Lola Carlyle Reveals All

“Twice.”

“Maybe you have a commitment phobia.”

“No, I’m a jerk magnet.”

Max looked back at her, at her full lips and high cheekbones, her big breasts and long legs. Lola Carlyle was a magnet, all right. She definitely pulled dirty little thoughts to the forefront of his brain.

“Where are you from, Max?”

He returned his gaze to the rolling Atlantic. “I was born in Miami and have lived all over the South. But mostly in Texas.”

“Where in Texas?”

“You name it, I lived there.”

By the direction of her voice, he could tell she’d turned toward him. “You don’t have an accent. I dated a bawl player from Texas once, and his was real thick.”

Other than a few scars, Max had no traceable marks or tattoos, and he’d removed any trace of an accent that would distinguish him in any way. But the South was in his blood, and sometimes, when he was tired or real relaxed, it slipped back into his speech. “I worked hard to get rid of it, and my father was Cuban, so I really didn’t grow up with it in my home. If anything, I had to work hardest to get rid of the Spanish accent I picked up from him.”

“What about your mother?”

“She died when I was three.”

She was silent a moment, then said, “I’m sorry. That must have been terrible for you.”

“Not really.” He kept his gaze on the chop of the waves, pinning it to the point where his line disappeared. “I never knew her, so I never knew what I was missing. My dad missed her every day of his life, though,” he said, and wondered why he was all of a sudden spilling his guts. Max wasn’t a man who talked very much about himself to anyone. Especially to women. Women tended to pat his head, analyze him down to his shorts, then want to sign him up for therapy. That he was talking about himself to Lola Carlyle was clearly an indication of the level of his boredom.

“What was her name?”

He turned and looked at her. “Why?”

“I want to know.”

“Eva Johansson Zamora. She was Swedish.” And talking to her was better than thinking about Lola sucking grapes into her mouth. “My father used to say that made me Cubish.”

She smiled and bobbed the end of her pole up and down. “Unusual, that’s for sure. How did she die?”

“She and my father were crossing Eighth Street in Little Havana, and she was hit by a car. He said her hand was ripped from his.”

Her smile died and the pole stopped. “That’s horrible, Max. Where were you?”

Since she didn’t gush, look at him with pity, and wasn’t rushing over to give him a warm fuzzy hug, he told her. “In my father’s other arm. Neither of us was hurt. She was killed before she reached the hospital.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Not really. I have a vague memory of flashing lights, but that’s about it.”

“Man, and I thought I had a rough childhood.”

Glad for the change of subject, he asked, “What made yours so rough?”

“Well, it wasn’t really rough, but I used to think it was.” She looked out at the ocean, and the salty breeze ruffled the sleeve of her blouse. “My mother’s brother Jed was a Baptist preacher, and not the lax kind either. The kind where you can’t drink alcohol, wear lipstick, or dance ‘cause someone might get excited. Those things were ’worldly and sinful.‘ The only time you could dance was in church when the spirit moved you. In my family, having an uncle who was a preacher was like having the Pope for an uncle if you’re Catholic. We always had to sit in the amen corner and shout ’praise the lord.‘ And because we had a preacher in our family, all my relatives just assumed we were one step closer to God’s knee than everybody else on earth.

“So, when I was three and wanted Santa to bring me lipstick, eye shadow, and a see-through bra, no one was amused. When I was fifteen and got caught drinking and making out with T. J. Vandegraft, my family was beyond mortified.” The end of her pole bobbed up and down and she continued, “My mama was convinced I’d inherited deviant genes from my daddy’s side. He’s got some branch water cousins who drink beer from the bottle and breed like sailors on a weekend pass.”

Max laughed deep in his chest. “I imagine modeling undies didn’t go over real well.”

“Not at first, but then Uncle Jed was caught begetting behind the podium with one of the Lyle girls-Millicent, I believe was her name.” She shrugged. “He did the whole ‘I have sinned’ Jimmy Swaggart thing, and cried and carried on, but since Millicent was barely legal and pregnant to boot, his own wife left the church. After that, it was like rats jumping from a sinking ship, and suddenly what I did for a living wasn’t so bad.” She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him. “ I was just glad that I wasn’t the biggest sinner anymore.”

He looked at her standing there, bare feet, long legs, with her hat pulled low on her forehead, and for the first time since he’d looked in her wallet and seen her driver’s license, he saw more than just a pain in the ass underwear model staring back at him. More than a beautiful woman with a killer body silhouetted against the blue of the Atlantic and lighter blue of the midmoming sky. He saw a woman with problems just like everyone else. A woman with a self-deprecating sense of humor and a smile that had him watching her lips.

“Any brothers or sisters?” he asked her.

“One older sister, Natalie. She was always perfect growing up. Never cared for lipstick or drinking. She has five perfect children and is the perfect housewife. She’s married to a perfect husband, Jerry, who actually is a very nice guy.”

Max wasn’t sure, but it sounded to him as if Lola actually envied her sister. Lola Carlyle, Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, envying a housewife? Impossible. “Don’t tell me you want five kids.”

“No, just two, but first I have to find a husband. Unfortunately, that means I have to start dating again. And I seem to attract controlling men. Or, worse, men who are incredibly needy, and I end up taking care of them.” She paused to take a breath before she asked, “Do you want kids?”

Children were the very last thing he wanted. “No.”

She studied him a moment. “You look like I asked if you wanted a root canal. Don’t you like children?”

He liked kids just fine. Other people’s kids. “Do you really want me to believe you don’t date?” he asked instead of answering her question.

She sighed at his obvious attempt to change the subject, but she let it go. “There’s a difference between going out to dinner with a guy and wanting him to be the father of your children. I don’t have the greatest track record with men.” Her pole suddenly bent into an arch and was almost pulled from her hands. “I think I caught something!”

Max watched the end bend a bit more and he shoved his own pole into the holder on the chair. “Do you need help reeling it in?”

“No. Just find the net,” she instructed as she opened the door to the swimming platform. She moved down the steps and reeled as she spoke. “And there should be some sort of hook puller, too.”

He found a fishing net in the fender storage where he’d discovered the fishing poles and tackle, and something that resembled a pair of pliers.

Damn if she hadn’t outfished him.

“Hurry,” she called up to him as he made his way down the stairs. The chop had risen about another half a foot, and now seawater splashed over the platform and Lola’s bare feet.

The first fish cleared the surface of the water, a small brilliant blue with a bright yellow tail and eyes. Max had no idea what kind of fish it was, but the second was obviously a variety of grouper. Its skin was a slick beige with brown stripes and gray spots. It made up for its less-than-impressive coloring with a weight Max guessed to be around fifteen pounds. He scooped the fish up into the net, the little blue flipping its yellow tail.

They headed toward the aft deck once again, and Lola fired instructions over her shoulder while Max carried the net and fish up the stairs. “You need to take the hooks out, and then we need to find an ice chest or something cold to put them in. You can gut them right now if you want.”

No problem, but they weren’t his fish. “I thought you said you fished with your grandfather on his charter boat.”