Riptide (A Dangerous Hearts Romance)

by Deborah Camp

  Fingering his clean-shaven jaw, Hampton seemed to consider her questions carefully before he answered. “I would say that a bachelor of long-standing, such as Detective Tallwalker, would definitely be able to discern restaurant food from the real McCoy. You’re going to have to cook, Whitney.”

  “I can’t!” Whitney held out her hands to Hampton and placed a coaxing plea in her voice. “Hampton, please? You’re a great cook. You can whip something up and he’ll never know that I didn’t—”

  “Wait a minute,” Hampton said, cutting her off at the pass. “Are you asking me to join in a conspiracy? No, no. I have too much integrity for that. Besides, Whitney, the way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach. It’s up those stairs and through the second door on the right,” he said, pointing up to her bedroom;

  “Hampton, I’m shocked at you!” Whitney laughed and grabbed his hands, pulling him to his feet. “You’re not going to leave me in the lurch, are you?”

  Hampton’s scowl had more bark than bite. “I will instruct you, but you, my little conniver, will cook. Come along,” he said, pulling her toward the kitchen, “I want to introduce you to your kitchen. I hope you have something to cook in here besides popcorn and Pop-Tarts.”

  “Well, I’m not sure …” Whitney gave an inner wince, knowing without a doubt that her cupboard was bare.

  “Let’s have a look,” Hampton said, throwing open the freezer door. He stared, horrified, at the stack of frozen dinners and leaky carton of fudge ripple ice cream. He shuddered and slammed shut the door. “How dismal!” He opened the refrigerator door and examined the jar of pickles, bottle of ketchup, four eggs, and square of cheese that was green around the edges. Closing the door firmly, he turned slowly to face Whitney. “No wonder you weigh next to nothing! I’ve known religious cult members who had more than that in their refrigerators.”

  “Hampton, I’ve been in New York,” Whitney said, rising to her own feeble defense, “and I haven’t had time to shop in—”

  “A month of Sundays?” Hampton interjected. “What do you eat—or should that question be—do you eat?”

  “I usually send out for Chinese food or a pizza or a hamburger at one of the local fast-food places.”

  “Oh,” Hampton said with disgust. “I’ve wondered what sort of person kept those establishments in business.”

  “I’m an artist,” Whitney said, resorting to pure illogic.

  “Yes, but when you’ve made as much money as you have at being an artist, it’s perfectly acceptable to drop the starving part of it.” Hampton grasped one of her hands and pulled her with him from the kitchen. “Come along, Whitney. I’m taking you on an adventure to a place called a grocery store. You’ll be amazed! They have aisle after aisle of food, but you’ll have to bring some money with you.” He picked up her purse from the foyer table and shoved it into her other hand. “They don’t accept American Express.”

  “Funny, Hampton,” Whitney said with a scowl as she allowed him to lead her from her house. “Very funny.”

  Spraying Opium lavishly across her throat and wrists, Whitney tried to bring her fluttering nerves to rest. She stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror, her fingers plucking an imaginary string from her pleated cranberry skirt. For the sixth time, she adjusted the casual bow at the collar of her white, paisley textured silk blouse, then she smoothed her fingers beneath her eyes. Good, she thought. No wrinkles yet.

  “Oh, bother!” she exclaimed, disgusted with her primping, then giving in to it again by rearranging one of the sprigs of baby’s breath she’d positioned in her hair. She cast a discerning eye on her hair, wondering if she should have left it down instead of piling it into a loose, Victorian-era bundle at the crown of her head.

  The doorbell chimed, releasing her from her dilemma, and Whitney went downstairs to answer it.

  Shadow stood just outside the door with bouquet in hand. One corner of her mind registered that he’d changed clothes—gone were the jeans and sweater, replaced by off-white trousers and a white shirt—while the rest of her senses bloomed under his disarming smile that displayed strong, white teeth.

  “These are for you,” he said, extending the bouquet of roses and violets. “You look gorgeous, by the way.”

  “Thank you.” Whitney took the bouquet and stepped back. “Come in. Would you like a drink before dinner?”

