Sugar Page 8

  When the right fuse was finally found and screwed into place, and the lights in the house came back on, Sugar clicked off the woefully inadequate flashlight. They stood on the back patio, just outside the kitchen, and though the light pouring through the slid¬ing glass door was welcome, it left Sugar feeling unaccountably exposed and shy. "Thank you. I could have done that, eventually." She held out her hands. "This is ridiculous. I'm still shaking."

  Charlie dusted her hands on her no longer pristinely creased jeans. "Well then, that does make me the butch, doesn't it?"

  "Oh, don't tell me butches never get scared and shake. I don't buy that stereotype."

  "I'm not saying that at all. Butches get scared, but if our hands are shaking, we just don't show anybody." Charlie shrugged, her hands now in her pockets.

  >

  "Oh, it's all a facade. As I have long suspected."

  "Darn, I told you the club secret. I'm going to have to turn in my butch membership card now."

  Sugar laughed and felt the tension in her body easing. "Can't have that, can we? I won't tell on you."

  "Thanks."

  All at once Sugar was aware of the slow, easy night sounds of crickets and the breeze moving leaves in the apricot trees. She was aware that everything she thought tended to show in her face and so she tried very hard not to think about Charlie kissing her, but with Charlie's lustrous eyes studying her face she felt naked.

  She swore that neither of them moved, but somehow they were even closer together. She could feel the heat from Charlie's arms.

  "Cake," Charlie said abruptly.

  "Yes."

  "You were going to work on the cake."

  Sugar nodded. "I really have to."

  Charlie opened the sliding glass door and stepped back to allow Sugar to precede her. "You do that and I'll go to the truck to get the lure. And I found a photo album that's got some good shots of his gear. I didn't know if you could freehand a creel."

  Sugar tried to find a light, easy tone. "I'd have gone to the Internet, but I'd much rather shape it like one he's used."

  "Shape?" Charlie looked confused. "I thought you'd draw it, like on top or something."

  "Oh. I don't do that kind of cake." Sugar wished she had pho¬tographs she could show Charlie. Ridiculous tears stung her eyes for a moment. "I used to and I still can if that's really what you want. But my specialty is three-dimensional. It'll look like a fishing creel, as real as I can make it."

  "I don't think I get it, but I'm willing to give it a try. Be right back."

  Sugar took advantage of Charlie's brief absence to dab her flushed cheeks with cool water. This was absurd. She didn't respond to animal magnetism. She wasn't impressed by brawn. But her brain

  wouldn't stop wondering what it would be like to be conscious the next time Charlie picked her up and carried her somewhere. Her imagination was running rampant, picturing Charlie sweeping her off her feet, carrying her up a staircase to their sumptuous, sensu¬ous bedroom and spreading her on the bed while the pounding sea outside the window urged them to equally wild heights.

  She didn't like that he-man stuff. She didn't need some Princess Charming or cocky Charlie Bronson treating her like Scarlett O'Hara. To be fair, Charlie had not suggested anything of the kind. But her eyes had that look, and her voice was so incredibly sexy—

  "This is it."

  Sugar nearly jumped out of her skin. She knew she was blush¬ing again when she turned around.

  Charlie looked chagrinned. "Did I startle you? Sorry, I thought you heard the door."

  No, she'd only heard the waves and her own moaning but there was no way in hell she was admitting to that. The fire had com¬pletely melted her reason and the fried laptop had made her jittery all over again. That's all it was. She had been frightened and Charlie was a safe authority figure.

  Safe.

  Right.

  "I was lost in thought, sorry. Oh—how pretty." She took the long lure, which shimmered with green and blue iridescence. It was nearly as long as her little finger. "I've seen jewelry not nearly so colorful."

  "I didn't want to tell my dad that I've often thought it was an earring. Somewhere there's a high femme missing the perfect accessory to her favorite party dress."

  Sugar grinned, still fighting her blush. Charlie's cologne was still hitting Sugar's brain like a drug. "Well, I can duplicate the colors. It'll be a challenge, but that's fine. I'm practicing different effects in the hopes of winning the Seattle Eats contest week after next."

