I suppose. Still, they all have headless, shirtless, waxed-within-an-inch-of-their-lives guys on them.”

  “At least they’re not the bodice rippers of old. And face it, sex sells. Since the target demographic is women, it only makes sense to put a hot guy on the cover. No one complains about a beautiful woman on the cover of Playboy.”

  “Are you equating romance to Playboy?”

  “No, the women’s version of Playboy is Playgirl. I’m just saying if you want to attract women, putting a hot guy on the cover will do the trick.”

  “Point two: I can’t stand purple prose. I’m a reporter, and we’re trained to write succinctly—we get to the point and avoid overly long, flowery descriptions. And three: I don’t believe in it.”

  He froze with a piece of meat speared on the tines of his fork hovering near his mouth. She wasn’t joking. At least she didn’t look like she was. Maybe he misunderstood. “You don’t believe in what?” He pulled the meat from his fork and waited for her to come up with an answer.

  “Happily ever afters, romantic love. It’s all a hoax. But I guess that’s why romance is fiction.”

  He chewed his meat, taking care not to choke on it. Wow, that explained so much. He waited until he’d swallowed and washed the bad taste in his mouth away with a big gulp of wine. Had someone hurt her so badly that she’d given up on love? Maybe that’s why she was so damn skittish around him. Always looking for an angle, as if he was trying to pull one over on her. Sometimes it sucked being a nice guy. He wondered if he’d spend his life repairing the hearts and bodies of women who were abused in one way or another by asshole men. “Bad experience?”

  “With what?” She didn’t seem upset. She ate her food as if she hadn’t a care in the world and a decent meal in a millennium—which was a possibility.

  “Men, love… Has someone hurt you?”

  “Me?” She shot him an incredulous look. “No. Why do you ask?”

  Something flickered in those dark eyes of hers, but the emotion was gone before he could even name it. “I’ve just never met a woman who wasn’t a dyed-in-the-wool romantic. Even my sister-in-law, Toni—her mom’s the female version of Hugh Hefner without the ascot. I think Clarissa’s on husband number five or six. Toni may have sworn off love, but she always believed in it.”

  Jessica held up her fork. “Lust is constantly mistaken for love.” She cut her steak and speared it along with a piece of potato. “Love doesn’t exist. It’s just a prettied-up version of lust that keeps the greeting card companies and divorce lawyers in business.” She popped the food into her pretty mouth as if she were adding a punctuation mark.

  “So every guy who wined and dined you struck out in the love department?”

  “I don’t date much.”

  “Then you’ve never fallen in love.” He sat back and rolled the wine in the bottom of his glass.

  “No. I’ve never fallen in love because love doesn’t exist. I’ve fallen in like and in lust, sure, but that doesn’t last long.”

  He found himself leaning forward, looking for any sign of fallacy. The woman was a knockout. Why didn’t she have men falling all over her? Maybe it was because they couldn’t keep up with her? “When you say you don’t date much, what do you
do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m assuming you’re not a virgin.”

  “Hardly.”

  “So, who are these guys you sleep with? How do you get from ‘Hi, my name is Jessica’ to rolling around in bed without dating?”

  “They’re guys I know.” She picked up her wine and took a sip. “Friends, teammates, guys I work out with. It just happens sometimes.”

  “And do you tell these guys your theory on love?”

  “Yeah, I guess. It’s not a secret. It’s a fact.” She stared into his eyes as if willing him to contradict her.

  He held her gaze. “And when do you tell them this?”

  She finally broke eye contact, sat back, and thought about it. “I’m not sure. Different times.”

  Fisher placed his napkin beside his plate. He’d lost his appetite. Leaning back, he steepled his fingers. “Let me guess. You and a guy have a good thing going, you get together once or twice a week, you grab a beer after work or after a workout. He starts feeling you out about relationships, and you tell him your theory.”

  “Okay, yeah.” She shrugged and pulled her leg up, hugging it to her chest. “That sounds about right.”