  “Actually, I’m starved. Could I have my drink with dinner?”

  “Of course. Come on into the dining room and take a seat. Everything’s ready. I’ll put these in a vase.” Whitney led him into the dining room where Hampton had spent a painstaking halfhour making sure the candles and table settings were positioned just right. “Would you light the candles for me?”

  “I think I can manage that,” Shadow said, picking up the box of matches from the table. “Did you do all of this?”

  Whitney glanced over her shoulder as she headed for the kitchen for a vase. A lie rose easily to her lips, but she rejected it. “Hampton helped.”

  “Is he going to join us?”

  “No. He … he had a previous dinner engagement.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad.”

  She smiled as she entered the kitchen, glad that he hadn’t sounded the least bit disappointed. She selected a cut-crystal vase and filled it with water and the fragrant bouquet. When Whitney returned to the dining room, Shadow had lit the candles and was seated at the left table setting, leaving the head of the table vacant for her. Whitney placed the vase between the two candles and smiled her thanks when Shadow rose from his chair to help her sit in hers.

  Dinner went without a hitch. Whitney could hardly keep herself from beaming when Shadow complimented her on the lobster, asparagus with cheese sauce, and fluffy baked potatoes with sour cream, butter and chives. She took enormous satisfaction from watching him clean his plate and pat his flat stomach with obvious relish. He declined her offer of fruit and sherbet for dessert, but agreed to coffee in the living room.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed the dinner,” Whitney said as she poured coffee from the silver pot and handed him a delicate cup; a cup that seemed even more fragile when held in his large, tanned hands, “but I have a confession.”

  “Hampton helped you,” Shadow said with a mischievous grin. “Right?”

  “How did you know?” Whitney asked, sitting beside him on the couch. “Was it that obvious?”

  “No. I just can’t picture you slaving away in the kitchen. You don’t seem to be the type who gets a kick out of watching a soufflé rise.”

  Whitney laughed. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’ve never seen a soufflé rise, but if I’d cooked it and it actually rose, I’d jump up and down.”

  “And it would drop,” Shadow teased.

  “That’s why I stay out of the kitchen as much as possible.”

  “Do you have a cook?”

  “No. I just have a cleaning lady who comes in twice a week. I usually send out for food or I throw something simple together. I make a fantastic peanut butter and banana sandwich and a wicked chocolate sundae.” She smiled as she stirred cream into her coffee. “And now I can add lobster to my repertoire.” She looked up from her coffee. “Can you cook?”

  “Yes.” He stretched his legs before him and sipped the hot coffee.’“I didn’t for a few years. I think most single adults think it’s silly to fix a big meal all for yourself. It makes more sense to send out for something or just fix a sandwich.” He glanced at her and lifted his wide shoulders in a shrug. “But I got tired of that kind of meal. Why deny yourself the pleasure of a good meal just because you’re single? So, a couple of years ago I started buying groceries and planning menus. I was surprised to discover that I liked cooking for myself. I like to experiment and not have to worry about foisting my mistakes on an innocent bystander.”

  “Maybe I’ll try it sometime,” Whitney mused aloud. “Are you a good cook?”

  Shadow placed his cup on the table. “I’ll invite you over sometime and let y
ou be the judge.” He reached for her hand, holding it gently. “Let’s take a walk on the beach. It’s a beautiful night.”

  “Okay.” Whitney let him pull her up from the couch and went with him to the deck. A warm breeze blew across her, and Whitney looked up at the starry night. A few clouds floated near the moon, but they were so wispy she could see stars twinkling through them. “It’s lovely out here.”

  Shadow tucked his arm around her waist and led her from the deck to the beach. He seemed content to just walk with his arm around her, and Whitney didn’t try to force a conversation. She, too, was blissfully content and found herself trying to remember when such a simple pleasure as walking along a beach with a man had made her feel so peaceful. There was something special about the man at her side; something that was difficult to pinpoint. She only knew that with Shadow she feared nothing. Everything was right with the world as long as he was in it.

