Free ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT? (Running Wild) by Bobby Hutchinson

Maxine thought sourly as she tottered out to Edna's clean and shining little car. All she could hope for now was that she’d be able to hold her stomach in for the duration of the evening.
     
    The room key was safely in his jacket pocket, and Harry’s heart was hammering. He’d told India he’d be wearing a gray sports jacket and a white shirt, waiting for her in the lobby of the hotel. He could have skipped the fashion plug and just said he was Occidental; a huge group of Asian tourists were checking in, and Harry stood out in the crowd, head and shoulders above them, in fact.
    He’d been peering over their dark heads for fifteen minutes now, watching the revolving doors, looking for someone with auburn hair— anyone with auburn hair.
    "Harold?"
    The sultry voice behind him was unmistakable, and he whirled around. He’d overlooked the fact that she might come up in the elevator from the parking level.
    “India?” His voice felt as if it were coming from somewhere deep in his gut instead of his throat. He’d tried to imagine what she would look like, and now he was trying not to gape.
    He’d never have guessed freckles, was his first idiotic reaction, or a face that was round and county-girl healthy. She had a strong, straight nose under the freckles, delicately flushed cheeks, and amazing grass-green eyes, intelligent eyes, framed by thick dark lashes. She also had the sexiest mouth he’d seen off of a television screen, wide and full-lipped and tremulous.
    She was doing her best to smile, but it wasn’t quite working. She looked decidedly nervous, which immediately made him feel more confident.
    Her hair, rich and thick and the color of mahogany had the bedroom-tousled look that he’d noticed attractive women wearing lately. Strands of it curled around her jaw and clung to the soft navy shawl draped around her shoulders.
    She looked classy. She smelled delicious. And he knew all too well how she sounded.
    “India. India, I’m so glad to meet you. In person, I mean.” He held out a hand and she hesitated and then reached out and took his fingers, giving them a slight squeeze before pulling her hand away.
    He’d imagined her tall and languorous, bone slender, sensually arrogant, with chiseled features and mysterious eyes and a one-sided smile. He’d thought she’d be wearing leopard skin, maybe.
    She wasn’t tall at all. She was wearing heels, but without them he’d guess her to be five-six, maybe five-seven. And she wasn’t bone slender. She wasn’t heavy either, not at all. Voluptuous was the word that came to mind. Zaftig. Under the shawl she had on something slippery and blue and breathtakingly short, and he didn’t want to get caught staring at her legs or examining what was visible of her marvelous boobs, so with extreme self-discipline he gazed straight into those keen green eyes and said, "The dining room is along this way. Are you hungry?”
    Great opener, Watson . He was obviously far too accustomed to making dinner conversation with a three-year-old.
    She gave him another slight, quizzical smile and nodded. “I am, yes.”
    "Good. Great. So am I, starving.” Jesus, now he sounded like a fast-food commercial. He guided her out of the crowded lobby and past the wine bar, where the weekend crowd stood three deep to sample the restaurant’s famous cellar.
    She stumbled once, and he reached an arm to steady her, but released her again as they arrived at the entrance to the restaurant.
    There were two couples ahead of them, and as they waited, Harry couldn’t, to save his soul, think of anything to say. She was gazing around, and he sneaked the opportunity to glance at her legs.
    Damn, they were spectacular: narrow ankles, shapely calves, gorgeous knees, thighs that. . . It must be her perfume that was making him think of hot, musky sex.
    The maitre d’ greeted them at last.
    Harry gave his name, mindful that he’d used Walters instead of Watson. They were led to a secluded table by the