  "Sounds interesting." Charlie hefted a photo album into view. "Sorry, I had to bring the whole thing. These photos have been in here so long they've bonded with the page. I was afraid they'd tear if I tried to take them out."

  Sugar had to lean in to see clearly as Charlie turned the pages and the closer she got the more cologne she inhaled. She had fit perfectly in Charlie's arms. And Charlie's waist had been the per¬fect height for wrapping her own arms around.

  She tried to shake off the memory by studying the photographs. She saw Charlie's father standing with his arm around a strikingly beautiful Caucasian woman with the same effortless, elegant car¬riage that Charlie had. Obviously, this was Charlie's mother, and in a few photos it was clear she'd been a model of some sort. There was a baby girl, all in pink, on the following pages. Sugar wanted to linger over them, but Charlie kept flipping.

  "It's right along in here. There—last fishing trip he and my mother went on together. That was right before she'd had enough of motherhood, married life and bucolic pursuits like fishing."

  There was a hint of bitterness in Charlie's voice, and Sugar could understand why. Little Charlie, embraced on each side by her parents, couldn't have been more than seven. "So that's the creel?"

  "Yes, he still has it. Still uses it when we go out." Charlie touched the photo lovingly while Sugar took a good long look.

  "I know," Sugar said. "I'm so glad to see this. I had been envi¬sioning one of leather or cloth, not this nice curved basket. Let me get my camera and take a picture of the picture. I've done it before—digital technology is a wonderful thing."

  She was back from her bedroom in moments, catching Charlie gazing again at the earlier pages in the book. She wondered if Charlie and her mother had any contact. She knew she had often felt abandoned, and her parents had died when she was seventeen. That young, Charlie must have really felt the loss of one parent.

  She quickly took the picture, glad she had invested in a camera with a good optical lens. Without questioning why, she zoomed

  out and took another photo of the entire page. Curiosity, that was all. She wanted to look more closely at little Charline. "That'll do it. Thank you, that helps a lot."

  "I can't wait to see what you do."

  How, she wondered, did Charlie do that? How did she make a simple statement sound like a proposal for activities that would leave them exhausted? "I hope you like it."

  Charlie's grin was lopsided. "I'm certain that I will."

  Sugar was suddenly annoyed with her sweating palms and thumping heart. Whether Charlie meant any of her flirtatious remarks, Sugar was not some breathless schoolgirl waiting to be seduced by Tall, Dark and Handsome, no matter how charming, or how attractive, and no matter how slender yet powerful her fingers appeared to be.

  Turning to the counter, she picked up her spreading knife. "I was about to start stacking this cake if you want an idea of what I'll do. Tell me your father's favorite flavors."

  "Well, he loves coffee, chocolate—vanilla ice cream is his favorite dessert, though. Pistachio, not crazy about almonds. Loves spice cakes, too. Banana bread. My grandfather was a baker and I think that's why he likes such a variety of things."

  Sugar plopped a half-cup of the ganache onto the thin bottom layer of Emily's cake, working quickly while Charlie talked. A few minutes later she stacked the second layer on that, spread on more ganache, and topped it with the last delicate layer. The familiar motions and concentration steadied her nerves and
she felt almost normal.

  Glancing at the picture of the cat she'd taped to the cupboard door above her work area, she commented, "I usually don't make the layers so thin, but the cat isn't that tall. I probably should have just done two layers. But people think three is somehow more ele¬gant. You do get more filling that way."

  "How do you build that into a cat?"

  "Well..." Sugar slid her slicing knife out of its pouch. "It's not what you add, it's what you take away." She lopped off the four cor-

  ners, and carefully set them aside, intact. "Four legs." Trimming away at what she already thought of as the cat's ribs, she added, "And a tail."

  Charlie was smiling as she watched. "So you use those parts?"

  Sugar set the extra pieces roughly in position. "I get the shape done the way I like—see how the kitty is twisting slightly? I think I carved that just right. And the tail coils like this. The legs I'll secure with thin wooden skewers, but the tail will stay put with the icing in place. I might need a scrap or two when I shape the face."

