Hot Chips and Sand 156-160

Hot Chips and Sand
Copyright © 2013 Mary Hughes
All rights reserved

It was personal, and terribly, terribly unprofessional. She was grateful he didn’t embrace her, which would have confirmed she was too thin-skinned to play in the big boys’ sandbox; even worse it would’ve shown he didn’t truly understand. Either would kill her a little inside.

But he did rub her shoulder consolingly as she worked it out. It was nice.

When she had wound down to red eyes and sniffles, she said, “Crying is the absolute worst thing you can do in a business environment. It’s a sign you’re not professional. And here I’ve done it twice, in front of the CEO. I guess that proves I’m not cut out to be a professional.”

Cliff shook his head. “Maybe they wouldn’t think so at Stuffed Shirt Corporation. But not here.”

Vickie looked up at him; she felt her heart was in her eyes.

He gave her an understanding smile. “You know what I think? I think a real professional admits their problems and shortcomings, personal and business, and then does the job anyway. You do that.”

She rubbed her nose. “I thought you had to be perfect.”

“Sure, if you buy into that style of professionalism—the uptight, anal‑retentive kind that can’t integrate different parts of life.” He watched her closely.

She nodded glumly. She couldn’t integrate working for him, working with him, being friends with him, and definitely not this physical need for him.

He sighed. “I’m not going to try to talk you into being my lover. That’s not fair to you. But I do want you to understand my feelings on being human and professional. Think about it.”

Vickie wiped her eyes. Being human and professional. He really got it. She’d have said something then, embarrassed herself by asking him if he did care even a little.

But he went on. “Anyway, I think we’ve done all the damage we can do here. I recommend we shower, get some food and get back to work. I could eat a moose, hooves and all.”

That brought some normalcy back. She decided now was definitely not the time to go into feelings. If he was hungry, and she knew from experience, he was not going to be thinking of much else until he was fed.

But while, after that workout, she certainly could use a shower before going out in public, she’d never used the one in the locker rooms, having been warned by John they were irritable like Grumpy Cat. “I didn’t bring a towel.”

“There’s a supply closet just outside the stalls. Towels are there, shampoo and extra soap too. Just drop the towel in the hamper when you’re done.” His stomach growled. “Let’s get going.”

“Okay.” She turned from him to head for the women’s locker room. Stopped and asked without turning, “Did you really mean that, about being human and professional?”

“Hopefully you know by now I mean what I say. C’mon, shower and something to eat. I’ll even share my dessert.”

“Well, how can I resist such a selfless offer?” She walked as sprightly as she could away from him, into the women’s locker room.

Once she gained the safety of the closed door, she sank back against it, utterly miserable. She’d just told the best damn man she’d ever met that she didn’t want to be his lover—when that was all she wanted to do.

She heard Cliff banging his locker; odd, she hadn’t heard it when they came down here before. She bit her lip and fought back tears again. Cliff wasn’t Ron. He proved that just now, proved he cared about her. Sure, maybe he didn’t want to be her one-and-only, but what was wrong with having at least part of him? Carpe diem, as Grandpa used to say.

The thought galvanized her. She straightened and went to the small locker. What would it be like, being Cliff’s lover? She pulled the shoulder of her leotard off, imagining that his hands were doing it. She rolled it over her breasts, seeing his eyes riveted to her. Her hands pushed the stretch material over her hips. She bent over, dreaming that she was exposing her most private areas for him.

A door banged. The sharp hiss of a shower next door told her she’d better get a move on. Now would not be the time to be late.

Vickie pulled off the rest of her clothes and hurried across the ceramic tile, her bare feet making little pungs on the floor in her impatience and confusion. She’d blown it for today. But there was always tomorrow, right? Great, just put her in an antebellum gown on the steps of Tara. She spun the shower dial. Water blasted out cold; she gasped and grabbed the knob to adjust it to less than arctic temperature.

“Gotcha, didn’t it? I forgot to warn you about that. These showers are a bit temperamental.”

Vickie jumped. Cliff’s voice seemed quite near. She scanned the stall. It took a moment to find the section of wall above her, apparently open between the two showers. “Cliff, is that you?”

“You were expecting maybe the Spanish Inquisition? No, John just finally got around to calling the plumbers in. That wall was opened for repairs to this cranky plumbing.”

“Are you sure you don’t have a ladder over there? I mean, for the repair work and all?” Vickie stepped under the shower, wet her hair and began to shampoo, keeping one eye on the hole.

“Scout’s honor, Vickie. But if it’ll help, I’ll be glad to talk to you. Or better yet, sing.”

“Sweet Simon Cowell, not another bathroom Star Search.”

Cliff began to warble tentatively. “Mi, mi, mi. Ah, such good acoustics. I never could see why opera wasn’t performed in the shower instead of a great drafty barn. Okay, now. Vesti, Pagliacci.” He swarmed up to the high note and cracked broadly. “Say, remind me to tell you how tenors really get the high ones.”

Vickie sighed to herself. ‘She could even live with his singing. She was an incredible dope. Or he’s an in credible man, a little inner voice reminded. She began to soap her body, trying unsuccessfully to avoid stimulating her overworked libido.

Cliff began again, this time with something he called Madama Butterfly. He briefly sounded as though he were drowning, then began again.

“What did you ever do with all the money your mom gave you for singing lessons?” Vickie assayed this little dig as a sign of her professional resilience.

“Ha.” Cliff forced his voice like a rusted locomotive up the mountainside, creaking precariously among the high notes.

“Ouch!” A bar of soap had just hit her in the head.

