No More Mr. Nice Guy

by Jennifer Greene

  “Now just relax, kick off your shoes and prepare for a feast,” Alan called over his shoulder. “You’re not allowed in the kitchen—I’ll bring you a glass of tequila.”

  “Tequila?” They both liked a can of beer during a football game and an occasional glass of wine with dinner. Tequila, never. “Alan, you haven’t been experimenting with any fancy Mexican sauces, have you?” she asked with alarm.

  Alan was bringing her a frosted glass of tequila with a layer of salt on the rim. “Will you sit down and trust me?” he scolded before disappearing into the kitchen again. “It’s not retried beans,” he called back by way of reassurance.

  Hmm. Still standing, Carroll took a sip from the glass, shuddered, and stared at the misleadingly innocuous clear liquid. It was pure and simple firewater…and it left a faint dusting of salt on her upper lip.

  Maybe it was the sting of the tequila, but her eyes abruptly started playing tricks on her. Alan’s apartment was normally as familiar as her own. A bay window looked onto a courtyard; his walls were cream-colored stucco; and his traditional furniture in brown and cream reflected comfort and neatness—except for the bookshelf crammed with medical journals.

  Carroll took another sip of the tequila, and let her tongue make a delicate swipe at the salt residue on her lip. The room hadn’t drastically changed, but her eyes were drawn with startling speed to the huge new oil painting that hung over his couch. As she studied the picture, the impressionistic blur of siennas and golds and flesh tones gradually settled into the shapes of a naked man and woman. And the longer she stared at it, the more obvious it became that the man and woman weren’t playing tiddlywinks.

  Heavens. Her gaze swiftly took in the rest of the room. All clutter had disappeared. His medical books and journals had been neatly put away. The only printed material left casually out was an expensive book of prints bound in hand-tooled leather. Orientals prints. Erotic Oriental prints. Alan never looked at that kind of thing.

  Or maybe he did.

  Absently, she rubbed a finger on her temple. Over the past two weeks, she realized that she’d been unfair to ever peg Alan into a predictable slot. And there was no question that she relished the discovery of dimensions in him—and in herself—she hadn’t known about before, but occasionally she felt…well…lost. She never knew what he was going to do next, and just a little of that old predictability would have been nice to hold on to. Not that he wasn’t entitled to buy an oil or look at sultry nudes if he wanted to.

  And maybe he’d suddenly developed a liking for pillows, because there were two huge rust-colored velvet ones on the floor. Put together, they were almost large enough to make a mattress. And next to them was a black onyx tray with three candles on it.

  Carroll’s eyes narrowed on the ripples of wax and charred wicks of the candles. They’d clearly been used. If Alan had been anyone but Alan, she might have immediately jumped to the suspicious conclusion that used candles and floor pillows and a suggestive painting on the wall added up to another woman in his life. She did not come to that conclusion; she simply took another rapid sip of tequila. She trusted Alan. Totally.

  “You’ve been making a few changes around here,” she called out conversationally.

  “A few. An old friend did the painting. Like it?”

  As long as his old friend was a man, she liked it just fine. “Colorful,” she murmured dryly.

  “Didn’t hear you?”

  “Very nice,” she called back. “Is your artist friend anyone I know?”

  He smiled by way of answer as he carried in a large tray from the kitchen. “You haven’t been making yourself comfortable,” he chided. “This is a shoes-off kind of dinner. I told you.”

  “Yes.” She studied the tray as she obediently slipped off her shoes, well aware Alan was lighting the three candles and switching out the other lights. The tequila suddenly settled in her stomach with a tattoo of Hello there, Nerves.

  So this was finally the night? But then, she’d known it was, and she wanted it to be; that was why she was wearing brand-new French panties and a violet bra under her sweater and slacks, why she’d bathed in perfumed water. And if she’d had any doubts that Alan was in the mood, he’d dispelled them with the kiss when he’d picked her up. That kiss was from a man who was tired of waiting.

