Just Desserts Part 2

Alarmed, Marilyn covered her face with her hands and groaned.

"What contest?" Chuck asked.

"Oh, no-o-o-o!" Marilyn wailed from behind her hands. "I'm ruined!" She wept softly, whispering, "And to think that I've broken up with my fiance to chase after this b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Colette gasped and whispered back. "You did what?"

"I-that is, last night... Well, I realized that Ben and I were just going through the motions of having any pa.s.sion in our relations.h.i.+p. And all I could think about was that idiot chef's photo-his d.a.m.n picture haunts me, like there's a connection, and...I know! I don't even know the man. Shh. I don't want his friend to hear us."

Colette hugged her. "You broke up with a playboy millionaire because you wanted to hunt down the River Rat?"

"Pretty much. At least I feel we've broken up. Ben didn't take it too well and keeps phoning me on the cell, saying he knows I'm just stressed and that he's been too self-involved, blah, blah, blah. Things weren't going well anyway, so it's not like I broke up with Ben to get hopeful over Jackson Delacroix. I just felt that if I could meet our writer, I could persuade him to give Larabee what they want. And I thought...maybe...I dunno..."

"That he'd give you what you need?" Colette hugged her again. "Oh, Marilyn, that is a pipe dream, honey. The man is a recluse who lives on a river and wouldn't know the first thing about making it with a city girl like you."

Just then the seat belt warning sign came on, and soon their captain announced their arrival in Tulsa International Airport's air s.p.a.ce.

Marilyn thought her stomach would come up through her mouth as the plane dropped...right along with her career aspirations. She'd been a war zone reporter in Afghanistan, a member of the Press Corp elite back in the states during the last presidential election. She'd weathered the death of her mother before she was out of elementary school and the decline of her father's health in her early years as an adult. But she'd never once felt such panic. She'd taken the post at her father's publis.h.i.+ng firm knowing how much her father depended upon her to pull the company back into a good fiscal year.

How would they survive the scandal once word broke that their star nonfiction author was a fraud?

"You sure you want to go through with this?" Colette asked as their airplane taxied for a landing.

Marilyn laughed, her voice dripping with irony. "Kind of late to change our minds, don't you think? Tahlequah is only a few minutes' drive from Tulsa."

"Actually, this place is farther southeast...Gore, Oklahoma," she continued. "And the fis.h.i.+ng camp where we'll be staying is right on the Illinois River. We'll take an afternoon to interview Hot Shot and spend the rest of our week swimming and cooking out while he learns how to cook. And canoeing if we can find a guide who'll teach us. And figuring out how fast our sales will plummet once the public gets wind of this. It'll be fun!"

Colette shook her head. "Jackson Delacroix's last book did make the New York Times best-seller list for ten straight weeks. You need to keep that in mind."

"I know, but Uncle Dave and Dad have never even met this one. Before I took over, I wanted to get to know each and every one of my clients personally. Makes good business sense." She sighed. "Now my career is ruined before I even begin. Dad and Uncle Dave will have no choice but to fire me for getting us all into this mess."

"What are you talking about?" Chuck asked, suddenly breaking his silence by rejoining the conversation.

"Jack is in for a very big surprise," Marilyn told him. "The annual Larabee Cooking Contest is coming up, and Jack has managed to maneuver himself out of it again, only this time-"

Colette cut in. "This time we've had the contest moved to the trout camp, so he has no choice but to enter it. We've been on the phone with Larabee since yesterday afternoon and only finalized the change of plans this morning before we boarded the plane. The whole thing is being moved to the trout camp. Larabee Industries is sending out a large van on Monday with cooking supplies to be used during the contest and with several things wrapped as gifts for the winners and even the partic.i.p.ants."

"Oh, no!" Chuck's face flashed with alarm. "But today's Friday...and Jack can't..."

"Exactly!" Marilyn exclaimed bitterly. "I have been trying for weeks to get a telephone interview with him and to talk him into entering this d.a.m.ned thing. Now... well... My new position with Dad's company is definitely on the skids. I'm ruined. Professional responsibility aside, there really is no reason for us to show up now."

"Right. And you're not at all intrigued by Jackson Delacroix's photograph or the news his best friend just sprung on us," Colette teased.

"Why? Those tall, dark and devilish types are only interested in pet.i.te little angel-looking blondes like you, not moose like me."

"But Jack can't cook!" Chuck exclaimed, breaking into their conversation.

"You are not a moose! You're just tall!" Colette defended her friend, pulling the conversation back to chick talk.

"No, but I sure feel like one beside you, Miss Size Zero."

"That's Miss Size Two. And going by your journalistic byline of Mason instead of your surname of O'Malley doesn't play into this at all, does it?"

"What?" Chuck sat up in his chair. "You're the one taking over as his editor? And you've entered Jack in a cooking contest? But Jack can't cook!"