  “Then within a couple weeks the lust has cooled down, and the guy or you back off, thus proving your theory.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, all that proves is that you’re wrong.”

  “I’m wrong?”

  “Hell yes.” He pushed his plate away. “What guy in his right mind is going to get closer to a woman who doesn’t want or even feel the slightest hint of love for him? It’s not all about the sex, you know—even for guys. Why would a man waste time with a woman who doesn’t care for him?”

  “I care for them… as friends…”

  He stood and gathered their plates. “And that’s the kiss of death. Telling a guy you love him like a friend is like a guy telling his best buddy the girl he fixed him up with has a great personality. He might as well label her a dog.”

  “You’re wrong.” She sounded sure of herself, but she definitely didn’t look it.

  “I’m not going to argue the point since there’s only one way to prove it. So tell me, if you haven’t been romanced, how are you going to write about it? I assume your hero and heroine will eventually fall in love, something you have no experience with and believe is an urban myth. How are you going to pull it off?”

  “Research.”

  He stopped what he was doing and stared at her. “You’re going to date poor, unsuspecting men for research?”

  “I hadn’t considered that, but I suppose it is a possibility.”

  “Okay.”

  She stood too, and tossed her napkin on the table. “Okay what? What is okay?”

  “Okay, I’ll date you. Now you finally have a reason to go out with me. Call it research.” He didn’t wait for her reaction. He picked up the plates and took them to the kitchen. She deflated and sat down hard, staring into her wine as if it were a looking glass depicting the future.

  Poor girl, she didn’t know what she was up against. Fisher might not have done it for a while. Hell, he’d be the first to admit he was a little rusty when it came to romance—he couldn’t remember a time when he actually had to work to get a woman in his bed. Probably not since he was a horny teenager, but he figured it was like riding a bike.

  He looked over at Jessica again, while he rinsed the plates and loaded them into the dishwasher. She was like no other bike he’d ridden before. Those training wheels and handlebar streamers might just come in handy after all.

  Chapter 8

  Jessie didn’t know how on earth she’d gotten herself into this mess. Fisher did the dishes, whistling a tune, like the earth hadn’t just tilted off its axis.

  She couldn’t date him. Could she? Sure, she could sleep with him. Lord knew there was no lack of attraction between them, but then what? What would happen when they worked off that whole sexual need thing? What would happen then?

  He tossed a towel over his shoulder and leaned on the counter. “Do you like ice cream?”

  “For what?”

  “To eat. What were you thinking about?” He laughed this low, gravely laugh that set her hair on end and had the girls standing at attention. Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck—that was such a bad sign.

  “I was just going to put it on the cobbler, but if you have any other interesting ideas, I’m completely open. So do you want it with ice cream, or without?”

  “With.” She poured the rest of the wine into her glass and drank it in one gulp.

  “Dutch courage? Come on, Jessica. I’m not that scary.”

  He had no idea. She gathered their glasses and carried them to the kitchen, where he was dishing up cobbler. God, it smelled great.

  “Coffee?”

  “Okay.”

  “Regular or decaf?” He spun the stand holding a plethora of K-Cup coffee options.

  She couldn’t care less about coffee. She felt as if she’d just jumped off a proverbial cliff. She held her breath, waiting for him to catch her, and he was talking about coffee. “Whatever. Caffeine doesn’t bother me, but neither does decaf, if that’s what you want.”

  He slid his arm around her. “Darlin’, I’m so tired tonight, nothing but you could keep me awake. You’ve caused me more sleepless nights than anyone I can remember.” His hand rested on her hip as he pulled her tight against him. “So, it’s your call. Am I going to sleep, or am I going to bed?”

  “Nice layup there.” She relaxed against him. Her hand rested over his racing heart, while hers sped to catch up. She took two Wolfgang Puck Jamaica Me Crazy K-Cups, put one in the machine, and pressed the button. “You’re going to need all the caffeine you can handle.”

