Kate had stopped listening as she searched the group of rescuers milling around behind the reporter. She watched two of them sit down on the side step of a fire truck with their elbows resting on their knees and their heads dropped forward. A medical worker rushed up to them but one lifted his head and waved him off. Kate let out her breath. “That's Mr. Johnson sitting on the fire truck,” she said to the boys.
“He looks tired,” Patrick said.
“I'm sure he's not used to rescuing people from burning oil tanks. It probably takes a lot out of you. Now upstairs and to bed.”
Once they were settled, she pulled open the cutlery drawer.
The paper with Randall Johnson's private number on it lay just where she had put it earlier.
“Damn! How can I not call a man who just risked his life on television? He won't be there now so... so I won't have to talk to him. I'll just leave a polite message. That's the decent thing to do,” she rationalized out loud, as she picked up the paper and punched the number into her telephone. She heard two rings and then the Texas drawl: “I can't take your call now. Leave a message after the beep.” It was so typical of him not to identify himself on his answering service.
The phone beep sounded. “Hello, Randall. It's Kate Chilton. I saw your oil tanks burning on television. I just wanted to make sure that you were all right after your dash into the flames. I hope that everything is under control now. Good night.”
The telephone rang. Kate propped herself up on her elbows and peered at the illuminated numbers on her clock: 3:45 A.M. Still half asleep, she picked up the receiver quickly before it could wake the boys. “Hello,” she rasped, wondering if this was a wrong number or a crank call.
“Thanks for the message, Kate.”
Her eyes flew open as she recognized Randall Johnson's voice. In the darkness, it seemed as though it was coming from the pillow beside her, and she found herself suddenly aware of every place where the sheets touched her skin. She clicked on the bedside lamp. “Are you all right? I saw you sitting on the fire engine, looking totally exhausted.”
“I'm exhausted, I'm filthy and I smell like burning petroleum, but I'm fine.”
Kate could hear the fatigue in his voice. “You sound hoarse.”
“I breathed in more smoke than I should have, but all I really need is a shower and some sleep. Will you come scrub my back for me? I'm too tired to do it myself.”
Kate chuckled. “Now I know you're fine.” Then she said seriously, “I'm so sorry about the damage. Is your loss very severe?”
His voice changed. “We'll do an assessment tomorrow but the facility is insured. I'm more interested in what caused the fire.”
“I assume that it was an accident?”
“It takes a hell of an accident for two tanks to burst into flames at the same time.”
“So you think that someone set the fires?” Kate was appalled.
She could almost hear Randall's shrug. “We'll find out tomorrow.”
Kate felt that she had to mention the rescue effort, no matter how unnecessarily dangerous she thought that it had been. “Randall, the boys and I saw you go with the firefighters to rescue your men. That was pretty impressive. Are the men all right?”
“They're in the hospital now but the doctors say that they'll be okay. All I did was show the firemen where to find them.”
“Well, it looked as though you were running straight into the flames. You scared the heck out of us.”
A low chuckle rumbled through the telephone and vibrated against Kate's ear. “You sound more annoyed than impressed.”
Kate suppressed the impulse to tell him how stupid she thought he was to endanger his life and get in the way of professional firefighters. Instead she softened her tone and said, “You should go take that shower now and get some sleep. It sounds like you have a lot to do tomorrow.”
“You're right. I appreciate the late night conversation. I needed to unwind. Oh, and I got your other message. Good night.”
He hung up, leaving Kate literally open-mouthed as she began to explain why she had cancelled their date.
Pressing her lips back together, Kate dropped the phone onto the cradle.
She turned off the light and slid down onto her pillow. Every nerve ending in her body had started to hum the moment she had heard his voice. It wasn't really fair; he had awakened her from a sound sleep and all her defenses were down.
Randall Johnson's head fell back against the couch as he closed his eyes. He let his cell phone drop onto the cushion beside him. When he had heard Kate's slightly stiff but concerned voice among the messages waiting for him, he had felt a moment's ignoble triumph that she had used his private phone number, even after her attempt to ditch their date. Then the need to actually talk to her had hit him with the force of a sledgehammer. He knew that he had no business calling her in the middle of the night, but he had found himself dialing her number anyway. Her seductively sleepy voice distracted him from worries about arson and insurance claims and drew a response from his body that he thought would be impossible in his exhausted state.
He fell asleep while imagining what he would do with Kate Chilton in the giant Jacuzzi in his bathroom.
And he was smiling.
Seven
Kate paced up and down the sidelines of the soccer field. She couldn't figure out what they were doing wrong: the Claremont Comets were scoring fine, but the Oak Grove Asteroids were running rings around her defense.
“You look like a lady with a problem.”
Kate froze. How could Randall Johnson be at her children's Saturday soccer game?
But here he was, all six-feet-plus of him, with his hands in the pockets of a black leather jacket he wore open over a black polo shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans. Certain parts of Kate's body began to tingle with the unwelcome memory of those hands.
“What on earth are you doing here?” she hissed.
Randall's quizzical smile widened into a grin.