“Hey, where’d my soap go?” asked Cliff.

“Here, on my head,” she called back. “I probably have a concussion. What were you doing, anyway?”

“Just putting a little oomph into it. I must have shot it through the gap in the wall. I bet I couldn’t do that again in a zillion years.”

Vickie picked up the soap from the floor. This was his soap. It smelled like him. She closed her eyes and filled her lungs with the scent.

“Hey, Vickie, just toss it back over to me.”

She imagined herself to be the soap, gliding over each wonderful, strong curve of his body, secretly kissing every part of him.

“Okay, Vickie, I promise not to sing any more; just give me back my soap. Vickie?”

She took a long, ragged breath. It was time to stop playing games. With herself, with Cliff, with any time they might have left together. She took another breath to tell him. Her heart dropped dizzyingly into the pit of her stomach. Her throat dried and she could barely speak.

But she forced herself to say the words. “Why don’t you come and get it?”

There was a stunned silence, then the other shower turned off. A faint creak from Cliff’s shower door. A few moments of breathless anticipation.

Her door opened. She turned in the shower, one arm crossing her breast to her shoulder, the other holding the soap out, trying not to tremble. The steam boiled across the door and cleared.

Cliff filled the doorway, motionless as though carved from rock. The powerful beauty of his naked body struck Vickie physically. Hair was plastered over his brow, making tiny rivulets down his jaw, neck, torso, trickling down his smooth tanned skin.

Hot Chips and Sand 151-155

Hot Chips and Sand
Copyright © 2013 Mary Hughes
All rights reserved

Chapter Ten

The last Friday of Cliff and Vickie’s vacation from corporate responsibilities saw them competing again, in the company gym.

“I don’t…know why…you do this,” puffed Cliff.

Vickie couldn’t even answer. Her lungs hurt too much. But she was half a flight of stairs ahead of him. Totally worth it.

In the last minutes of their routines, Cliff made an awesome comeback. But if she could hold on, it would be the first time she’d actually made more stairs than he had. She dug deep for every spare bit of energy, burning sheer willpower in the last seconds. She knew she would pay dearly for it in the morning.

But as the routine ended she glanced over and saw she’d won…er, got more stairs. So totally worth it.

Cliff tottered painfully over to the bench. Vickie tottered behind, grateful to collapse on the bench next to him.

But Cliff took a few deep breaths and managed to slow his breathing from freight train to nearly normal. The cheater. He smiled. “Ready for another round?”

She whacked him with the palm of her hand against his muscular shoulder. The satisfying smack stung. “Ow.” She nursed her hand against her breasts.

“Serves you right.” He smirked.

“Does not.” Damn. She was going to have to work on her comebacks.

“Does too.” Cliff grinned and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “Your CEO abuse is highly frowned upon in these here parts.”

“Ha.” She was finally getting her breath back. “CEO stands for Cliff’s Ego’s Obstinate.”

“That’s reaching a little.” Cliff flung his arms over the back of the bench, tilting his face up. Suddenly his grin of savored effort became a rictus of pain. “Yeowch! Got a cramp on my shoulder. Does it hurt!”

Vickie sprang to her feet. “Put your arm back down and hold still.” She scooted around the back of the bench. When he’d creaked and groaned his arm into place she pressed fingers into his back between his shoulder blades, and slowly felt the vast acreage for the knotted muscle. “It’s a good one.” She located the offending tissue and began massaging. “Sit still and we’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

Yikes. Fixed up in no time, how June Cleaver. Although finally touching these lovely, warm, broad shoulders was soooo nice…

She mentally slapped herself. “This is your fault, you know. If you hadn’t gone and made this a contest, you wouldn’t have gotten a cramp. What a macho!”

“My fault?” Cliff’s tone was aggrieved. “Who reset her machine to compete with mine?”

“You didn’t have to raise the ante.” The knot under her fingers began to ease. Vickie’s fingers relaxed in response. With a will of their own, her hands began stroking his shoulders and straying to his chest. His lovely, oh-so-caress-able chest…caress? In a definitely not-caressing move, she dug her fingers savagely into his bulging triceps.

Cliff yelped in agony. “I thought massage was supposed to stop it from hurting.”

“Sorry.” She let up a bit, not trusting herself to say anything more. Since she’d realized she was falling in love with Cliff, she’d been especially careful to keep things light and frothy. If he even guessed she considered him marriage material…that was too damned close to lovesick. She knew he’d push her away, and she’d lose even their enjoyable friendship.

But it was hard, and her growing emotions pushed her, if not to make it a lasting relationship, at least to take it the next step, into the physical.

She struggled to keep her mind on the task at hand. Don’t think about any thing else, especially not that back. Keep those visions of masculine muscles out of your mind. Hard, thick muscle roping miles-wide shoulders… Okay, that didn’t work. So thing of something, anything else. Like their competition…so much fun. No, like eating while they worked…meals shared, watching his sharp white teeth bite into a sandwich, masculine lips moving… Crap. Okay, since that didn’t work, pretend you’re petting Dad’s dog…

Her strokes had softened again. Cliff relaxed, his head lolling onto her middle. It felt right, there against her body. She sighed, gave up and just enjoyed. She stroked his shoulders, neck and back, surveying the terrain and storing all the data for later retrieval. He sighed in reply, his tension seeming to flow from him, his head relaxing completely against her. She cradled him between her arms as she continued to caress his upper shoulders. Gradually the realization dawned—they were alone together.

Her hand strayed over his shoulder onto his chest. He took her hand and brushed it with his lips. His breath was warm. She bent over slightly.

He turned up and back, his mouth opened to say something.