  He toyed with the waistband of her loose-fitting jeans, slid his hand under the hem of her T-shirt, and then stroked the heated skin of her stomach. “I do so love a decisive woman.”

  She sucked in a breath. “It’s lust, not love.” He needed to know that almost as badly as she needed to say it. She couldn’t afford to become another victim of her mother’s fairy tales. She wasn’t immune—she was human after all. Great sex was supposedly like having a runner’s high—or so she’d been told. The body craved the endorphins that orgasms created. Fisher, if he were as good as she suspected he was, would be more addictive than chocolate-covered crack. Their gazes locked as she debated whether to run away or take the chance. For once, she wished she were a sissy. There was a dare in his eyes, and since she never could resist a dare, she closed the distance between their lips of her own volition.

  His kiss was slow and gentle and unbelievably soft. She hadn’t known what to expect, but tentative tenderness was not it. His jaw was smooth to her touch; there was no scraping, no bruising. Fisher didn’t plunder, he tempted. He traced the seam of her lips with the tip of his tongue, his hard body pressed against hers, and his hands roamed beneath her oversized T-shirt. His heart raced beneath her palm in stark contrast to the slow gentleness of his kiss and touch.

  She went up on her toes, increasing the pressure in direct proportion to the need rocketing through her. In the background the coffee machine burbled, spurting the last drop into the cup.

  Fisher ended the kiss and stared with eyes dark and mysterious, as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. “Coffee’s ready.” He reached around her, tossed the empty K-Cup on the counter, replaced it and the mug, and pressed the button for another cup.

  She didn’t move, didn’t want to. His body surrounded hers, and he seemed happy to have her smashed against him. Her hormones weren’t complaining either. She leaned in for another kiss and nibbled his full bottom lip, tasting the wine they drank with dinner, and toyed with the tight rein he seemed to have on his control. She wanted to shatter it.

  His arms tightened and he changed the angle and tenor of the kiss, vying for dominance. Now that was more like it. Their tongues danced, swirling in her mouth, hers chasing his in a hot, wet tang
o.

  When the coffee machine sputtered the final drop, the last thing she wanted was for this to end. She plunged her hands beneath the waistband of his jeans, and that wicked grin reappeared. This time, she figured it matched hers. He’d gone commando, and she couldn’t think of a nicer surprise. She raked her nails over the ass she’d been admiring for far too long, and he groaned into her mouth, his erection pressing into her abdomen.

  Fisher ripped his mouth from hers and dragged in a breath. “Jessica, if you want to drink the coffee we just made before it gets cold, you’d better get your hands out of my pants.”

  She raked her fingers toward the waistband, only enough to slide them around to the front and flick open the button on his worn Wranglers.

  “Like I said, I do love a decisive woman.” Before she knew what he was up to, he tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, knocking the wind out of her. She gave a kick, but his arm was a steel band around her thighs. The kitchen flew out of view as he clipped down the darkened hallway. He stepped into a room and set her on her feet with a gentleness that threw her again.

  Fisher removed the elastic from her hair and ran his fingers through it, tipping her chin so that her eyes met his. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  No question there. “Yes.” She reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head. God he was gorgeous. Blond hair shone in the moonlight, highlighting the hills and valleys of his chest and torso. She traced her finger over the length of a scar that followed the angle of his oblique muscle between the hip and his abdomen and stopped somewhere below the waistband of his low-slung jeans. “What’s this from?”

  “Appendix, when I was eleven.”

  “Must have hurt.” She bent to kiss it, tracing it from the top to the denim with her tongue.

  “I had drugs. Too bad Hunter didn’t.”

  “Your brother? What was wrong with him?” She slowly slid the teeth of the zipper down.

  “If one of us gets hurt, the other feels it too. It’s a twin thing.”

  He sucked in a breath as she kneeled in front of him. “You feel each other’s pain?” Jessie kissed the skin she bared as she eased his jeans over his hips. She sat back on her heels and looked her fill. “What about pleasure?”