The sixth and final chime of Community Christian Church’s melodious bell echoed throughout Dalton Springs, marking the precise vexing hour Jack Hermosa-Tyler was scheduled to dine with Angelina Sparks. Torturously anxious, Jack parked in front of Angela’s modest ranch style home, wondering what the hell he had been thinking accepting Angelina’s dinner invitation. The capable electrician inhaled deeply as if preparing himself for a painful experience under the quaking hands of an inexperienced dentist. Certainly, he had suffered a serious lapse of judgment to agree to a private meeting with this strange woman. Yet, here he was sitting in front of her house, dreading what awaited him.
Feeling a set of eyes watching his every move from inside the house—behind a set of heavy curtains—Jack braced himself. Coming out of his electrical van, he pledged that he would remain detached and aloof, denying Angelina the opportunity to read more into his actions than he intended. And he intended nothing in regard to her.
By the time Jack reached the walk, Angelina emerged outside the front door, arms practically open to receive him. She wore a contented smile and seductive red dress which contrasted starkly to Jack’s clean durable jeans and blue turtleneck sweater.
“Hello,” she greeted in a sultry voice, her green eyes all over her guest.
Retreating slightly, Jack controlled his facial expressions to remain measured, stoic. “Hi.”
“Come in, come in,” Angelina prompted, pulling him inside.
Jack smelled the intoxicating delicious scent of food wafting from the kitchen. But Angelina confined him within the small space of her living room. Romantic music softly emanated from the stereo in the corner of the room, while candles flickered on the oak coffee table. It was the room’s only source of light.
“I’ll take your coat,” Angelina offered as an excuse for her hands to touch Jack’s manly muscular shoulders.
Quickly, he passed the outer garment before stepping away to a rocking chair, to ensure some private space. He knew a place on the sofa would invite Angelina to get close, much closer than she was now.
So, that’s the way it was going to be, Angelina surmised, delighted with the challenge. Slightly parting her glossed lips, she flashed him a smile.
Jack pretended to ignore the woman, scanning the décor of her living room to find an eclectic collection of trinkets and pictures.
“It’s a little hot in here, isn’t it?” Jack finally spoke, pulling his sweater away from his neck to get some air.
“Actually, I think the temperature is perfect,” Angelina countered, but if you’d like, I can adjust the heat.
“Please,” Jack begged, starting to perspire.
“I’ll be right back.” Angelina promised, chuckling as she moved to the thermostat in the hallway. Her devious plan was shaping up nicely. Instead of lowering the heat, she cranked it higher, much higher.
When Angelina returned, she announced, “Dinner is ready.” With that, she lured Jack with her gesturing finger into the kitchen to a table decorated with china and crystal, a vase of red roses and more flickering candles.
Jack’s mouth dropped, feeling like a sweating sucker trapped in a horrible dream. Sweltering heat overwhelmed the room.
The heat trick was a ploy Angelina had learned from one of her romance magazines. How to subconsciously emotionally manipulate and imprison the man of your dreams was the gist of the article. She’d followed all the suggestions—the sultry dress, delicious food, music, candles, flowers, and lots of heat.
Angelina motioned for Jack to sit at the table while she dished up their plates. When she finished, she presented a plate beautifully arrayed with chicken, pasta, and vegetables. She saved the chocolate fondue and strawberries for later.
“Maybe you should open a door,” Jack managed to say, miserable from the dizzying heat.
Shaking her head, Angelina refused. “It’s too cold out there. We’ll get a draft. Just give it a little more time and you’ll feel better.”
She sat across from him, the flickering glow of the candles casting shadows on his handsome face. “Let me pour you some wine.”
“No,” Jack snapped. He felt lightheaded enough as it was with the heat. He didn’t need wine to further impair him. “Just some water, please.”
Reluctantly, Angelina obeyed.
Jack sensed Angelina was up to something when she began playing with the gold chain that dangled into the crevice of her immodest low-cut red dress. But he ignored her, focusing instead on devouring the feast before him.
“You must be hungry,” Angelina observed, annoyed that this man paid little attention to her, almost as if he were a eunuch.
“Yes,” Jack answered abruptly, his eyes refusing to rise in order to meet hers.
The magazine article guaranteed the tactics she employed would work to win over any man. But Jack proved he was unlike other men. Angelina’s mind raced, recognizing a painful possibility. Maybe Jack Hermosa-Tyler was really a scoundrel attached to a woman in Minneapolis. Contemplating, Angelina picked at her food.
Finished with his meal, Jack threw down his napkin, rising to his feet. He felt weak, ill from the heat. “I have to go,” he shocked Angelina with his cold words.
“No,” Angelina argued, wondering how she could prolong Jack’s stay. “There’s dessert.” She thought of the luscious strawberries and chocolate fondue.
But he was determined.
“Thank you for dinner.” Jack didn’t wait for Angelina to move from her place at the table. Instead, he hiked to the living room, found his coat, and departed.
Angrily, Angelina pledged the battle wasn’t over—one way or another, Jack Hermosa-Tyler would be hers. The war had commenced.
© 2006 by author. All rights reserved.