Their eyes met and locked, the air suddenly crackling with tension.

With exquisite slowness their lips met in a kiss. At first tentative, the soft sliding of skin, the barest tasting of breath, each touch urging more, each taste priming a deeper one, until finally her lips parted in invitation and he thrust his tongue boldly into her mouth.

Her  heart missed a beat, dropped down to swell her belly, leaped back into her throat and finally settled in her breast, pounding at the bones of her chest, clamoring and clanging in excitement. She cupped his face and came around the bench. He cradled her face in return and stood. Her arms wound tightly around his shoulders, pulling them together.

His breathing was strong and vital. She’d never known anything like it. How anyone could express their openness and desire through their breathing was a new revelation in communication. Her body folded into his, molding to the hard planes of his body. She stroked his back as he released her face with one hand and stroked her hair.

No man had tasted anything as wonderful as Cliff. With a little moan she thrust her tongue into his mouth in return. His hand glided down her hair to her back, then her hip, tugging her into him. She reciprocated, her hands wandering in an idyllic garden walk down his well‑muscled back to his taut buttocks. His hand—oh, his clever hand—cupped her rear and massaged gently. Her legs grew weak and her pelvis flowed into molten lava.

“Vickie, sweetheart.” Cliff’s arousal pressed insistently against her, and for the first time she couldn’t find any excuses, not that he wanted his brassboard nor that he was trying to butter her up for the job.

He wanted her.

She trembled with excitement. His kisses came hot and fluid over her mouth, increasing in fervor. Not only did he want her, but he wanted her now.

But while she wanted him with body, heart and maybe even soul, he hadn’t given her the least sign that he wanted her in any way but this. Echoes of Ron, her broken engagement and lost job thudded painfully in her chest. She’d lost everything.

She couldn’t go through that again.

She broke away from him, feeling as though a part of herself was tearing away. “Cliff, please stop. I—I can’t do this.

His face tensed; his eyes hardened.

“I really want to, but I can’t, I just can’t. I’ve worked too hard to be professional, and these office romances always turn out sour.” She turned away and tried to put on her corporate mask, to rebuild the crumbling wall that protected her. She erected it too hastily; she turned back and the way he looked at her—equal parts anger and disdain, but both underlined with pain—made her want to shrivel into a worm.

It was the pain that made her suck in  her breath. Haltingly, fearfully, she told him about Ron.

She didn’t dare look at him while she talked. She finished up with, “After Ron left, I put my whole self into my new job. I worked hard to get back my self‑respect, and it’s tied up in my career and I can’t lose it again. If I go to bed with you and it doesn’t work…Cliff, don’t you see? I’ll have lost my self-respect, my job…and worse, your friendship. I can’t handle that.” Hesitantly, she raised her eyes and finally looked at him.

His gaze was intent, seeming to peer into her psyche. Then his eyes softened. “I understand. It’s okay.”

That softness, that understanding…she did something she swore she’d never, ever do again. She broke down and cried. Really bawled this time.

Hot Chips and Sand 146-150

Hot Chips and Sand
Copyright © 2013 Mary Hughes
All rights reserved

Cliff pushed his plate aside and gestured with his fork. “All right, Victoria Johnston. You don’t want to marry for money. You don’t want to marry for sex. You don’t want to marry just for children. Yet you do want to marry. For what?”

For what indeed? For love?

Yes, love would be her reason to marry. But not love like Ron meant it. Not love that stopped at the bedroom and was forbidden outside the home.

Her life stretched beyond that. No matter the corporate games she had learned to play, no matter how much she masked her feelings, they were there, at home, at work, dating.

Vickie wanted a man to love in the bedroom, yes, and at home. But that was only part of her life. She wanted a man to love at play, and at work, and all the in‑between times, too. “I want to marry someone I can spend my entire life with. A friend.”

“Well, I’d want it all. I would marry someone who was not only my friend, but someone I loved, too.”

Someone I loved. That resonated so strongly when he said it. She wondered if this man was the right one, the one she could love forever.

But was she the right woman for him?

Her voice sounded a little strange when she finally spoke, but she kept her words emotionless. “Well, of course. Everybody wants to have the perfect mate. But not many of us find perfection.”

“No, that’s not it.” He put his fork down and leaned forward, intent. “Perfection isn’t what I’m after. I want love, which is a very human emotion, and human means far from perfect. You can’t program love, after all. That would take the wonder, the delight out of it. I’m not looking for Ms. Perfect, or even Ms. Right. I’m looking for someone who’s as human as I am, but who’s willing to make mistakes and try again. And someone who…would try to love me in return, and keep trying, for the rest of our lives.”

She looked up, nearly drowning in the depths of his eyes. I love you, she wanted to say. But what if she did? Was he really asking for her commitment? Or was he just making conversation? How could he ask for a commitment like that from her without making his own commitment?

If he wanted her to put herself on the line like that, why didn’t he show her, somehow, how he felt about her?

Will he treat me like Ron?

She played it safe. “I think we all look for people to love us.” Trite. She looked away.

He sighed and sat back. “That’s true. But I guess it’s easier to take than to give.”

She winced. “No question about that.”

They sat, silent, until the hall clock struck a rather jarring ring. Vickie looked up.

“Is it really one in the morning?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I’d better be getting home. I promised you I’d have that tracker module written, and, to be honest, I haven’t even started it yet!” She jumped up, dumped her dishes in the dishwasher and raced to the door.

Cliff didn’t catch up to her until she got to her car. “Vickie.”

She turned, her breath catching in her throat. Hoping for a kiss.

