“Oh, money’s not a serious problem. I mean, I don’t want fourteen-karat-gold faucets or anything ridiculous. But Donald’s insisted I get anything I want. He knows how much I love to cook and bake.” She was already turning back to Daisy. “You think I could have an extra sink set on wheels?”
“Oh, sure, Teague could do that. No sweat at all.”
“Teague can’t put a sink on wheels,” Teague mentioned. “To begin with, Teague isn’t a plumber. Besides which, plumbing takes stationary pipes. You can’t just move a sink around-”
They weren’t listening to him. A half hour later, though, when they left the house, Susan was as excited as Daisy was. A light snow was drifting down, the sticky kind, that kissed the cheeks and eyelashes and stayed.
“She needs different lighting, too, Teague. Ceiling lights are fine for general light, but-”
She climbed in the truck with him like a born country girl. As soon as she strapped in, he reached over and kissed her. The impulse came from nowhere, yet the result made his pulse teeter and skid. Apparently it ruffled hers, too, because it was the first time she quit talking in well over an hour.
The silence didn’t last long, though. “What was that for?” she questioned.
“I don’t know. I think it’s because you were so gungho pushy. Got right in there and took charge. Trouble all the way. I’ve always liked those qualities in a woman.” But he never thought he’d be able to work with someone who was as bullheaded as he was. That he’d had fun over the past hour was still messing with his mind. He added quickly, “But we do need to have a little discussion about what a carpenter can and can’t do. I’ve got a general contractor’s license. But I really don’t tend to touch plumbing or much electricity. The city and township both have codes.”
“Oh. Codes.” She said the word as if it were very interesting, she was listening, she cared, and then promptly moved on. “We could make her life totally better. And-if you need the help-I could do more than just the decorating and style side of things. I can hammer a nail straight. And stain. And varnish. And use a drill and saw…well, some saws. I can’t use a band saw. But a jig saw or…”
She was still wired up when they reached his house. By then they’d worked up a potential work program-some projects he had to work solo, and his schedule was always wildly different. But he knew he could give her an extra twenty hours a week, if she wanted it. She did. And that set her off on another spill of enthusiasm. In fact, she was still talking when she climbed out of his truck and aimed straight for his back door.
“Whoa,” he said. “I thought you had to close up the café? That we were just coming back here so you could collect my car?”
“That was the plan, I know. And I do have to make sure the café’s closed up tight by seven. But there’s plenty of time before that, and I have to use the bathroom, okay?”
“So you want to see the inside of the house.”
She grinned. “You got it.”
She shot in the back door and started snooping faster than a bat out of hell. He dropped his mail and keys on the counter, peeled off his jacket, started a kettle.
He suddenly badly wanted a cigarette, but since he’d quit smoking ten years ago, he couldn’t do that. A shot of liquor had equal appeal, but no question about Daisy, she was a woman where he needed every wit he had around him.
The same woman who’d waxed poetic at the café about living on yachts and wintering in the Riviera was beside-herself excited at the idea of designing a kitchen for a wheelchair-bound stranger. The same woman who regularly wore cashmere shamelessly boasted about her skill with a jig saw. The same woman who could likely convince a priest she was a spoiled prima donna was up at five, baking for a second-class café in a town she professed to hate.
“You used to have a dog, didn’t you?” Her face showed up in the kitchen doorway, disappeared again.
“Yes. Let’s not go there.” He followed her. The house-he’d liked it when he bought it. At the time he’d wanted solitude, a place in the country not too close to neighbors, where there was ample space for his dog to roam. At the time he’d accepted being too ornery to ever live with anyone else, so he had no one to please but himself.
The kitchen always seemed okay to him. He used the table for everything but eating-mail, projects, a place to store things he hadn’t had time to put away, like Christmas presents from his mother. The sink and counter were both clean. The refrigerator held the important staples-juice, ice cream, ice cream bars, eggs, mustard. He’d sort of forgotten that the kitchen wallpaper was pea green and orange. He was going to replace the wallpaper right after he moved in, but it slipped his mind. Now, though, he could see it through Daisy’s eyes.