  They passed Ashley’s house which was ablaze with lights. Whitney caught sight of the shapely blond dancing with one of Hollywood’s most popular “hunks,” but she didn’t envy her. She’d met that particular hunk at a party a year ago and had been bored out of her mind during their ten-minute conversation. The man could converse on only two subjects—himself and women—the former of which he knew absolutely everything about and the latter of which he knew absolutely nothing. No, Whitney thought with a quick glance at the man beside her, she would much rather be with Shadow Tallwalker. In fact, she’d rather argue with Shadow than have an intimate evening with that Hollywood leading man. And she did seem to argue quite a bit with Shadow. Why? she wondered. Why, when it was so obvious to her that she was strongly attracted to him? Was that the reason? Was it safer to argue than to submit to his alluring personality?

  “Have you ever wondered why we argue so much when we’re together?”

  Whitney almost jumped out of her skin at his question. She felt her eyes widen as she looked up at him, then she laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Shadow asked, laughing with her even though he didn’t get the joke.

  “I was just asking myself that very question,” Whitney confessed. “You have an uncanny way of reading my mind.”

  “Did you answer the question for yourself?”

  “Oh, I was just thinking that maybe we pick fights with each other because we’re not quite ready to face the alternative.” She kicked absently at the sand, her gaze focused there, as she waited for Shadow’s comment. Did he feel this churning disturbance? Was he holding himself in check or was he indifferent to her? The questions stretched her nerves like rubber bands, and it seemed as if her happiness were hanging in the balance while she waited for a peek at Shadow’s inner feelings toward her.

  “The alternative?” he asked softly, his arm tightening about her waist. “Speak for yourself. I think the alternative would be wonderful.”

  “You do?” She looked up from her careful study of the sand to find that he was smiling at her.

  “Don’t you?” he asked, tossing the decision back to her.

  “I don’t know,” Whitney said with a moan of exasperation. “All I know is that I hate this particular moment. A woman meets a man, then they exchange light conversation, and then they exchange a few kisses, and then they’re faced with this moment and this situation, and things that were once quite simple are suddenly complicated.”

  Shadow stopped and pulled Whitney around to face him. He laced his hands behind her back and chuckled softly.

  “It doesn’t have to be that complicated, Whitney.”

  She bit her lower lip, trying to believe him, but ultimately only believing her past experiences. “But it always is.”

  “Well, we could just be friends.”

  Whitney met his level gaze, somehow disappointed that he would suggest such a thing. “Is that what you really want?”

  “No.” A wry smile tilted up one side of his mouth. “But I don’t want you to tie yourself in knots over this. We’ve had a lovely evening. Don’t spoil it by putting pressure on yourself. I’m not asking for anything you can’t give.”

  Whitney laughed and tipped her head back to watch the moon free itself from a clinging tuft of cloud. “You’re not supposed to say things like that! You’re supposed to make the decision for me so that I can make excuses for myself tomorrow.”

  Shadow laughed with her, his hands moving up to frame her face. For long, breathless moments, his gaze took in the beauty before him as moonlight spilled into her almond-shaped eyes and sparkled upon her moist lips. Slowly, his gaze moved to her hair and one hand followed as he plucked a sprig of baby’s breath from the soft curls.

  “She will,” he whispered as he tossed the dried flowers aside and reached for another sprig and another, “she won’t. She will, she won’t.” He paused, his gaze searching her shimmering brunette hair.

  Whitney closed her eyes, trying to recall how many sprigs of baby’s breath she had positioned in her hair earlier. Oh, there had to be one more …

  “Ah! She will.” Shadow seized the last flower and flung it aside. “The decision seems to have been made for you, Whitney.”

  Whitney turned her head to watch the discarded flowers tumble across the sand, caught in a current of sea breeze. She felt her earlier qualms and questions flutter away as Shadow draped an arm across her shoulders and began moving with her toward her house. Ashley’s house was dark as they passed and Whitney smiled knowingly.

  “It seems as if Ashley’s party is over,” she said, nodding toward the dark outline of her neighbor’s two-story residence.

  “Or it’s just beginning,” Shadow said with a chuckle.

