“I can’t believe it.” Jamie heaved an impatient sigh. “We’re starting to fight again. I argue with you more than 1 ever have with anybody, including Steve or Saran.” She gave a confused laugh and shook her head.
“Don’t you know why we fight so much?”
“Because we’re obviously incompatible.”
“Because we’re so hot for each other we’re burning up, but we haven’t been able to act on it. Believe me, honey, there’s nothing like sexual frustration to keep your temper at the boiling point.”
“I should’ve seen that one coming,” she said wryly. “If we’re not fighting, we’re talking about sex.”
“I know a way to break the stalemate. Go to bed with me tonight, Jamie. That’ll take care of the frustration and the fighting and the unremitting conversations about sex.” “You’re saying that if 1 sleep with you, we’ll be immediately transformed into compatible, congenial companions who’ll have deep, meaningful discussions about things like music and literature and world affairs?” It was a laughable premise, and she did laugh, a little. “Do you really think I’m that gullible, Rand?”
“I was hoping you were. A man can dream, can’t he?” Her eyes sparkled with humor. “By all means, dream on.” And then she grew serious and gazed at him, her expression earnest. “Rand, I overreacted when you tipped the man at the door. That fight wasn’t about sex at all. It was a difference of opinion, and I’m sorry for condemning you.”
He was taken completely off guard by the unexpected apology. It occurred to him that he’d spent little time talking things out in his usual dealings with women. He’d always believed that action—sexual action—was far more effective than words as a means of communication.
In the next instant, he realized that sex was also an effective way to avoid communication. His eyes widened. Good Lord, what was this? A flash of insight?
He stared at Jamie, who was watching him quizzically. “You look thunderstruck,” she observed. “Did my apology shock you that much?” Unlike Rand, she was experienced in talking things through; one couldn’t live among the chatty Saracenis without acquiring communication skills.
“I guess I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say next.” That was certainly true. Sex to avoid communication? Where were these thoughts coming from? And why was he having them here?
“Well, you could say something like ‘I’m sorry, too, Jamie.’ You could say ‘I was trying to impress you. I didn’t realize I’d come across as an arrogant elitist.’ ”
“An arrogant elitist?” He was indignant. “I am not!” “I didn’t say you were. I said you could say that you’d come across that way.”
“Well, if I did, and I didn’t, I guess I’m sorry.”
“Such a heartfelt apology.”
The tension between them had somehow dissipated. Suddenly, they were grinning at each other.
“Sometimes I can get overzealous and preachy,” Jamie confessed, gazing at him from beneath her eyelashes. “And you’re right, I do have a tendency to believe I’m right most of the time.” Her blue eyes danced roguishly. “Maybe because I usually am?”
He chuckled appreciatively. “While I won’t apologize for generously tipping the doorman, 1 admit that 1 shouldn’t’ve bribed Saran for your phone number.”
“Which you haven’t used yet.”
“I intend to remedy that and make full use of it.”
“You don’t really have to,” she swiftly assured him. “The only phone in our house is right in the kitchen where everybody hangs out. And listening in on conversations is a favorite Saraceni pastime, especially when the TV programs break for commercials.”
“1 guess that means you won’t talk dirty to me over the phone.” He feigned disappointment. “Maybe I won’t call after all.”
They laughed, gazing warmly at each other.
“Now we’re going to sing and we want everybody to join in,” the jovial Irish tenor announced into the microphone, his brogue thick and melodious. Song sheets with the printed words to the songs were being passed out, and somebody thrust one into Jamie’s hand.
“Oh, good, they’re doing ‘Clancy Lowered the Boom,”’ she exclaimed as the band sounded the first notes.
“We're supposed to sing?” Rand looked less than pleased. He’d thought they would be entertained by the Irish singers and dancers, but he hadn’t counted on having to take part in it himself.
Jamie sung along with the exuberant crowd, laughing when she missed a word or note. She might be cautious and controlled when it came to dating, but she had no reserve when it came to joining the crowd in song.