  "That is amazing," Charlie said. "I can see the cat now. And you'll frost it in different colors?"

  "Something like that. The collar with the little jewels will be fun to imitate."

  "I am in awe. I've always thought baking was an art form, but this is really an art form."

  Sugar glanced up, pleased. "Thank you."

  For just a moment Charlie wasn't smiling. There was no light flirtation in her eyes, no easy, sensuous suggestion to her lips. The gold-brown eyes blinked, then their penetrating gaze swept over Sugar's face. Charlie's mouth opened slightly and later Sugar was not really certain that Charlie had begun to lean forward to kiss her. What she knew was that Charlie jumped as much as she did at the sound of the front door closing with a slam.

  If Grannie Fulton was surprised to find Sugar had a guest, it didn't show. Introductions were performed and Sugar scolded for not having yet offered Charlie dessert and coffee.

  Charlie defended Sugar with, "We've only just finished eating dinner, Mrs. Fulton."

  "Alma, please."

  "Alma," Charlie echoed. "I was very interested in seeing exactly how Sugar creates a cake."

  "Charlie's father is retiring from the fire department. I'm going to duplicate his fishing creel." Sugar prayed the whole-body flush she felt didn't show in her face. The staircase and pounding surf were parading through her mind again. Did Charlie have to have

  such compact, sleek muscles? Since when had she responded to muscles, anyway? "We were just deciding flavor."

  Gran settled into a chair at the kitchen table. "You go right on. I need to rest just a bit."

  "Can I get you something, ma'am? I've been off work all day and if I don't do something useful I won't have earned my keep."

  "Oh, didn't your mother teach you nice manners," Gran answered. "I would love a glass of water with a few cubes of ice. The punch tonight was far too sweet."

  "My father was my mentor in all things," Charlie said noncha¬lantly. She followed Gran's directions to the glasses and figured out the in-the-door ice and water dispenser. "Given your kitchen, I am guessing you mentored your granddaughter in a few things, too."

  "I'd like to think so. The most important skill in cooking is patience, and that is something that is hard to teach."

  "Really," Sugar commented. "Go right ahead and talk about me like I'm not here."

  "Okay." Charlie had that far-too-smug look on her face as she turned back to Grannie Fulton. "Was she an impatient girl?"

  "At times. Baby of the family, sitting around waiting for her share wasn't always the best strategy."

  "If I wanted a biscuit at dinner I had to fight for it." Sugar turned her filet knife in her hands, having long preferred it for fine shaping. The cat had a very pettable tummy. She found herself wondering if Charlie's tummy was pettable, and was glad neither of them could see her face.

  "With three older sisters, Sugar had to learn to be . . . aggres¬sive."

  Charlie had no right to sound so amused. "Did she now? That's not necessarily a bad thing."

  Honestly, Charlie could do phone sex or read pornography on tape, Sugar thought. Oh great, thinking about phone sex was good for her composure, right. "Gran, please," Sugar said tightly.

  Gran sighed. "I suppose I shouldn't tell tales."

  "Oh, please do," Charlie urged.

  "Coffee ganache," Sugar said firmly. "I'll make a chocolate-coffee ganache with vanilla bean cake."

  "Sounds good to me. Ganache is that stuff you were spreading earlier, right?"

  Sugar was unable to help a slightly waspish edge to her tone. "And it requires patience to make, too."

  "I don't doubt that at all," Charlie replied.

  "So, tell me about yourself," Gran said. "How does a young woman like you become a firefighter? How does your family feel about it?"

  "Since it's just my father and me, and has been since his mother died, I don't have to take much of an opinion poll. Pop is proud of me, I guess. We get on well enough to share a house. I'm hoping to move to the arson squad, like he did."

  "Does that make your hours more regular?"

  Really, Gran was asking such personal questions, Sugar thought. She listened avidly.

  "A little bit. It's intriguing detective work, and Pop is really good at it. I've followed in his footsteps all my life."

  "Including getting married? Having kids?"

  Sugar realized that Gran had absolutely no gaydar, but then why would she?

  "That hasn't been in the cards for me so far. But I am like him in that I appreciate and respect women."