“Hello, Kate,” he drawled, all velvet and seduction. “I'm watching some fine soccer players. I could help you out with your defense. Why don't we make it a wager: your team wins the game and you have dinner with me tonight. You lose and I eat alone.”
Kate recalled that Georgia's summary of Randall Johnson's assets had included: “He was some kind of a soccer star at Princeton.” She debated as she watched the Asteroids drive down the field again. When Patrick had to dive headfirst across the net to stop the shot on goal, she turned to Randall, held out her hand, and said, “It's a deal.”
He gave her a firm but brief handshake. “How long until the halftime break?”
Kate checked her watch. “About two minutes.”
“Okay. I'll talk to your players then,” he said and focused his attention entirely on the game. Kate saw his eyes narrow as he scanned back and forth across the players, and she couldn't help smiling. He was bringing all the force of his brilliant business mind to bear on the problem of a boys' soccer game, of all things.
The referee whistled halftime and the Comets walked dispiritedly off the field to grab their water bottles and orange slices. Kate saw her sons look at Randall and then at each other, but she didn't have time to offer an explanation. She gathered her team around her and said, “Guys, this is Mr. Johnson. He was a soccer player at Princeton University, and he's going to give us some suggestions on defense.”
Kate watched Randall squat down in front of her players. In three quick sentences he explained what the opposing team was doing. As he outlined a strategy to combat their opponents, Kate could see the light of comprehension dawning on all her boys' faces.
The whistle blew again and Kate sent her team out with words of encouragement and a renewed sense of hope. Sure enough, after a couple of minutes, her boys were stopping Oak Grove cold. She turned to Randall with a smile of genuine gratitude. “Thank you so much. You explained the strategy so clearly that I feel like an idiot for not figuring it out myself.”
“Y
ou're not an idiot. It's a very unusual offense—and much too complicated for kids this age. You can see how easy it is to derail it, though,” he said, gesturing to the field. “Their coach is obviously counting on playing against inexperienced coaches.”
“Well, he certainly wasn't counting on having you around,” Kate said. “Neither was I, obviously. I'm sorry for being rude.”
“No apology necessary. I like a strong reaction. It means that you're paying attention.”
“I wouldn't think you'd have to worry about that much,” Kate said and smiled warmly again, before she turned back to the game. “Way to go, Ricky!” she yelled as the Comets scored a goal.
Randall couldn't take his eyes off Kate for a moment. That smile of hers... it had been warm and open, without wariness or calculation, and he felt like she had punched him in the gut. He briefly wondered if he needed to rethink his plans for the evening. Then a quick survey of Kate's snug blue jeans put his mind back on track. There was no need to make this complicated. He indulged himself by imagining snaking his hands up under her “coach” sweatshirt and feeling her nipples harden under the lace of her bra as he brushed his thumbs over them. He was mentally running his hands back down and under her jeans to cup those smooth curves when Kate yelled, “Subs, ref!” and turned to him.
His expression must have revealed the direction of his thoughts. He saw Kate's eyes widen.
“I was going to ask for your advice, but I don't think that you've been concentrating on the game,” she said dryly.
Randall chuckled, “Just keep up the good work.”
Kate forced herself to focus on rotating her players. Having Randall's leather-and-denim-clad body only an arm's length away was disturbing enough, but turning around to find him looking at her with focused lust was enough to drive her right over the edge. She had already noticed the curious glances and whispered comments among the soccer moms and dads standing on the sidelines.
She looked at Randall again. He lifted one eyebrow at her and turned to watch the game. Kate caught the smug smile on his lips. “We haven't won yet,” she muttered under her breath.
The Comets tied up the game, and it was almost over. Kate put all her energy into cheering the boys on, and when the final whistle blew, the Comets were victorious by a goal. She went out to supervise the team handshake. Her boys gave a cheer for Oak Grove and waited a decent interval before erupting into exuberant leaps and high fives to celebrate their unexpected win. As they filed off the field, Kate saw Clay and Patrick head toward Randall.
Clay offered his hand and said, “Thanks for your help, Mr. Johnson.”
Randall shook it and responded, “Nice work at midfield, young man.”
Patrick came next and the rest of the team followed suit. Kate decided that he'd been paying more attention than she gave him credit for because he had an appropriate comment for each boy.
“Who's your new assistant coach?” Denise Costanza, a long-time friend and the mother of Clay's best buddy, Robert, asked in Kate's ear.
Kate sighed. “Randall Johnson. I'll introduce you.”
“You sure will. If I wasn't a happily married woman, I'd be doing my best to cut you out right now.”
“He's just an acquaintance.”
“Honey, I saw him looking at you and he's got more than acquaintance intentions, even if you don't. If I were you, I'd take him up on them.”
Kate made a rude noise to cover her blush, and then steered Denise over to Randall. She found herself introducing several more parents who thanked Randall for the victory. To add to her discomfort, one father greeted him without introduction, referring to some business dealings that they had had. Now she was positive that the gossip would fly. Randall walked with the team to the parking lot.
“Would you like to join us at Marzullo's for pizza?” Kate asked stiffly.
“I would, but I've got a conference call coming in this afternoon.”
