Bungalow Nights. Christie Ridgway
steering her toward the booth. Money changed hands and the old guy running the game passed over three baseballs to Layla. Her expression bemused, she focused on the targets, three neon-painted cartoon figures just waiting to be knocked down. “You really want a Garfield?” she asked. “Because I’m pretty sure it’s going to cost you.”
Vance could see a little smile quivering at the corners of her lips. “Positive,” he said. He positively wanted to see that smile let loose, no matter what the price.
It took twenty-two dollars and the mercy of the game operator. By the time she finally clutched her prize, that grin he’d been after came with a touch of more-fool-you. “We could have bought one of these for half that much at the toy store,” she said, presenting the orange feline to him.
“Wouldn’t be the same,” he said, tucking it under one arm and reclaiming her hand. “Because this guy comes with the indelible knowledge that you have the throwing arm of a girl.”
She punched him in the shoulder as they headed down the pier again.
“You do that like a girl, too,” he said. “When you hit somebody you should curl your thumb over your fingers, not put it inside your fist.”
“Really?” She blinked. “I never knew that.”
“That’s why boys are so much better than girls.” He smiled at her little harumph and lowered his voice to murmur in her ear. “Stick with me, baby, I’ll teach you everything you’ve yet to learn.”
Her feet stumbled. Her gaze jerked toward his.
Just like that, the crowds evaporated. The sun seemed to shine on Layla like a beacon, burnishing the rich brown of her hair, adding a glow to the smooth curve of her naked shoulders. There was a flush on her cheeks and her mouth glistened when her tongue wet her top lip, then the bottom one.
Hell, Vance thought, a surge of lust coursing through him. It wrapped around his balls like a caress. His cock went heavy, then hard, and all he could think of was sex. Sex with Layla.
“Let’s go back to the car,” he murmured. There he could get his hands on her, run his fingertips against her throat, lick the slope of that golden shoulder, press his face between her breasts. His gaze flicked down to them and he saw the tight buds of her nipples pressing through her bra and the thin cotton of her top.
His belly tightened as he imagined turning his cheek and taking a nipple into his mouth, wetting the material with his tongue as he sucked it inside. “The car,” he said again, his voice low and tight. “We could be there in ten minutes.”
Her eyes widened. “And skip the Ferris wheel?”
The Ferris wheel? Oh, hell. The Ferris wheel. He was supposed to be playing Boy Scout and fulfilling a promise, not letting his imagination and his sex drive run wild.
Cursing himself, he dropped her hand like a hot potato and resumed striding onward, reminding himself of his earlier strategy. Resist her, dammit. And don’t look at her too long, talk to her too much, or breathe too deeply in her presence.
And for God’s sake, no touching!
Without glancing right or left, he led the way to the attraction at the west end of the pier. It had been the backdrop in movies and TV shows and maybe that added to its appeal. For whatever reason, the line was a zigzagger, one that would take some time and patience to get through. Resigned to it, Vance planted his feet behind the last group in the queue and prepared to endure.
“I guess it’s going to be a wait,” Layla said.
Vance grunted, keeping his gaze on the blue crown of the Dodgers baseball cap the guy in front of him was wearing. It was safer to pretend she wasn’t even there.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
The question instantly made him feel like an ass. It wasn’t her fault that he was horny and she was lovely. He shoved his hand through his hair, welcoming the clunk of his cast against his forehead. The small pain was not even close to what he deserved. “I’m fine,” he said, finally glancing over at her.
She was looking up at him with those big eyes of hers, puzzlement putting a crease between her brows. “Then what’s the problem?”
He wanted to bash his head all over again. Instead, he signaled to a vendor walking past and without asking first, bought her a paper cone topped with pink candy the height and consistency of a 1950s beehive hairdo. “Here,” he said, thrusting it at her. If she had something to eat she wouldn’t have a chance to question him further. He wouldn’t have to search for some half-baked answer to explain his mood.
Of course, fate was still conspiring against him. He supposed he could have bought a worse item for her to consume—a corn dog maybe?—but watching her pluck pieces of spun sugar from the cone and slide them into her mouth wasn’t soothing his lust any. After waving off an offer to share, he went back to staring at the Dodgers cap and shuffling his feet forward as the line moved ahead.
He was doing damn well with his not looking/not speaking/not breathing policy and then it was their turn to step into a rocking bucket. Vance climbed in first, then he glanced over as Layla lifted her foot...and froze. Her stricken gaze jerked to his face.
Uh-oh. “What’s the matter?”
“I...” She swallowed, hard.
The attendant steadying their seat spoke with the tone of experience. “Ferris fear,” he announced. “Strikes all kinds, all ages. You can exit over there,” he added, pointing with a finger.
Layla stared at Vance, her head shaking back and forth. “I have to do this.”
“Of course you don’t,” he assured her, starting to rise.
“I have to do this.” Though her face was pale and now her gaze was trained over his shoulder.
Vance glanced back and saw that the view—which gave the impression they were suspended over the ocean—wasn’t helping her any. “Layla—”
“Please, Vance. It’s on the list. Dad’s Helmet List.”
He couldn’t resist the plea. “All right, all right.” He slid down the molded plastic seat and reached for her hand. “Look at me. Now take a step inside. I won’t let go.”
She landed beside him with a gentle plop that sent the bucket swaying. Her free hand clutched his thigh.
“Look at me,” he directed, angling her chin so her big brown eyes didn’t leave his face. “Just keep looking at me.”
“Okay,” she said, and a little tremor ran through her.
He brushed at the bangs that were tangling with her long eyelashes. “You’re afraid of heights?”
She made a face, both sets of fingers still clinging to him. “I don’t know. Maybe so. Or maybe it’s just like the man said, Ferris fear. This is my first ride on one.” Her breath caught as their bucket moved upward in order to let other people into the next on the line.
Over Layla’s shoulder, the view was incredible as the ride continued to slowly revolve and the buckets were filled. The Pacific was far below them, boats gliding across its surface, leaving white trails on the glassy water. Antlike people crawled across the sand of Santa Monica Beach, some of them playing in the lacy edges of the waves. Vance didn’t dare direct her attention to any of it.
Instead, he slung an arm around her shoulders and didn’t flinch when she nestled closer to his chest. She was cool to the touch, and he let her snuggle close, noting that her long lashes were squeezed tightly together.
“Do you know why they call this a Ferris wheel?” he asked.
Her head moved in a short, negative shake.
“It was named after the designer, one George W. Ferris, who came up with the idea for the 1893 World’s Fair in Chicago. The organizers wanted an attraction to rival the Eiffel