He stood there for a long moment, seeming at war with him self. Finally he shook his head. “Be careful.” He opened her door and waited until she was inside to click it shut. Then he stood back and watched as she pulled away. He was still watching when she drove out of sight.

* * * * *

The phone rang again. The man opened one eye and blearily took in the time. Two o’clock, as in a.m. He picked up the receiver, grunting as his muscles stretched.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

The man grunted again. “What’s the matter?”

“I just got word from our primary contact. The subject is getting antsy, and wants us to move in the new protection grid as soon as possible.”

It was not good news. “Are we ready?”

“No.”

“Can we delay, then?”

“Not with the project almost complete. I’m sure the subject is aware of that. His timing is too perfect.”

The man rolled onto his back and ran one hand through rumpled hair. “Could we sabotage the project, then, to set it back?”

There was a long silence at the other end, and the man knew. “You still haven’t told her.”

“No.”

“You’ll have to.”

“In time. Now is not the right time.”

“Why not?”

There was a short silence from the other man. “She is beginning to trust me. When I’m sure of her reaction, then I’ll tell her.”

“I think you’re making a mistake.”

A sigh, sounding empty and alone over the phone. “Maybe. You might be right. But I can’t take the chance.”

The man shook his head to himself as he hung up. Organization was going too slowly, information was not being passed along. About the only thing going on track was the project they did not want to complete.

He sighed, and got up to make some tea and think up some solutions to their problems. He did not get back to sleep that night.

 

 

Hot Chips and Sand 141-145

Hot Chips and Sand
Copyright © 2013 Mary Hughes
All rights reserved
 

Two stories tall in most places, it was one story in some and three in others. A corner tower stood five stories high, crowned by an observatory of some sort. Cliff pointed toward what looked like a garage, but it had at least six doors. At least now she knew where all the different cars came from.

She parked in front of a sweeping set of stairs. They mounted the steps together, taking them slowly. Vickie stood back as Cliff unlocked the solid cedar door. It was massive. He swung it open, silently, and allowed her to cross the sill first.

It was like crossing into a different country, a different time. The cut stone floor was covered with intricately woven carpets, and chandeliers lit the huge front hall and what she could see of the room beyond. A full suit of armor stood in one corner. On the walls hung oil portraits of men and women in clothes from earlier centuries. “My mother’s,” said Cliff, leading Vickie down the hall.

She followed him past several rooms in various styles, finally finding herself in a very modern kitchen. Cliff pulled out a chair at a small breakfast table for four. As she sat, he poured two glasses of milk and set them on the table. He dug a large cake knife from a drawer and a couple plates from a cupboard. Setting them on the table, he went through a door and returned with a large metal cake carrier. With a flourish, he set it in front of her and drew off the top.

The cake revealed was well worth the fanfare. A wedge had already been taken and she saw light, high layers separated by half an inch of frosting. The rich smell of chocolate wafted through the kitchen. Vickie sniffed appreciatively. Cliff cut them each a big wedge, seated himself, and waited.

Sensing he wanted her reaction, she sampled a small, moist corner of the cake. It was delicious, and she said so. “Your Hannah is a culinary genius.”

“Better than the brownies?” he teased.

“I don’t know.” She made a face. “We’ll see how much of this I actually get to eat.”

He laughed. “Actually quite a bit. Hannah made two.”

“Were you really ever a skinny little kid?”

She was just bantering, but he sobered immediately. “It was rather painful.”

He was silent after that, but Vickie found she wanted to know him better. “John said you didn’t take up weight training until after college.”

He stirred and met her gaze squarely. “That’s somewhat misleading. I started college at sixteen, and skipped through a bachelors and masters in three years. Being a bit of a loner, I didn’t have much else to do.”

Vickie’s eyes dropped to study her cake crumbs. “I guess you had some lost time to make up for after that.”

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. “I had a lot of offers of companionship, once I had increased my body mass by fifty percent. But some of the women who were now offering were those whose rejections had been the cruelest.”

Vickie frowned. She was beginning to see a very different Cliff, one more like herself than she’d ever realized. “Used to be all I had to do was say some thing vaguely intelligent to scare off a prospective date.”

He looked up from his second piece of cake. “You know, I think that’s the first thing you’ve said about yourself that I haven’t had to drag out of you?”

She paused. “I guess you’ve always seemed so…professional and perfect to me. It’s hard to be one’s own bungling self with someone who always does things just right.”

“Oh, I’m far from perfect. I try very hard to do things right, but you’d be amazed at how many screw‑ups I’ve had. It’s just that I always come back and try again, and again, until I do get it right.”

“I knew it. You’re stubborn.”

“I prefer ‘tenacious’.”

They laughed together at that. Cliff served her a second piece of cake, and helped himself to a third. Vickie cut into hers, and chewed slowly, considering. He wanted her to be more open. What could she reveal without revealing her heart? Job? No, he knew about that. School? No, he knew that from the background investigation. Family? She thought about that for a while. Her family seemed nothing like his. Father dead in childhood, mother soon after, probably neither of them understanding the technical streak in their son, perhaps not under standing their bookish son at all.

“You know, Cliff, maybe the reason I don’t talk about myself is there’s nothing much to say. I mean, our family made the Cleavers look like neighborhood trendsetters.”

Cliff’s face lit up. “Ah, a personal anecdote. So yours was the typical American family? Two‑point‑four children? Dog? Station wagon? T.V.?”

“The works. Mom was even stay-at-home, until my brother was in high school. Then she went back to work. I guess that was daring.”

“What did she do?”