“On a Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“Well... thank you again for wresting victory from the jaws of defeat. The boys and I really appreciate it.” She mentally heaved a sigh of relief that he couldn't join them.
Randall leaned down to whisper by her ear, “I'm counting on your appreciation lasting until tonight. I always collect on wagers.” He straightened and said in a normal tone, “I'll pick you up at seven.”
His whisper had sent tiny ripples of sensation brushing across the surface of her skin. She frantically racked her brain to find some valid reason to back out of their agreement. He forestalled her by taking her chin in his hand and locking his gaze on hers. “I'm sure you're a woman of your word.”
“You're a calculating, manipulative...” Kate sputtered to a stop.
“Son of a bitch?” Randall offered with a laugh. He flicked her cheek with his finger and walked away. As he opened the door of his car, he called, “See you tonight.”
Kate stood with her hands on her hips as he roared off in his black Jeep. Insufferable! … Obnoxious! … Her thoughts were racing.
“Toad!” she spit out.
The Comets were the first team in the league to beat Oak Grove, and the team lunch was a jubilant affair. The boys verbally replayed the entire second half of the game over and over again. Randall Johnson's name came up repeatedly in the rehash. Kate managed to avoid discussing him with the other parents by keeping busy serving pizza and refilling Cokes. However, when she got home, she told the boys and Brigid that she needed to take a nap and fled to her room.
She fell backward onto her bed and flung her arm over her eyes. It was only human to be flattered that Randall Johnson had tracked down her sons' soccer game. She had to admit that. And she was impressed at how clearly he had explained the defense strategy to all of them. But he had made it clear that his motives were of the basest kind. And she wasn't at all sure that hers were much better. Why had she agreed to his ridiculous wager? Reluctantly, she got up and started to rifle through her closet.
Since she had no idea where he was taking her, she settled on classics: a short black skirt and a salt-and-pepper tweed blazer over a moss green turtleneck. She laid the outfit on the bed and then stepped back and faced the final question: she knew his intentions for the evening. What were hers?
She went to her dresser to pull out the lace teddy and some black stockings to attach to the garters.
She was dressed when the doorbell rang.
“I'll get it, Mom,” the boys called in unison, racing to the front hall.
Kate followed at a more sedate pace. Clay and Patrick were bombarding Randall with questions about his soccer career at Princeton. She stood back and gave him an appreciative once-over, admiring the understated quality of his charcoal slacks and silver-gray shirt under a black blazer that she suspected was cashmere. The muted colors were the perfect foil for his strong features and she was sure he was aware of it.
As she moved forward to say hello, she knew he was comparing her rather conservative attire with last week's ensemble. She gave him a cool look.
“Hello, Randall. Sorry about the cross-examination,” she said, draping her arms lightly around Clay and Patrick's shoulders. She gave them a quick hug and dropped a kiss on the tops of their heads. “I'll see you two in the morning.”
Patrick spoke up. “We still want you to show us how to nutmeg.”
“Nutmeg?” Kate asked.
“You kick the ball between the defender's legs and pick it up behind him,” Randall explained.
“Interesting name for it.”
“Sometimes you kick too high.”
“Those are two nice boys you have,” Randall said, closing the front door for her.
Kate glowed at the compliment to her children. “Thank you. They seem to be turning out all right.”
“It must be hard to be a single parent, particularly a mother of boys.”
Amazed that he gave any thought at all to raising children, Kate hesitated a moment before answering honestly, “It is. I always wor
ry about them needing a role model and having someone to talk with who can empathize rather than just sympathize. Fortunately, I have some good friends who are willing to help out.”
“Well, you're doing a fine job.”
Randall opened the door of the Jaguar that crouched gleaming in her driveway. Kate settled into the soft leather seat with a sigh of contentment, then ran an admiring fingertip over the burled wood of the dashboard. As he pulled out of the driveway, she took a deep breath and said, “I've been wondering how you knew about the soccer game.”
He kept his eyes on the road. “Patrick told me.”
Kate waited for more and when she realized that he was done, prodded him with, “When? Where?”
“On Friday. On the telephone.”
“I keep telling him to write down messages if he's going to answer the phone!”
“I didn't leave a message.”
“Oh.” Kate wasn't through yet. “And why did you come to the game?”
Randall didn't answer immediately. He glanced sideways at her and poured the drawl on thick, “I'll let you figure that out, pretty lady.” He reached one hand across the space between them and laced his fingers into her hair. The warm pad of his thumb circled slowly around the whorls of Kate's ear, exploring and declaring his intent as clearly as if he had spoken.
Torn between the desire to jerk away and the desire to lean into his hand, Kate sat stiffly even as her breathing quickened. Randall dropped his hand to navigate a sharp turn, and Kate's wandering attention focused on the fact that they were sweeping up the twisting road to Eagle's Nest. Her pulse jumped but she kept her voice calm. “I forgot to ask where we're having dinner.”
“At my house. Don't worry, my housekeeper cooks like Julia Child.”
Randall stopped the car in the enclosed courtyard and slid out of the driver's seat. Opening her door, he offered his hand and, as his fingers closed around hers, she felt the contact through her whole being. He pulled her upright and closed the door behind her.
A Bridge to Love Page 7