Rand shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t really the participant type; he much preferred observing. He’d always been a parallel type of person, not really engaging or involving himself with those around him—not even if it was the woman who happened to be sharing his bed.
Since childhood, perhaps in defense against his parents’ alternating indifference and disapproval, he’d held himself apart from others. It wasn’t until he had met Jamie that he’d felt this peculiar, inexplicable urge to get close, to abolish whatever obstacles—tangible or intangible—stood between them. He wanted to be close to her, and not just sexually. He wanted emotional intimacy, something he’d always been careful to avoid.
The term seemed to reverberate in his head. Emotional intimacy?
Rand broke out in a cold sweat. It was truly paralyzing, not to mention inconvenient, to be hit with a perceptive flash of insight in the middle of a barroom filled with people bellowing “Clancy Lowers the Boom.”
What was going on here? he wondered frantically. He had never been the introspective type. But now his own thoughts were beginning to sound gleaned from one of those pop psychology books that proliferated the best-seller list.
“Come on, Rand. Sing along,” Jamie urged, eyes sparkling.
He shook his head, preoccupied with the astonishing revelations being divulged there. He’d been accused of being commitment phobic by women who read those best-selling books about men who won’t love. He’d accepted the diagnosis without turning a hair; sometimes he even used it as a convenient excuse for his behavior.
But true commitment phobes didn’t hunger for the perils and pitfalls of emotional intimacy. The very thought would send them running. Rand gazed into Jamie’s warm, laughing eyes and knew he wasn’t going anywhere.
“You don’t have to look so horror-stricken,” Jamie teased, taking his hand. “You can’t sing any worse than I do.”
“Honey, what’s going on in my head is truly horrifying. And it has nothing to do with singing.”
Had she pressed him, he might have launched into his anticommitment diatribe, provoking another distancing fight between them. Instead, she joined in the next song.
The enthusiasm and infectious high spirits of the crowd were an antidote to brooding. Jamie wasn’t going to fight with him, and after awhile Rand ended up singing after all. They drank some green beer, sampled the authentic corned beef and cabbage, sang some more and made a few riotous attempts to learn an Irish folk dance.
Sometime after midnight, the band segued into a set of slow, romantic ballads. After the hours of noisy revelry, couples were ready to dance, slow and quiet. So were Jamie and Rand. Neither had to say a word. Hand in hand, they moved to the dance floor.
Rand pulled her close and molded her against him, his big hands masterful. Jamie twined her arms around his neck with a soft sigh as the golden warmth spread through her. They swayed slowly, their movements in sync, as if they’d been partners for years.
One of his hands glided slowly along the length of her back to cup her nape. He massaged it sensuously, his fingers tangling in the gold clasp of her necklace from which the small gold shamrock dangled.
He liked the idea of her wearing the jewelry he had given her; it seemed a kind of symbolic branding, which marked her as exclusively his. Of course wedding rings traditionally served that purpose. The renegade thought popped into his head and quickly,
in sheer self-defense, he banished it.
And concentrated on the intoxicating feel of her in his arms.
Hours later they parted at her front door after a long, passionate good-night kiss. It was nearly three a.m. and the small front porch was as illuminated as a turnpike toll-booth area, thanks to the incandescently brilliant porch light.
Rand shaded his eyes with his hand as he started down the front walk. On impulse, he turned around to find Jamie standing in the doorway, watching him.
“Do you—uh—want to do something tomorrow?” he asked, striving for a diffidence he was far from feeling.
“1 promised Dad that I’d go to the beach with him and help Brandon and Timmy fly their new kites.”
“Dare I suggest it? Change your plans. Let one of the other members of your pluralistic household fly kites with your daddy and the kids.”