Vickie laughed. “Crossing‑guard. She just retired last year. Dad retired three years ago. They go traveling a lot now.”

“That’s how I’d like to do it. Raise the children in a secure, loving home, then send them out into the world and live it up.”

“You’re silly! It takes two decades to raise children. How much living it up do you think you’re going to do at…er…”

Cliff quickly cut her off. “Fifty. I’ll only be fifty.”

“Hey, me too.”

“I know. We were born the same year.”

Vickie made an exasperated noise. “That’s why I don’t tell you anything about myself. I don’t need to. You already know it all.”

“Not everything. You said your family was traditional. Are you?”

“I think it’s important to give kids a safe home, too. And everyone needs love.” She winced mentally at that. “But I think my parents are doing it the right way. You don’t marry your family—you marry each other.”

“So when you’re fifty, you’re going to be painting the town red, too.”

“Either that, or I’ll go back to school. I’ve always been interested in psychology.”

“Why didn’t you go into that before?”

“Well, I had to make a living.” She smiled. “My parents weren’t going to support me forever. And besides, they had my brother to pay for. I guess boys are more expensive than girls, with their cars and everything.” She looked sidelong at him, wondering if he was aware that having six cars was unusual.

Cliff squared his shoulders. “Some boys pay for their own ‘cars and everything’.” He drank milk, then considered her. “Had you ever thought of marrying some rich guy and doing what you want to do now?”

“That doesn’t sound fair. I mean, just because some poor slob has worked his tail off to make some money shouldn’t turn him into marriage meat. For that matter, maybe some guy should ride my coattails to success.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know. I just think a person should put his or her fair share into a marriage. If I marry a rich guy, it shouldn’t be to do what I want, it should be to do what we want.”

“Well, you make enough money now to pull your own weight, and then some. Had you ever thought about taking a trophy husband?”

“You mean marry somebody for their looks?”

“Or because they’re good in bed. Or both.”

“Forget it. What happens if I lose my job? Or he meets someone who makes more than I do? That’s a relationship that spells disaster.”

Cliff shook his head. “You’d be surprised at how many men can’t see that clearly.”

“Not really. To be honest with you, most men I’ve known haven’t been able to see beyond the end of their…sexual organ.”

“Ah‑hah! A misanthrope. You don’t want to marry at all.”

Vickie shook her head vehemently. “Of course I want to marry. If it’s the right person.”

Hot Chips and Sand 136-140

Hot Chips and Sand
Copyright © 2013 Mary Hughes
All rights reserved

The waiter zoomed back and slid a loaf of spicy‑smelling bread in front of each of them.

Cliff ate all of his, then sat, eyes wistfully following Vickie’s second slice on its way to her mouth. After a few minutes of puppy‑dog eyes, Vickie swallowed carefully. “Would you like some of mine?”

“Only if you’re sure.”

“I’m sur—” She wasn’t really surprised to see the rest of her loaf disappear. “How do you survive on l’haute cuisine when you entertain clients?”

“I don’t.” He washed down the bread with a full glass of water. “I have a cook who raised seven sons. She feeds me after I’ve been out.”

“You’re going to go home and eat after this?”

“No, of course not.” He grinned and pressed his fingers into the crumbs of bread on her plate, then licked his fingers. “There is, however, a chocolate cake in the refrigerator at my house, calling softly to me.”

“Really? Are you sure that’s not my brownie, singing from your stomach?”

“I can see you’re going to be stubborn over this.”

Vickie raised one eyebrow. “I prefer ‘tenacious’.”

“Hmm.” Cliff tapped his empty glass thoughtfully, then picked up the pitcher and poured them both more water. As the ice cracked, not looking at her, he said, “Maybe you’d like to try some.”

“Some what?”

“Chocolate cake. Hannah makes it with semisweet bakers chocolate and cream cheese and fresh eggs and, well, it’s really good.”

“You mean…you’re inviting me to your house?

“Yes.” He looked up then, eyes clear and intent. “No strings attached, of course.”

She shook her head. Impossible. He was impossible, it was impossible.

Cliff smiled ruefully. “I don’t blame you, after the way I behaved the last time.”

“No, that’s not it.” Vickie flushed, feeling slightly guilty. It was the first time he had mentioned it since that day and now he was taking full blame for the incident? Sweet man… “I’d love to come.”

A smile spread clear across his face, clear to his eyes. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For giving me another chance. So, which do you like better, coding or managing?”

Vickie wondered at his sudden shift in topics, but said, “I like them both, I guess. I like working with your people a lot.” Especially your CEO.

That was about all she thought it was professional and proper to say, so she then attempted to shift the focus from herself. “What about you? Which do you like better?”

“I like them both, too, I guess,” he said, mimicking her overly‑bright tone. “Good grief, Vickie, I get more on the real you from John than I do from you. What’s the problem?” His eyes narrowed. “Are you afraid of me?”

That stung her eyes wide. Lucky guess, or was he really that sharp? She fenced a little. “You mean, am I afraid of you, just because you own the company?”

“Let’s not start that again.”

“Well, aside from the fact that my boss thinks you walk on water and that your influence probably could keep me from ever finding another job if I ever crossed you, no, I can’t think of any reason to be afraid of you.” Let’s not mention crushing my heart.

“You forgot your brother.”

The flip rejoinder she’d been about to make stuck in her throat. Fortunately the waiter zoomed in with the pizza. He set the steaming hot pie between them, then whipped out a metal server and dug it under one precut slice.

Cliff smiled at the waiter, waved him off, and served the pizza himself.

As he slid a thick wedge on her plate she found her voice. “What has my brother got to do with it?” She didn’t even bother asking how he knew she had a brother.