"Will you please stop saying that! You can't tell Jackson Delacroix a thing! Do you hear me?" Marilyn raised her eyebrows threateningly. "Otherwise, we'll tell him that it was you who spilled the beans on him!"

"Oh, I think he'll figure that one out all by himself. Especially if he sees me driving up with the two of you."

Marilyn and Colette stared straight ahead for a moment and then their necks craned forward at an angle as they looked sideways at one another and exclaimed simultaneously, "He doesn't know we're coming!"

"Yay!" Marilyn crowed. "That fact will buy us some time. Maybe by this time tomorrow I can come up with a plan that won't hang us all."

Chuck gasped. "What? You're kidding! How did you sneak this by Jackson without his knowing about it?"

"His brother, Chance, answered the phone," Colette explained. "And we didn't tell him what kind of contest. We just said we needed to rent s.p.a.ce on their campgrounds, and he said yes." She sighed. "What a mess."

"Then why... why bother even showing up?" Chuck argued. "Why can't the two of you just hop a plane back to New York like you said a couple of seconds ago? h.e.l.l, I'll pay your air fare!"

"Nothin' doin', buster!" Marilyn gave an evil chuckle. "You booked the cabin in my name, right?" She turned to Colette.

"Marilyn Mason," Colette affirmed. "The name you use when writing, and since you introduced yourself to him on the telephone as Marilyn O'Malley, he won't know who you are."

Chuck held his hands in front of him, counting on his index fingers. "Marilyn Mason is the writer... and Marilyn O'Malley is your real name?"

Marilyn sighed in exasperation. "They're both my real names-I just write under the first and edit under the second." She sorted her thoughts. "Jack won't recognize the names. Hot Shot most likely doesn't read the New York Times or any of the trades."

"Uh-you're wrong there," Chuck interrupted.

"Which one does he read?"

"All of them most likely. The trout camp even has a public library for guests. Tons of books and magazines. Jack's a big reader."

"Well...he still won't recognize my name."

"Don't be too surprised," Chuck said, shrugging and folding his hands. "I've never heard of Marilyn Mason, but that doesn't mean Jack won't have heard of you."

"We weren't going to tell him who we were until after we'd unpacked anyway," Marilyn said. "Now we won't tell him at all!"

"Marilyn, we have to have to tell him! Larabee's van will most likely pull in there tomorrow morning!" Colette cried.

They all looked at one another sadly. What a predicament.

Chuck sighed dramatically. "I don't know what you think you have to gain by even going there in the first place. Couldn't you have just spoken with him over the phone?" He looked at the women hopefully. "It isn't too late, is it?"

"We might have done that, but he'd have to pick up the telephone before that could happen!" Colette stabbed the air, emphasizing her words with one of the pretzels. "I've left several messages for him, but he never returns his calls, and I only just got him on the phone yesterday morning!"

Marilyn smiled grimly. "Let's say I just wanted to make sure my money was backing a guy who knows his stuff and that he could keep writing a new book every couple of years or so. Even if he can't cook," she grumbled. "I'd like to see what he has in the works for his next project after everybody finds out that he's a fraud."

"Well, he looks hunky-and I for one wouldn't kick him out of my sleeping bag!"

Colette said, putting the snacks they'd nearly devoured back into her purse.

Marilyn sn.i.g.g.e.red. "With looks like that? He's probably a mama's boy and a cream puff. I'll bet his hands have never been dirty. He probably cooks wearing gloves!"

Marilyn stopped short. "Oh. Sorry. I keep forgetting-he doesn't cook!" She lowered her jaw, her face a mock expression of horror as she got into the spirit of things. "Hang up on me, will he? Now I can't wait to spring this on him."

The two women grabbed their carry-on luggage from the overhead rack and jostled their way through the aisle of the plane, followed closely by Chuck, who kept singing under his breath "Sixty ways to kill your brother" to the tune of Paul Simon's "Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover".

"Isn't there something we can do other than spring this on Jack?" Chuck asked once they'd claimed their luggage.

"I don't see how." Colette gave him a rueful smile.

Marilyn palmed the keys to the rental she'd just signed for and shook her head.

"After the way he's deceived us?"

"But you never asked him if he could cook, did you?" Chuck leaned forward to meet her gaze fully.

Marilyn opened her mouth to respond, but words deserted her. He had a point, d.a.m.n it. But still...

"I will give it some thought on the drive there. That satisfy you?"

"Not really. I just don't think you should judge him by what I told you. You obviously don't know Jack. I'm sure he didn't mean to deceive you or cause you any trouble."

"Then how would you define his actions?" Marilyn gave a not-so-gentle tug on her luggage, ignoring the restaurant signs and various scents of foods that beckoned. She was tired, hungry and more angry with herself than she was with her client. Didn't lessen the burden of guilt she felt for having set Jackson up with the cooking contest he couldn't possibly enter or win, and it certainly didn't brush aside her fears that she'd lose her job.

No matter how indignant she might feel, they were both screwed thanks to her.