  Sugar coughed into her sleeve. Was every woman who stopped at the house to see her going to out herself to Grannie Fulton?

  "Do you need water, dear?"

  "No, I'm fine," Sugar choked out. "Would you guys like some cake bits? I've got what I need."

  "I thought you'd never ask," Charlie said. "Let me get yours, too, ma'am."

  "Why, thank you. Your father did a lovely job with you. Manners are so overlooked in this modern world of ours." Gran's judgmental tone was softened with a self-deprecating chuckle. "Last week at the grocery I thanked the young man who carried

  out my bags and he said 'A-oh' in response. I don't even know what that means."

  Charlie laughed as she set down the plates with cake. "It's an all-purpose phrase. Means anything from 'thank you' to 'dude, where's my car?' "

  Gran's chuckle was cut short when she announced, "Oh, Sugar, this is divine." She paused with her fork in the air. "Just divine. Party cakes are so often sawdust."

  Sugar blushed with pleasure. Her cakes did taste good, she thought, and Gran's opinion mattered a great deal.

  "Wow. Oh, that is wonderful chocolate." Charlie spoke around her second large bite. "Why there isn't a line of suitors a mile long outside this door I'll never know."

  "I'm beginning to think there could be a whole fleet of women knocking on the door and she'd never open it. My granddaughter doesn't date very much," Gran said blithely. "She works too hard."

  "What a pity," Charlie said with a sigh.

  Sugar spun round to face the counter again but was spared making any kind of rejoinder by the sudden chirp of a beeper.

  "Ah, dang, never fails. I gotta go," Charlie said. She examined the display. "Structure fire in a commercial district. I was this close to being off call, too. Thank you for the cake," she added briskly.

  "You're welcome," Sugar said bemusedly. "Thank you for dinner and the handyman duties."

  "The pleasure was all mine." Even in a rush, the bedroom voice was there. "Talk to you soon, I hope."

  Sugar could only nod as she watched Charlie take leave of Grannie Fulton.

  "It was a pleasure to meet you, ma'am. Thank you for the hos¬pitality of your kitchen."

  "Don't let us keep you," Gran said worriedly. "You have impor¬tant things to do."

  The front door closed, then the quiet of the kitchen was broken by the roar of the
truck heading for the parkway.

  When the engine rumble faded into the distance, Gran said, "Such a nice girl."

  "Woman, Gran. Definitely a woman." Sugar returned to her work, annoyed to find that her hands were again shaking.

  Given how tired she was, tossing and turning for ten minutes seemed like hours. Tree had warned her she'd find sleep difficult, but Sugar had thought she'd have flashbacks of the fire, or wake from nightmares or something. But no, she was tossing and turn¬ing because of the danged staircase and the idea of Charlie Bronson's physique. And humor. And warmth. And bedroom eyes.

  She liked sex as much as the next girl, she supposed. There were times when she wondered what all the fuss was about, true, but it was usually a pleasant way to pass the time. She'd read a romantic book and thought maybe someday life would be like that, but it never seemed like women in books had jobs and families and worries—things that made it hard to look around for somebody who might be fun, might want to see if where they were headed in life was the same destination. As fun as living with Noor had been at times, not once had she thought Happy Ever After was their destiny. She didn't really believe in it, and why should she?

  She rolled over, vastly annoyed that she should be fantasizing about Charlie. She'd never been attracted to a woman solely because of how she looked. Supermodels and pop stars never even raised her pulse. She liked women with brains, women who liked to laugh. Charlie had both qualities, she reminded herself. Brains and humor all wrapped in a six-foot-two, agile, graceful, elegant package.

  Shut up, already, Sugar scolded herself. You've had a nasty shock and your brain doesn't want to focus on reality. Instead, it wants to have some hot fantasy where you're the damsel and she's the hero, and no self-respecting lesbian would buy that whole "swept off my feet" situation, would she?

  Okay, maybe for an hour or two. Or a night. A weekend, even. But it wasn't the basis for a lifetime and why the heck was she wide awake thinking about whether Charlie Bronson was interested in lifetimes? Or weekends? Or nights. Even an hour or two had pos¬sibilities.