“He’s at a rather expensive university, wouldn’t you say?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Yes, but he’s got a generous scholarship that pays for most of…” She trailed off as realization dawned.

“Provided by the Hawkesclyffe Foundation.” He slid a wedge onto his own plate. “Mmm. Smells great.” He picked it up and bit off half the slice. “Tastes even better.”

Vickie watched him chew, trying to clear her head. “Did you know?” she said finally. “Did you give him the money on purpose, because you somehow knew who I was?” She winced when she realized how self-centered that sounded.

“You mean to hold it over you? Other way around, actually.” He finished the slice. “I screen all scholarship recipients and found out about you.” He took another huge bite. “Although I admit I thought V. Johnston was a brother, until I met you.”

“At the office?”

“No, at the hotel.”

She blushed, remembering it. Then, remembering it, “I didn’t tell you my name then.”

“People at the embassy mentioned a person named Johnston had been kidnapped, and since I would be in town, would I please look out for Mr. Johnston. Apparently I wasn’t the only one confused on that point. Then I saw you, and the matter was cleared up immediately. Definitely female.”

His eyes met and held hers, his mouth crooked up on one side in a very sexy smile, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She looked away. “I’m glad you were there. I don’t think I could have escaped, otherwise.”

“You didn’t seem glad at the time.”

“There were…other factors.” Sexy, high-handed, half-naked factors. “So about that subroutine.”

“You mean the one you sneakily commented?”

“Hardly. The variables were clearly and beautifully named, anyway.” And they were back on safe ground again.

When they were done eating, Cliff put the tab on the company card and they walked together out of the restaurant, hunger, for food at any rate, sated.

Silently, she let him into her sedan. Wondering what she’d find at his home. Whether he’d be professional…or not. The idea of his…not…excited her. And that scared her. As she pulled out, she said, “You know, I didn’t mean it before, about being afraid of you. I’m not afraid of anyone just because they’re in a position of authority. But…well, you’re big, you know. I’d imaging most people would find you…intimidating.”

He laughed. “Not so very long ago, you could have kicked sand in my face at the beach.”

“I can’t picture that.”

“But it’s true. I was a skinny kid. Tall, but gangly. No interest in sports whatsoever. Turn right here.”

Vickie realized they were headed toward the park Cliff had taken her to for their picnic. She wondered if he lived nearby. “In my high school, we had jocks, nerds and freaks. Jocks were brawn without brains, nerds were brains without brawn, and freaks didn’t have either. Somehow, I can’t see you with the broken glasses and a pocket computer.”

“But I was. Nothing interested me except for electronic gismos. Obviously, that did not make me too popular with my peers.”

“It must have delighted your parents.” Vickie’s head spun. Yet another Cliff.

“Dad was already dead by then. Mum just despaired of me ever making it in proper society.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I guess that’s part of the reason I hated sports. Dad was always very athletic, and it just got him killed.”

“Killed? How?”

Cliff gave her a series of directions before continuing. “He was a career serviceman. Well, he volunteered for every extra assignment that came along, which allowed Mum to live in the style to which she was accustomed, and got Dad out of the house. And since Dad kept himself in peak physical condition, he was always chosen for the highest‑paid, and coincidentally most dangerous assignments.” He smiled thinly before going on.

“One day, he volunteered for a peace‑keeping force in the Middle East. He and his commanding officer were taken hostage the day after he got there. Dad died helping the officer escape.”

“He was a hero, then.” The directions had taken her into the park. She stopped, uncertain.

Cliff looked up from his own thoughts, saw her indecision, and smiled. “Go straight. We moved here after that.”

She started forward. The parkway, surprisingly, curved into a long driveway.

And at the end of the drive stood the most beautiful home she had ever seen.

Hot Chips and Sand 131-135

Hot Chips and Sand
Copyright © 2013 Mary Hughes
All rights reserved

Chapter Nine

On their way out of the building, Vickie’s phone chimed. She pulled it out. “I’ve got a voicemail.” She put it on speaker and played back the message.

It was Tess. “Hey Vickie, you’ll never guess what I just heard on the office grapevine. Not that I ever spread rumors, you understand.” She chuckled evilly. “Since I got this directly from Jerry, and I consider it fact, not rumor.”

Vickie was more hungry than interested in Jerry right then. But her ears perked up at Tess’s next words.

“Mel Pinlow got canned today. Not only did he screw up another big job, but he got a sexual discrimination suit filed against the company because of his idiotic behavior—remember how we used to call him ‘His AssHoliness’?”

Vickie blushed. She felt sorry for Mel and hated to see it happen to anybody, but wasn’t totally surprised. Time wounds all heels. Tess and Phil had been covering for him too long.

“And when I thought about the number of times he cut into you about your professional conduct…” Tess laughed. “Well, I thought you’d like to hear about it.”

“Poor Mel.” Vickie ended the call and put away her phone.

“You feel sorry for that jerk?” Cliff said. “I’d have fired him long before now, or at least put him in rehab training. Or maybe I’d have fired him because he wasn’t very nice to you.”

Vickie stared. Cliff would have fired Mel long ago? She remembered thinking they were two peas in a pod, like‑minded to the point of being twins.

The sudden incongruity between who she’d thought he was and how he was acting slapped her like a laptop to the face. How had she missed this decisive manager, this supportive friend?