Chapter Four.

River Rat Rum b.a.l.l.s.

Ingredients:.

2 tablespoons cocoa.

Dash of cinnamon 1 1/2 cups powdered sugar, divided 1/4 cup rum 2 tablespoons light corn syrup.

2 1/2 cups crushed vanilla wafers.

1 cup pecans, crushed.

Sift cocoa, cinnamon and one cup of the powdered sugar together. Stir in the rum that has been

combined with the corn syrup. Add wafer crumbs and pecans and mix well.

Roll into b.a.l.l.s by the teaspoonful, and dredge in the remaining 1/2 cup powdered sugar. "I love it when you talk like that!" The blonde beneath Jack giggled. "When I talk like what, chere?" Jack asked, giving her one last kiss before rolling off the bed to b.u.t.ton his s.h.i.+rt.

He looked at his watch. 12:30. Chuck would be there any minute.

"When you talk like that actor in The Big Easy... You know. Dennis Quaid. That's who you remind me of-well, you look more like that hunky guy who played Superman on TV, but you sound like Dennis. You've got the same expressions too...the dimples and the eyebrows and the evil grin."

"Oh. Yeah." Jack forced a smile and offered her his hand, hoping she'd take the hint that he was anxious for her to leave. After all, it wasn't like he'd just f.u.c.ked her. All they' d done was make out a bit before she had to rejoin her friends in their cabin and pack to go home.

He'd caught her staring at him the night before when he'd been in the camp lounge, Pelican Point. She'd been with a group of girlfriends while he tended bar, and she had flirted outrageously with him before he finally agreed to walk them home. One thing had led to another, and before he knew it, she'd invited herself to his cabin. She'd wanted to go directly there, but Jack had told her he had to go back to the bar and clean up late. So she'd shown up that morning instead, still uninvited, even though she probably couldn't have helped but see that Jack thought she was attractive.

"If I was the suspicious type, I'd think you had another girl coming over here." She puckered her lips into a pout as she took his hand, tugging on it, trying to pull him back onto the bed.

"Not at all. Just an old friend from the Navy. He should be here any minute, and we' ve got a lot to catch up on-that's all," he told her, a frown creasing his brow as he became annoyed with her ploy to stall her departure. Times like this made him thankful he was single, because every gorgeous lady with a great body seemed to be short-changed intellectually.

"Mind if I borrow one of your s.h.i.+rts?" she asked, placing a forefinger on her bottom lip and looking up at him with mock innocence. "I think I've stained mine with cherry juice."

Just then, he heard a knock at the door, and he quickly forgot all about the girl he'd been kissing.

"What? Sure," he said absentmindedly, already walking toward the door and thinking that he'd have given her the one off his back if it'd move her out of there any faster.

Jack was all ready to give Chuck a bear hug when he realized that his friend wasn't staring back at him. Instead, there was a woman, and she was anything but the usual camper in cotton or denim.

She was tall, statuesque, regal and dressed in a cream-colored Chanel suit and high heels that made her already long legs look even longer. Jack licked his lips and longed to thrust his c.o.c.k into what he imagined was a luscious vortex beneath her sa.s.sy skirt. She wore very little makeup to highlight her already peaches-and-cream skin, with diamond studs in her earlobes peeking through a curtain of satiny brown hair and a clearly disapproving look of surprise on her face as she stared past him into his cabin.

When he turned, he saw that the blonde was back on the bed. Her bare legs were crossed, and she made a show of b.u.t.toning one of his s.h.i.+rts. It was long enough to cover her legs, but it made her look as if she hadn't any panties, much less the shorts.

Before Jack could muster an excuse, Chuck waved from behind the brunette and her pet.i.te companion.

"Hey, buddy!" Chuck called. "Looks like we caught you at a bad time."

"What? No! She... uh... was just leaving actually." Jack put his hands in his hip pockets and stepped aside so that the others could enter his cabin. He looked over his shoulder and gave the blonde an open-eyed glare that clearly asked, C'mon, what's your problem?

At this point, Jack didn't care if he p.i.s.sed her off or not. He wasn't about to let her sit there acting as if they'd done something deliciously naughty when all they'd done was kiss a few times.

The woman at the door bit her lips. Seemed to Jack that it was to keep from smiling when the blonde cut him a haughty look before slipping on her sandals and sashaying toward them with a fixed smile on her face.

"Thank you for breakfast in bed, Jackie!" she cooed, kissing her fingertips and touching his cheek with them as she left.

Jack reddened as Chuck mouthed, Jackie? over the women's heads, but he covered his embarra.s.sment by offering his guests a cup of coffee.

"Nothing like sitting on the front deck and listening to the water ripple over the rocks with a good cup of coffee," he said with a broad smile that revealed straight, even, white teeth.

"You sure we're not interrupting something... Jackie, was it?" This one seemed determined not to grant him so much as an inch of self-preservation.