Not good.
His living room said more for him. At least he thought it did. He searched Daisy’s face as she wandered around. The fireplace had a barn-plank mantel, a deep serious hearth. A two-foot brass lion sat at the hearth. No furniture there, just giant pillows, because if you wanted a good fire going, it was because you needed to stretch out and let the fire work on your soul. One step up was the more regular part of the living room, with bookcases and a couch and a theater TV. He had a massive chair-one of those that looked like an upscale lounge chair but actually had a dozen controls.
Daisy took one look at that chair and lunged for it. She sank in, closed her eyes and let out a heartless erotic groan. What controls she didn’t immediately find, he pressed for her. The chair was actually a rip-off. It worked; it was just a lot of money for something that he forgot to use most of the time. But watching her bliss out made him think it was worth every dime.
That thought pestered his mind, unsettled him. He was coming to realize that he could look at her-her face, her hands, her knees, or any other part of her-and never seem to get bored. Just looking seemed like chocolate. No matter how good it was, you wanted more. Even if you’d just had a look. Even if you’d just had a taste.
“What’s the woodwork in here?” she asked.
“Wild cherry.”
“It’s gorgeous.”
“Yeah.” He loved good woods. She already knew that. She was also suddenly bounding out of the chair and streaking for the hall. “Hey,” he said.
“So your dog was black and white, right?”
“How’d you know that?”
“Fur in the carpet, on the chairs, on the couch.” She turned right, with him trailing her. She poked her head in the bathroom, switched on the light, took a look at the dark-green and white tiles and sink and the puddle of thick, beefy towels on the floor and moved on. “So,” Daisy said, “I figured she was spoiled rotten.”
“My dog?”
“She was allowed everywhere. Good spare bedroom,” she announced after she’d inspected it.
Hell, she was starting to make him so nervous that he started chattering like she did. He used the spare room for an office, but had a couch that made into a double bed for when his parents or younger sister came to visit. He’d built the screen to hide the desk and file cabinet and computer then, to make it more a decent retreat for company. And that room had its own small bath. No towels on the floor. No toothpaste in the sink.
“Where’s the wild cherry wood come from?”
“Georgia. Maybe you don’t want to look down there.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen unmade beds before.” She smiled before opening the door to his bedroom. He’d built the frame to put the king-size mattress on, because his back could get tricky, and he needed a hard mattress. The double-down comforter was the opposite, all soft and fluffy and embarrassingly sissy-but hell, Vermont winters were damned cold. Especially when a guy was sleeping alone.
Because he was suddenly nervous-hell, he was never nervous-he seemed to be bumbling on again. “Look, I know the dresser looks messy, but I swear, things climb up on that dresser in the middle of the night. I can’t explain it. Like that hammer-I never put it there. And the fork. I don’t eat in this room, so I have no clue how that for
k showed up. And all those socks. I never left a sock lying there in my entire life-”
She chuckled. “I believe you. Completely,” she assured him.
“Good.”
“She was a girl, wasn’t she?”
“Who?” He hadn’t had a woman around in so long that he couldn’t fathom what Daisy could be leaping to conclusions about.
“Your dog,” she said gently, and motioned to the pink dog collar on the dresser along with all the rest of the debris. “Aw, Teague. You lost her recently, didn’t you? And you loved her a ton.”
“She was just a mutt.”
“Big deal. You still loved her beyond life. She owned the whole house, for Pete’s sake. It’s obvious.” Her voice was softer than sunlight, gentler than compassion.
Did he need this? Like a hole in the head he needed this. She could have commented on his messes and his ugly kitchen wallpaper. She could have teased him about the towels on the floor. Instead…damn, but he’d loved that dog.
“What was her name?”