“There is no one else. Mom has some doll business, Cas-sie and Saran have to work at the mall, Steve is unavailable as usual, and Grandma isn’t into kite flying. Dad can’t help both kids at the same time—it really does take two adults.” “What about the boys’ own father?” persisted Rand. “Doesn’t he visit them on weekends? Let him take them.” “Oh, their father has visitation privileges.” Jamie’s mouth grew taut. “And two or three times a year he breezes in for a few hours, makes a lot of promises he doesn’t keep and then takes off again. That’s why I never break a promise I’ve made to Timmy and Brandon. Neither do Cassie or our folks. We want them to know that there are some people in this world who do keep their word.”
“Very admirable.” Rand was back on the porch step, within touching distance of her again. “But damned inconvenient for me. I suppose the only way I’ll get to see you tomorrow is if I offer to come along and fly a kite?”
“I’d like to have you come, but I certainly don’t expect you to,” Jamie said quickly.
“And what’s maddening is that you really mean it. This is no manipulative power play. You’ll go whether I come along or not. Which puts the ball firmly in my court.”
She smiled. “That’s tennis. We’re talking about kite flying.”
“Which 1 haven’t done for years.”
“You probably don’t do too many things. You have things done for you.”
“You make it sound like I’m some kind of inactive slug!” Rand protested. “I get lots of exercise. I work out at the club, run, swim, play tennis and racquetball and even an occasional game of golf.”
“Those are your male bonding activities,” Jamie said knowledgeably. “And I’m not talking about exercise. I mean that you don’t do anything with women except take them out for the occasional obligatory dinner, show or party. On the whole, if you’re spending time with a woman, you’re spending it in bed.”
“I can assure you, that when I’m in bed with a woman, I’m definitely doing something. With her.” He raised his brows suggestively. “Or to her.”
Much to her annoyance, she felt herself beginning to blush. “I knew you’d say something like that. I hoped that you would restrain yourself, but of course you didn’t.” “You think you know me so well,” Rand growled. “Am I correct in assuming that you’ve gleaned all this knowledge about male bonding activities and sexual socializing from your infamous brother Steve?”
It was particularly aggravating that she’d so accurately depicted his life, or life-style, as the case may be. “What have you been doing all these years? Following your brother around, taking notes?”
“Just listening and observing and filing things away in my mind.” Adding insult to injury, she glanced at her watch. “It’s very late, Rand. Good night and thanks for tonight. It was fun.”
“You already gave your perfunctory, polite little speech of dismissal. Right before I kissed you. It irritated me then and it irritates the hell out of me now.”
“I’m going inside. You just want to start another quarrel.”
“I just want to take you to bed and get you out of my system!”
He recoiled, appalled by his outburst. If she were to slam the door in his face and refuse to see him again, he knew it would be nothing less than he deserved.
But to his total incredulity, she laughed instead. “You’re not supposed to come right out and announce your true intentions, Rand. You have to keep your hidden agenda artfully concealed, disguised under a barrage of calculating smooth talk. Careful, Rand, you’re losing your cool. Steve would never make such a fatal slip.”
It warmed her that Rand had. Having him express hon-I est frustration, man to woman, was certainly preferable to being treated to insincere charm while being viewed as a sex object.
He stared at her, flummoxed, torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to strangle her. She was irrepressible. And relentlessly impertinent. And somehow she reached him on a level that no other woman ever had.
“You’re such a.. .a—” Words failed him. Damn, if he were writing a similar scene as Brick Lawson, he would have no trouble coming up with just the right witty rejoinder or trenchant barb. But as Rand Marshall, living his life, suddenly he was dumbstruck.
“’Night, Rand,” she called sweetly, turning to close the door.
“We’re not ending the evening this way,” he muttered. He had to reassert his dominance in this relationship. It was absolutely imperative. “Kiss me good night.”
“But we already—”
He caught both her hands and jerked her toward him. “No arguing. Just do it.”