  Whitney poked him in the ribs with her elbow, her brows arching when Shadow sidestepped from her. “You’re ticklish!” she accused.

  “Aren’t you?” he shot back, his hands held to protect himself from any further attacks.

  “Not like that! I barely touched you.”

  He shrugged and dropped his hands as he moved closer to her. “I’m the victim of a family of ticklers.” He wrapped an arm around her waist. “I bet you’re just as sensitive as me.”

  Whitney jerked sideways when his fingertips nudged her ribs, then laughed when he shook his forefinger at her.

  “Okay,” she said, still laughing. “Truce. Truce!” Through her merriment she became quiveringly aware of how handsome Shadow Tallwalker was, standing in a shaft of moonlight, his head tipped back in laughter, his eyes glimmering like quicksilver. Her laughter dwindled to a breathless giggle, ending on a long, appreciative, “Mmmm.” She stepped into his embrace, pressing her ear against his chest to listen to the strong tapping of his heart which beat more rapidly as his lips touched the crown of her head.

  “Knowingly or unknowingly, you have found my weakness,” he murmured as his hands came up to her hair. “I don’t know of any man who can resist unpinning a woman’s hair.”

  Whitney lifted her cheek from his chest and watched as passion flickered in his eyes. An ocean breeze brought the aroma of his after-shave wafting over her, and Whitney smiled. Old Spice. He had found her weakness, too, Whitney thought. The smell was achingly familiar to her, bringing with it scenes of her life with Jess Campbell. Her father had always worn Old Spice, making it synonymous with love and devotion. Jean-Claude had favored a musk cologne that Whitney had never been fond of. But, Old Spice! Whitney took a deep breath and her lashes fluttered down as a sweet ache invaded her. Her senses pulsated to life as Shadow’s purring voice spun a web of intimacy around her.

  “I’ve wanted to do this all evening,” he said as his fingers uncovered the hidden hairpins. “I’ve often wondered if women put their hair up just to entice men. There’s something ingrained in us that makes us want to muss up a prim-and-proper image.” He shoved the hairpins into his shirt pocket, then buried his fingers in her hair, combing through the tumbling mass.

  Whitney breathed in his intoxicating aroma and felt her knees liquefy. It was all she could do to remain standing while S
hadow’s fingers wove through her hair. He gathered a great handful and pressed his face into it. A husky groan rose in his throat as he moved his face from side to side against the silky strands.

  “You smell so good,” he murmured huskily. “Opium, isn’t it?”

  Whitney’s eyes flew open in surprise. “How did you know? Most men—”

  “I’m not like most men.” He let go of her hair and grasped her hands. “Come inside.”

  She followed him into the house, willingly, all the while mentally agreeing with him. He was definitely unlike any man she had ever known. Frenchmen were supposed to use lavish, romantic language, but Jean-Claude had never spoken to her in such a way. Was this the Italian side of Shadow again? she wondered. If so, she hoped he wouldn’t suppress it. She wanted to savor this uncommon seduction.

  With a mild start, Whitney realized she was almost floating up the staircase, her hand firmly held by Shadow. She looked past him to her bedroom door, remembering Hampton’s directions to a man’s heart. A lump of apprehension rose in her throat and she swallowed hard, dislodging it. She startled herself again with the realization that she wasn’t apprehensive about what she was about to do, she just wished she knew what was going on inside Shadow. Was this a conquest or the beginning of something meaningful to him?

  He opened the bedroom door and his eyes pinned her. “I think we should accept the hand fate has dealt us; Whitney. I don’t know about you, but I knew we’d reach this point the moment I saw you.”

  “That was a rather cocky assumption,” Whitney noted, pulling her gaze from his to glance nervously at her bed. “Surely, I didn’t seem that willing.”

  He frowned and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “Look, Whitney, I don’t want to bend you to my will. Would you rather end the evening down there over a glass of brandy?” He tipped his head toward the living room.

  It seemed to be a lonely ending to a lovely evening and Whitney was quick to shake her head. She entwined her fingers with his and tugged him over the threshold with her.

  “Step into my parlor,” she quipped with a nervous smile.