He’d called her Hussy. Which she wasn’t. She never left him, went with him to work anyplace they could tolerate dogs, never got in his way. “I wasn’t looking to have a dog. I just came across her in a ditch one day. Some car had hit her.” She’d been just a puppy, bleeding, bewildered, too close to dying to even whine. She never did have much of a voice. Worthless as a watch dog. The only one she ever watched over was him.
“Aw, damn, Teague,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. That’s rough.”
How the hell had she found out his weak spot, just like that, just walked in and in one look, found the one thing he didn’t want her to find.
“You know,” he said, hearing the frustration in his tone, “it’s about time you owned up to a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Like what it’s all about. Making people think your ex-husband was some kind of jewel. Rich. Famous. Fascinating. But you’re here, Daisy, and you’re struggling to get even some basic security together. I understand about pride. But I don’t get why you’re keeping what happened such a secret. Not from people who care about you.”
He didn’t mean to pry. He figured he’d find out in time. What good did prying ever do? People shared when they were ready. If you pushed them, it never came out the same way. You never found out when they were ready, for one thing. But Daisy…she’d made him think about Hussy. She’d poked. She’d looked at him with those loving, caring, beautiful dark eyes.
She still was. And suddenly she was walking toward him, as well. He thought she intended to leave the bedroom, and he turned sideways to give her room to pass.
Only, when she reached his side, in the shadow of the door, she faced him. “I’ll tell you about Jean-Luc if you want to know,” she said. “But not now. There’s only one thing on my mind right now.”
“And that is…?”
“You, tiger. Just you. Only you.” And she reached up, and lassoed her arms around his neck.
Eight
He wasn’t expecting the kiss, Daisy knew. He was exasperated with her. She knew that, too.
But she didn’t throw her arms around him because she wanted to. For damn sure, she would never have done an eyes-closed, mouth-open kiss-from-the-heart if she’d had any-any-other choice.
“Dais-”
“Shh!” she ordered him and resolved not to let him up for air ever again. Or at least for a while. A long while. She back-walked him down the hall, past the living room and den and bath. She walked, blind, her arms slung around his neck, fingers shivering in his scalp, lips clinging as if she were the glue and he was her only stamp.
Anxiety nipped at her conscience. This was such a bad idea-in principle. After the blizzard, she’d steered clear of Teague for an excellent reason. She knew she was vulnerable to him, and she wasn’t climbing into another relationship that couldn’t work out. If a woman quit trying to climb mountains, then she couldn’t fall off.
But damn Teague. Damn, damn, damn Teague. She kissed him again, harder, softer, deeper, wilder, loosening her arms from his neck so she could pull at his shirt. And once she’d peeled loose his shirt buttons, she yanked off her sweater-although the instant her mouth lifted from his, he tried to say, “Daisy-” again.
“Shh.” She had his bare chest now. She’d uncovered these treasures before. The slope of his shoulders. His upper arms, muscled as hard as sailor’s rope. Patches of chest hair, not soft, but as wiry as his temperament was. And an Adam’s apple that was throbbing, throbbing, for the lick of her tongue.
It was his fault-because of the dog. He’d broken her heart, seeing how much he’d obviously loved his dog. Teague sounded so tough, but she’d seen the collar, the pink-stuffed teddy bear with the eaten-off nose. The pink tennis balls peeking under the couches and chairs in the living room. The ceramic feeding bowl with Hussy engraved on it, clean, sitting on the counter, no food in it but somehow he hadn’t been able to face putting it away yet.
She was so touched, he’d almost made her cry. Made her afraid she might cry. Losing his dog had so clearly devastated him, and all for a mutt.
Obviously she had to kiss him.
And kiss him good.
In fact, as far as Daisy was concerned, she had no choice about making love with him, either.
And making love right.
“Um, Dais-” He didn’t seem to mind her unbuttoning his jeans, but his big callused hands suddenly, softly, framed her face. “I don’t know what pushed your on button-”
“You did.”