Jamie stared up at him assessingly. He wasn’t really angry, she decided thoughtfully. Rather, he seemed disconcerted and uneasy. He wanted her, though he didn’t want to. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. How inconvenient for him! And he’d already made his feelings on inconveniences quite clear.
She felt the force of his gaze drawing her into him, bending her to his will, making her forget everything but the wonder and the magic she’d discovered in his arms. They’d had a wonderful time tonight, except when they’d been fighting, and even fighting with Rand was more interesting and exciting than doing anything else with anybody else. What she felt with him, for him, she’d never experienced before.
Her fingers crept up to trace the sensual outline of his mouth. Desire shuddered through her. He had such a gorgeous mouth. Tempting, sexy... She really wanted to kiss him, so very much.
“Rand,” she whispered. Her arms slipped around his neck, and her body was soft and pliant against his. Her senses spinning, she lifted her mouth to his and touched his lips with hers.
And then they were kissing, deeply, wildly, as colors exploded inside her head like an internal fireworks display. His big hand slipped into the bodice of her dress and cupped her breast. She was warm and softly rounded, and he caressed her, circling the stiff crest with his thumb, until she was whimpering with pleasure.
Abruptly, without warning, he moved away from her. Jamie gulped for breath and leaned weakly against the doorjamb.
“Good night, Jamie.” His eyes were glittering like polished jewels. He felt masterful, the powerful, conquering male. Her surrender had been absolute and unconditional. He’d proven to both of them that she was his, whenever he wanted.
Rand walked triumphantly to his car, leaving her gazing, troubled and bemused, at his retreating figure.
He paused as he opened the car door. “What time are you leaving for the beach tomorrow?”
“After church,” she replied huskily. “Around noon.”
“I’ll see you then.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re coming with us?”
“I’ll be here at twelve.”
Jamie stood at the door, listening to the sound of his car roar along the quiet streets of Merlton. When silence descended once more, she flicked off the porch light and slipped inside.
She thought of him until she fell into a restless sleep, tossing and turning as she dreamed of a man with dark golden eyes whose skilled hands caressed her, learning her most intimate secrets, whose hard, sensual lips c
arried her to previously unimagined heights of pleasure.
She awoke, her skin flushed, her body throbbing, with Rand’s name on her lips.
Nine
On Sunday afternoon Rand and Jamie drove to nearby Long Beach Island with her father and her nephews, Brandon and Timmy. They tramped onto the deserted beach with the two new red, yellow and blue kites. The requisite stiff breeze was present, but launching the kites took some skill and patience. Since Rand was around, Al Saraceni quickly opted to sit in a beach chair and read the Sunday paper.
Rand, remembering the kite-flying days of his youth, instructed the boys. “You don’t run to get the kite into the air. You stand with your back to the wind and slowly let out some of the string.”
He helped Timmy with one kite while Jamie and Brandon struggled with the other. When both kites were flying high, the two little boys took over.
“You know how to fly kites real good,” an admiring Brandon told Rand.
“Our family chauffeur, Moses Scott, taught my brother and me how to fly them when we were about the same ages as you guys,” said Rand with a smile of reminiscence.
“A what?” demanded Timmy.
“A chauffeur. It’s someone who drives you places in the car,” Jamie explained. “You have five of them—your mom, your grandparents, Saran and me.”
Rand grinned at her explanation.
“Did your chauffeur wear a uniform?” Jamie asked curiously as they watched the boys run along the beach with the kites.
He nodded. “Moses was one of my favorite people when I was a kid. My brother and I were raised by the servants because our parents were never around. Lucky for me, I liked the servants better than my folks. A good thing because the servants liked me better than my folks did anyway.”
Jamie slipped her hand into his. He was talking about a world she could barely imagine. It sounded so different from her life, so cold and sad. “Let’s leave the kids with Dad and go for a walk,” she suggested softly.
“You want to be alone with me.” His mouth curved into a satisfied smile. “If I’d’ve known that the poor-little-rich-boy bit would work so effectively with you, I would have used it from day one.”
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