Well, maybe she was confused by all the other Cliffs she’d met. The sweet lover at the picnic. In the restaurant, the suave and cool and sophisticated man. The powerful president and CEO of a multi‑million dollar company, telling her on the car ride to his corporate head quarters in no uncertain terms that she couldn’t judge his dealing with a power‑mad dictator. And of course in Middle Yemen, her night in shining armor—or black silk pants. She blushed.

All those Cliffs…if she had been a computer system, she would have had a system overload/abort transaction message about now. As it was Vickie had to consciously reel herself back in. She simply did not have enough information, and she couldn’t trust her fragile heart to anything less than certainty.

And if Cliff was anything, he wasn’t a certainty.

He was eyeing her strangely. Oh yes, and another Cliff, the astute human being. Vickie knew she had to say something. “Well, I don’t like to see anyone get fired, although in this case, I supposed it’s for the best. Maybe Mel will learn something from it.”

“I doubt it. Egos like that seldom learn from experience.”

This she could parry. “Oh? How did you learn so much, then?”

“Repetition.” He smiled cryptically. “Practice.”

“What does that mean?” She was speaking to his back. He’d headed toward yet another strange car. She ran to catch up. “Let’s use my car this time, okay?”

He smiled and followed her to her sedan.

Vickie popped the locks, watched him fold his long frame into the car, fanned herself, then she slid behind the steering wheel. Her faithful sedan started up on the first crank, and she pulled smoothly out of the parking lot.

Cliff amused himself by futzing with the stereo for a while. After he had rejected half a dozen or so stations, she took pity on him and showed him the presets. He hit the first one, liked it, and settled back.

She smiled, a bit ruefully, to herself. Since the episode in the park, Cliff had been the perfect gentleman. Gradually, her feeling of awkwardness around him was subsiding. And without feeling obliged to remind him of his moral duties to Prince Kulinahr, she was really beginning to enjoy his company, to feel comfortable with him. Every day it seemed they found more things they had in common.

Then why did she feel something vital was missing? Something personal?

No. Personal was bad. She should be happy. This was what she was trying to achieve, a good professional relationship. When the project was over they could part with no regrets, no hurt on any side.

A pang hit her chest at the thought of leaving Cliff. No hurt indeed.

Vickie clenched her eyes briefly. Hadn’t she learned anything? Actions said it all. The way Cliff switched turn his passion on and off wasn’t love. It might hurt in the short run but it was better this way. Enjoy the time they had together, then leave. Good business. No regrets.

“Vickie? What’s wrong?”

God, why did he have to be so perceptive? When the Deity did not answer her, she made an attempt to sidetrack him. “Do you think John will ever notice Tess as more than just a friend?” Which was actually quite brilliant. It was close enough to her own truth without revealing her feelings.

“Tess likes John? Really? Why hasn’t she said anything to him?”

“Well, I…I don’t know, but I’d guess she’s afraid to. John’s so attractive, he must have scores of women after him…” Lovesick, one and all. “I imagine Tess just doesn’t want to embarrass herself.”

“Sure, scores of women who aren’t Tess. John would jump at the chance to date her. He hasn’t asked her out because he says she always seems so aloof.”

She’d never been aloof in Cliff’s arms.

“I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned this to him. You’re close friends.”

She and John had shared laughs, drinks, even sundaes. But… “Friends, yes. But never…intimate…friends.”

Cliff’s eyebrow went up. “I know. John would have warned me if you were lovers.”

“Great. So glad we had this little chat.” Did men share everything? Was nothing sacred from locker-room discussions?

Then she turned onto the street for The Pizza Place and could practically smell the spicy sauce and melted mozzarella. As she pulled into a parking space, annoyance and doubts jettisoned in anticipation of a good dinner. She always felt better on a full stomach. She leaped out of her car and hurried toward the restaurant. His reply, something about non‑competition, was lost to her as she flung open the door. The tang of tomato and oregano nearly knocked her off her feet. She left him to plug the parking meter and beckoned to the hostess.

“Your regular table, Vickie?”

She and John and Tess and Belva and the others had come often to this restaurant to talk and relax after a long, hard day’s work. This was a safe place. Vickie smiled. “Yes.”

Cliff entered just in time to receive a lingering once‑over from the hostess. Then they were being led to a secluded booth with a window view of the river.

A college age waiter zoomed up as they seated themselves. “Stuffed spinach pizza and diet cola?”

Cliff rolled his eyes. Before he could snark, Vickie added, “And two orders of cheese garlic bread, Terry.”

When the waiter had gone, Cliff waved at the walls. “This is the real reason you’ve gained weight, isn’t it? Trying to blame those innocent hot fudge sundaes. Tsk, tsk.” He shook his head slowly.

Vickie primly unfolded her paper napkin and placed it on her lap. “Nonsense. The crust is whole wheat, spinach is a marvelous source of several vitamins and minerals, and cheese is a basic food in the milk group.”

“And diet soda?”

“That’s an essential component of a very necessary food group.”

“Which is…?”

“The diet food group. So I can eat more hot fudge sundaes.”

“And brownies.”

“Ha. Fat lot of them I get with you around.”

“You had one just yesterday.”

“We ordered four. I thought I’d have one for later, but you gobbled them up so fast, the one I did manage to grab I nearly got my fingers bitten off.”

Hot Chips and Sand 116-120

Hot Chips and Sand
Copyright © 2013 Mary Hughes
All rights reserved

Cliff was watching her with the strangest expression on his face. That confirmed it. She’d blown it, and only biting her tongue hard kept her from bursting into fresh tears.

“Vickie, sweetheart. You’re exhausted.” He took her wet cheeks in his hands. “John told me you were working too hard. I want you to take a vacation. Company‑paid. Take two weeks, go to New York shopping, or the Florida beaches, or the French Riviera…”

“No, no…” Vickie couldn’t believe it. Deep down, she’d really thought this time might be different.