“Uh-huh. Well. I’m glad I did. But I could have sworn you said you had to be at the café-”
“I do. Later. We might have to hurry.”
“That, um, won’t be a problem. You want speed, trust me, I can give you speed. But-”
“No buts, tiger.” She lifted her head, eyes suddenly stricken. “Unless you don’t want to make love?”
“Trust me. I want this. I want you. Full-time, part-time, fast, slow. Any way you’re willing to do this.” While she had her hands on his jeans zipper, he handily slipped both his hands down her spine, down her back into the waistband of her pants. Somehow he started pushing her pants down at the same time he caressed her fanny, kneading and squeezing. His mouth was leveling hers at the same time.
Daisy intended to protest. She was the one in charge here, not Teague. She was going to remind him about that…in just a minute or two. Her slacks were trying to trip her. She stepped out of them. And while she was attempting to step out of them, Teague took the opportunity to lift her high-high enough to tongue-tease both her nipples, first one, then the other, taking his time…my, the man was strong…before lowering her onto his platform bed. Who knew they’d even made it all the distance to his bedroom?
It was downright impossible to get his jeans off when he was on top of her, but she was highly motivated…groaning under his weight, moaning under his touch, demanding more of both. His bed was another reason she’d felt forced into this drastic behavior choice. His whole house was so pure guy. The wood. The stone. A jar of mustard sat all by its lonesome on its own shelf in the fridge. His chest of drawers had a fork and a hammer and a tower of books and socks. His mattress was harder than concrete.
But then she’d seen that hedonist, floofy, fluffy comforter. And now she could feel it, soft against her naked skin, cushiony so that she felt she were sinking, sinking into a cloud…or maybe that was sinking into Teague. An ardent, wild Teague, who seemed to forget time, place, and the phone ringing somewhere in his house.
The comforter and dog were the only soft spots in Teague she’d found. The only hints that he was lonely. That he had needs. Wants. That he yearned…
And damn, so did she. He’d broken her down. It’s the only way she could think of it. She’d tried so hard to be mean. She’d tried to scare him, by driving his car in a way that had to turn him off. She’d barged in his business with his customer. She hadn’t come clean with him. And still he was good to her. Still
, he seemed to want her.
Still, he touched her in ways-deeper, more worrisome ways-than any man ever had.
Those jeans of his-she finally won them. And one of his socks. The shadows in his bedroom seemed darker than smoke, yet there was nothing but searing bright sensations running through her. Greedily she touched, wooed, claimed. Her blood raced hotter and faster because of how fiercely he responded to anything she did. He just kept giving and giving and giving.
She reared her head up, eyes glazed and crazy with wanting. “Teague-I don’t love you,” she whispered urgently.
His mouth was wet from her kisses, his eyes as glazed and dark as her own, yet he responded easily, as if he were expecting the comment. “You think not?”
“All right. Maybe I do. But that’s just about loving you right now. It’s because these moments together are so good, so right. But it doesn’t mean ties or future or permanence or anything like that.”
“I know. You’re leaving town.”
“Yes.”
“As soon as you possibly can.”
“Yes.”
“So this is ideal, isn’t it? Exactly what you want. We can make love and make love and make love. And you can forget me as soon as you’re gone.”
She was about to say yes again, only that wasn’t what she’d said or even meant. She frowned, and then the chance to answer him disappeared. He swooped her around, pinned her beneath him, and in the darkening shadows pounced. Kisses dropped on her throat, between her breasts, on her navel, then on the swell of her abdomen. He was aiming…the wrong way.
She was going to tell him about that, mention that he’d lost his sense of direction entirely, except that he wrapped his arms around her thighs, pulling them up even as his head dipped down. All that urgent rushing, yet suddenly he moved slow. Slower than honey. Slower than shadows on a summer night. His cheek nuzzled the inside of her thighs. She felt his rough beard, felt his breath…lost her own.
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