  She’d responded like a woman who was tired of making him wait, but the tray in his hands was almost as diverting as the nude oil on the wall. “Alan, what is this?” Following his lead, she settled on the carpet with one of the huge pillows behind her.

  “Tapas. They call them ‘the small foods of Spain.’ You’re going to love these, Caro.” He pointed to each small plate on the tray, identifying the delicacies. “Quail with a thyme sauce. Rolled anchovy fillets on picks. Poached squid in a hot tomato sauce. Wild mushrooms, raw oysters and cactus paddles.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” She gave him a brilliant smile, her heart sinking. He’d gone to so much trouble. Every dish had been artfully arranged, all for her, but she didn’t have the fortitude to swallow an anchovy. As for the rest…

  “Thought it would be more fun to picnic on the carpet. Wait until you taste, kitten.”

  She was more than willing to wait, but he nudged a tidbit toward her lips. She clamped down, chewed delicately and reached quickly for the tequila, trying not to make the move appear violent or desperate. “That must be the squid?”

  He nodded. “I figured I’d experiment with one kind of foreign food a week. For next week, I found an entire cookbook full of recipes from Tibet; they call for spices I’d never even heard of. Anyway, Spanish tonight. Like it?”

  “Mmm.” To get her mind off the squid, she motioned to the pillows. “I should have some pillows like these in the classroom. The kids would love them. I don’t know if I told you about this little Miranda I’ve been working with, but—”

  “Carroll?”

  “Hmm?” She looked up, smiling.

  “No,” he said, gently but firmly. “Another time I’ll hear about her, sweet. But tonight we’re not going to talk about kids or work or anything…except us.” He watched her lips form a delicate O as the faintest color warmed her flesh. “That sweater looks lovely on you, Caro.”

  “This old thing?” The black sweater was new, cashmere with a low cowl neckline. The off-white wool slacks were also new, and the outfit was marvelously flattering to her figure. Misleadingly so, as she was only now beginning to realize. When she took off her clothes later, he’d find out exactly what needed to be hidden and what didn’t. She should have worn a sack.

  In the meantime, her heart refused to stop thumping in her chest. Hiding behind half-lowered lashes, she found she couldn’t take her eyes off Alan. Candlelight played on his strong features, glowed on his beard, added a flame and mystery to his eyes. He was a gentle man, but these past two weeks she’d had delicious, frightening, exciting, enticing glimpses of the passionate lover he could be. And because of him, she was just beginning to understand that she was much more sensual than she’d ever believed. Please, Alan, couldn’t we completely forget about dinner and just…

  He leaned toward her. Her breath stopped altogether. “You’ve got to try the cactus paddles,” he urged.

  “The…oh. I will, I will.” Her eyes dropped to the small plate he’d just filled for her.

  “I had to look pretty far and wide for something I knew you’d never tried before.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” she said softly, and entirely truthfully. By that time, she’d had a taste. “Really different,” she equivocated between gulps of tequila. Well? You didn’t cut a man down who’d spent an afternoon in the kitchen just to please you.

  He refilled her glass, and then leaned forward to brush the bits of salt from her upper lip. His thumb lingered, loving the texture of her mouth. That slight touch made her tremble, almost imperceptibly. It made every ghastly hour between sink and oven that afternoon worth it.

  His mind groped frantically for something
else. The dinner was going fine, but unfortunately it was just a dinner. Any man could have made her a romantic dinner. There had to be something more he could do, some completely new experience he could offer Caro…

  “Alan?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Would I know the name of the artist who did your painting?”

  He shook his head. “I doubt it. Her name’s Jennifer Spencer.”

  The mushrooms were close to edible, but suddenly wouldn’t go down. “You know her well?” Carroll asked casually.

  “Used to.” He considered capturing Caro’s expression on film, but didn’t have a camera handy. Her smile would have cut butter, but her eyes were sparklers. Jealousy, he thought contentedly. Rusty wheels turned in his head. “Old lovers—we all have them, don’t we, Caro?”