But here he was, trying to get rid of her. Oh, it was couched in the nicest of terms, but it confirmed he considered her an embarrassment. She had proven she couldn’t play the corporate game.

If only she could cover her feelings, and they’d stay buried. Or if only she truly didn’t care about him, and could treat this like any other facet of her professional life.

If only she could be as smooth about this as he was.

Anger, love, and obstinacy. Inside of her, Vickie felt a seed of resistance start to grow. If he really wanted to get rid of her, he was going to have to do it for real, not just nudge her out. She dug in her metaphorical heels.

“Shopping is nice, Cliff, but that’s not how I relax.” Beat this, Mr. Hawkesclyffe. “Strangely enough, I find coding very restful.” Check, Sir Humphrey.

Incredibly, he smiled. “I understand completely. That’s how I relax, too.” He started gathering up the picnic things, talking as he worked. “Okay, you need to get away from the front line for a while, and to be honest, I could use a break from the heat, too.” He lifted the packed basket and opened the truck door for her. “Here’s what we’ll do. The disk utilities are designed, but not coded. Between the two of us, we could get that code knocked out by Friday next.”

She got into the truck, wondering what she had gotten herself into.

“It’ll be fun to be mucking about in the code again. Great idea, Vickie!” And he started the truck and took off.

Somehow, being obstinate had gotten her nearly two weeks of working intimately with the man who made her forget her own name, but who cared for her not in the least.

Check mate, Victoria Lynn.

Chapter Eight

Vickie slapped her tablet’s keyboard in disgust. “This miserable piece of junk is never going to work. The code simply won’t execute, no matter how I beg!”

Cliff looked up from his laptop. “Beg, Vickie? I didn’t know you spelled the word, much less used it.” He tossed his mouse and kicked back. The mouse knocked into Vickie’s, sending her rocketing off that table before gracefully sliding off after it. Cliff looked around as if to say “Now, how did that happen?”

It was two days into their ”vacation”. In those two days, no mention had been made of the disastrous picnic. Vickie had put on her most effective corporate mask, and Cliff seemed relieved. At least he was cheerful—she couldn’t tell if it was real or artificial. His mask was perfect. As they worked together, though, her mask began skewing, then slipping dangerously. He was just so damned personable when he put his mind to it.

Cliff sighed and checked the clock on his screen. “Vickie, I think we both need a break. It’s almost—do you realize it’s nearly eleven? We must be the only people in the building. Even Operations has turned over to the off‑site watch.”

“Oh, my goodness. I’ve got to get the rest of this code checked tonight. It looks like another all‑nighter for me.” She hadn’t been able to sleep the last two nights, anyway. Every time she drifted off she had hot dreams of Cliff.

“Not happening.” Cliff rose and clapped his laptop closed. “I can’t have you getting burned out on me. I hereby issue an executive decree that you accompany  me to the company gym. I’ll meet you there in about ten.”

“Cliff, I really don’t think—”

“Part of the problem. We’re too fuzzy to think.” He reached over and punched her tablet’s sleep button. “Nine minutes, now.” He strode out.

Vickie stared, incredulous, at his departing tight butt before scampering after him. When she reached the hallway he was already gone.

Swearing, she headed for the company gym. She’d seen the compact but well-provisioned workout area when she first came. John had said, “People can blow off the accumulated tensions of the day here. It functions as an outside place where networking and play can take place in a safe environment. There are no titles here, and whatever is said here stays here.”

She stood outside the gym, vascilating. While she was sick to death of code that wouldn’t work, did she really want to spend sweaty time with mounds of muscular Cliff?

Well. Put that way, the answer was obvious.

Vickie came out of the cramped locker room wearing leotard and tights, her Reeboks squeaking on the floor. She felt at the same time undressed because of their body‑hugging nature and dowdy because they were two year’s colors out of date. Her self‑consciousness was not aided by the new bandanna headband she had spent several minutes adjusting in the mirror and was certain looked ridiculous.

She looked around and spotted Cliff moving gracefully through the first exercises in the tao‑she, the unusual martial art he practiced.

Vickie stared. Those were the same movements he’d used that night in the sweltering heat of Middle Yemen. Moves that had been devastating for their opponents.

Her stomach warmed, tingling. The effect was devastating on her, too.

He moved fluidly from one position to the next, seemingly effortless, but a light sheen of perspiration marked the actual exertion involved. He doesn’t sweat, he only perspires. Fascinating.

Cliff finished the exercise with a slow rotation of his torso. His back rippled under the thin singlet he wore. A tide of lust rose in her, quickly clamped down on as Cliff strode over, smiling in welcome.

“I’m sure you’ve seen this equipment before, but I still need to explain its operation to you. You wouldn’t believe the hassle my insurance carrier gives me about such things.”

Vickie nodded politely as Cliff pointed out the stations of the universal weight machine in the center of the room, the free weight stations, the stationary bicycles, and the stair climbing machines. “Of course, you know how to use a running track.” Cliff pointed to the three lanes circling the room.

“Yes. Yes, it’s all coming back to me now,”  Vickie said with a small hint of acid in her voice. “I think I’ll start with a little stretching and something aerobic, and then hit the weights.”

Vickie went over to the wall, where a rack of weights was marked by a horizontal bar. She was slightly irritated that even with her firmest mental discipline in place Cliff’s simply exercising could cause her so much wretchedness. It wasn’t fair that he could be so exciting.

Unless what he did to her she could do to him.