  “Yes, of course, we do.” Which she abruptly discovered was fine for her, but not at all for him. Who was the witch? Carroll glanced again at the painting, then flashed a demure smile at Alan. That oil was going to liven up a garage sale someday soon. “Did you know her long?”

  “Hmm.” He leaned back and switched the stereo on low. The speakers in the far corner moaned the faint sound of a rushing surf, as if the ocean were just out of reach in the dark room, bearable, smellable, tastable. Other men had undoubtedly played her plain old music. “Remember the first boy you went out with?” he asked idly.

  Since it was obvious she was no longer hungry, Alan pushed aside the tray, readjusted the pillows and drew Caro closer. She tucked her head willingly in the curve of his shoulder, her face lifted to his. She was waiting for him to kiss her, he could feel it. The pulse in her throat had a life of its own.

  He touched that pulse with a fingertip, felt a fierce answering chord of desire from deep inside him, and fought to control it. It would be so easy to make love to her now, but it was more than willingness he wanted from Caro, and for Caro. “Your first date?” he coaxed again.

  “Mmm…a boy named Kirk Polansky,” she said absently, barely aware of what she was saying. The candles and the dark room and the mystical ocean sounds and Alan’s hand, so gently fingering through her hair…her bloodstream announced that she was being set up. If any other man had tried it, she would have handed him his walking papers, but this was Alan. She loved being set up by Alan. Every nerve ending was increasingly ticklish with anticipation.

  “Tell me about it, Caro.”

  “About my first date?” She shook her head, chuckling up at him. “A terrible story, Alan. We went to a homecoming dance; his mother had to drive us. He had braces, five left feet, and kissed me at the door like a fish, lips all puckered up, eyes closed.” Humor sparkled in her eyes. “Which isn’t to cut him down, poor boy. At fifteen, I had braces and five left feet, too.”

  He smoothed her hair back, his fingers idly playing with the strands. “But you didn’t kiss like a fish.”

  “I may have.”

  “You didn’t,” he assured her. “How about the second boy you went out with?”

  “Don’t really remember,” Carroll admitted. “The next one I remember was…” She hesitated. Why were they talking about this? And the tequila must have gone straight to her head, because she hadn’t thought about such things in years.

  “Tell me,” Alan encouraged.

  “Oh…a boy named Mark.”

  “And you were how old?”

  “Sixteen or so.”

  “First love?”

  She flushed. “No, it was nothing like that.” Her fingers splayed on the silk folds of his shirt. Beneath, she could feel the warmth of Alan’s chest, the solidity of muscle, the comfort of his heartbeat. There was nothing she couldn’t tell Alan. “In high school, the boys called me ‘the challenge’ behind my back,” she said dryly. “It seems I built up a reputation for being a Goody Two-shoes. Anyway, Mark was tall and good-looking and strictly bad news—no decent girl in school would date him. Everyone knew he only wanted one thing.” Carroll chuckled, offering Alan a mischievous smile. “In short, he was the best chance I ever had to get into trouble and I blew it.”

  Not from where Alan was sitting. “I take it you didn’t go out with him?”

  “Oh, yes, I did. I even knew the football team had made bets on whether or not he would score. Darn it, that was partly why I accepted the date.” Carroll idly ran a hand through her hair, remembering. “Alan, you probably can’t understand this…”

  “Hey. Give me a try,” he coaxed lightly. Surely, she wasn’t afraid he would judge or criticize her? He would never do that. He did wonder fleetingly if the bastard was still alive.

  “Well…” She laughed, a little nervously. “You know how you are when you’re sixteen? You think nothing can hurt you, you’re sure the whole world is out there waiting for you to explore it, and you want to try everything at least once. I was so tired of that ice-maiden label, Alan, and maybe I just wanted to see what I was missing. I had big visions of a wild date. Maybe doing things I’d always wanted to do, like staying up until dawn, like climbing the sandstone mountains at Shades Park by moonlight, like canoeing on the Wabash at midnight.”

  Alan mentally stored those tidbits. “So what happened?” he encouraged.

  “He took me to a drive-in movie and spilled popcorn all over me,” Carroll said dryly. “Somehow that got us laughing. I think that spoiled his whole image as the football-team stud. I didn’t even get a kiss at the door, no pass, nothing, but believe it or not, we had a terrific time. A few days later, he even punched some guy who dared to ask how he’d made out with me. Darn it, the guy acted like my big brother for almost a year.”

  “Did he?” Amused now, Alan discovered an eyelash that had fallen on her cheek, a tiny black crescent of silk against cream-soft skin. He brushed it away with the pad of his thumb and then leaned back, studying her. His eyes turned thoughtful. “So…you were stuck with being a ‘good girl’ a little longer.”

  “Yup.”

  “No other chances to stay up until dawn?”

  “Plenty in college, when I used to study all night. Seeing the dawn that way just isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “No,” he agreed absently. For that matter, climbing around the sandstone hills in Shades State Park by moonlight struck him as a good way to get killed. Which left him only the last of her fantasies to act on.

  Regretfully, his gaze wandered over her slim form, over the soft slope of her breasts draped in black cashmere to the curve of her hips in white. Caro wasn’t tipsy, but she was definitely relaxed. He allowed himself one long moment of imagining her body without the black-and-white garments, all supple and lithe and willing and bare, then abruptly surged to his feet and reached down for her hand. “Up,” he urged.

  “What?”

  He switched on a lamp, bent over to blow out the candles and reached for her hand again. “I think it’s time you canoed on the Wabash at midnight.”

  Her lips parted in surprise. “Alan, I was just talking. It was just a sixteen-year-old’s fantasy, for heaven’s sake! We don’t have to—”

  “I’m afraid we do,” he announced firmly, and hoped she didn’t hear the regret in his voice. Possibly the last thing on earth he wanted to do was head out into a cold night in a canoe, but that wasn’t the point. Doing something absolutely special for Caro was the point. Tequila might have loosened the forgotten fantasy from her tongue, but a bulldozer couldn’t have stopped Alan from following through with it.

  “You can’t be serious,” Carroll said incredulously.

  He was already heading for the computer. It wasn’t going to be all that easy to find a canoe livery open after dark in late October. “Think you can manage to fit into a pair of my old jeans for a few hours?”

  ***

  The old codger waved them off from the riverbank. “Now, don’t worry about a thing, you two. Just remember, now, three miles down the river you’ll see the blue light—a big thing, no way you’ll miss it. I’ll be gone on home, mind you, but you just tie the canoe up secure w
hen you’re done, and the gate’ll be open so you can get your car out.”

  “Thank you again for everything,” Carroll called after him. A moment later, he was out of sight and she leaned comfortably back against Alan. “Nice old man, wasn’t he? Not many people would have been willing to go to such trouble for strangers.”

  Privately, Alan saw the codger a little differently, but then, privately he’d slipped the man a few bills, each one emblazoned with Ben Franklin’s face. The old guy’s shrewd eyes had lit up like Christmas lights. As he’d driven them to the landing, he’d repeated again and again that the two of them could use his canoes any time, any season, and any hour of the day or night.

  It didn’t matter. Sitting straight, Alan dipped the paddle into the smooth, quiet waters of the river. Carroll was half sitting and half reclining on a cushion, cradled between his legs, her head against his stomach. When she tilted her face up, she was smiling. “I’m afraid he thought we were nuts, Alan.”

  “Probably.” He added teasingly, “One of us does look like a vagrant.”

  “What’s this? You don’t like my outfit?” His jeans fit her just about as well as his corduroy jacket, and his old tennies stayed on her feet only because she had put on three pairs of socks. She could hardly have worn the outfit she’d had on at dinner for this venture, and to drive to her place for other clothes would have wasted time.

  “I love your outfit,” he assured her.

  Which was odd, Carroll thought. He looked at her as if black cashmere sweaters couldn’t begin to compete with oversized jackets and baggy jeans. Really, it was a very strange sensation, to be in love with a man who had such serious vision problems.