Summer Heat

by Carly Phillips

  * * *

  A faint, faraway ringing yanked Lance from his fathomless, dreamless sleep, and he sat up abruptly, the recliner slamming closed. His arm tangled in a blanket, and his foot was asleep, and—where the hell was he?

  He blinked hard, trying to erase the fuzziness on him, and spied a toy car on the floor. Oh, yeah. Tamara’s house. He must have fallen asleep.

  He didn’t see her, but the evidence of her was scattered all over the table—notebooks and papers and pencils and textbooks. From the kitchen, he heard her voice, soft and pleasant, like wind in the trees on a summer morning.

  With effort, he untangled himself from the blanket and leaned back once again in the chair. The woman was going to think he was a basket case—he’d nearly wept right out there in the yard, and then he’d fallen asleep in her chair.

  Not exactly his usual modus operandi.

  Somehow, he couldn’t find it in him to care. His limbs felt heavy and thick, and he couldn’t summon the energy to move just yet. It was so comfortable here. Not just in the chair, but in the house.

  It was obvious she had little money—the couch had worn places that the blanket had covered, and nothing matched. But there were framed prints on the walls—maybe cut from a calendar of Impressionist art, judging by the matched size and spirit of them. He liked the way she had hung them, not all in a line, but scattered high and low over the whole wall. In one corner was a basket of dried mountain plants, attractively arranged with a branch of aspen coins providing the centerpiece. There were small lamps here and there, creating inviting islands of light. The house even smelled good, like spice and cooking and bubble bath.

  It was comfortable. Almost protective.

  He’d forgotten how warm a woman could be. He’d forgotten that high country women naturally saw to the feeding and care of any weary town person in her path, as Tamara had tended him tonight. He was almost absurdly grateful.

  She came back in the room, not noticing he was awake. She glanced at her watch and sighed. So pretty, he thought blurrily. So feminine and strong all at once. “Hey,” he said. “How did that test go this morning?”

  “You’re awake!” She brushed a lock of hair from her face, tugged down her simple T-shirt, crossed her arms. He doubted that she realized how nicely the pose displayed her round, high breasts. Until she noticed him noticing. She dropped her arms, put her hands on her hips, didn’t like that, either, and shifted from foot to foot.

  Still sprawled backward in the chair, Lance grinned very slowly. She was flustered. That must mean she liked him a little bit. Women didn’t bother to get flustered around men they didn’t like.

  “Must not have done too well, if you won’t even tell me what you got,” he said.

  “I flunked.” The words were without rancor, and she inclined her head. “To tell you the truth, I was going to blame you, Mr. Forrest, but I didn’t study the right chapter.”

  She looked good. Like a Sunday afternoon in a meadow. Like a good bottle of wine. Like everything calm and soothing in the world.

  Like good sex.

  Sleepily he blinked. Yeah, that, too. That plump mouth, her pretty breasts, that hint of fury and passion in her green eyes. Unless he missed his guess—and if he knew anything, it was women—she hid a very passionate nature behind all that no-nonsense busyness.

  “Blame me?” he echoed with a smile. “What did I do?”

  She looked away, tracing the edge of her book with a fingernail. The thick hair fell over her face, hiding it, but he saw the blush pinken the skin of her chest. Ah-ha.

  “Nothing. I just wanted to blame someone.” She tossed her hair from her face. The pointed chin jutted upward. “But I was just dumb.”

  “Nah,” he said, standing up. “Never that.” In a couple of long strides, he closed the distance between them. He stopped in front of her, acting purely on instinct. Lifting one hand, he brushed his fingers over the greenish bruise that marked her face. “Maybe you were just distracted.”

  It was the second time he’d touched her. And for the second time, he noticed her skin was almost astonishingly soft and silky. Caught by the texture, he ran his fingers over her cheek. She didn’t move away, but she lowered her gaze. He touched her thin eyelids, traced her eyebrows, which were as dark as her hair, and shaped like bird wings. “Your hair is so dark.”

  “My father was half Choctaw.” The response was automatic enough he knew she said it a lot.

  A dizziness—maybe exhaustion or loss or simple appreciation—moved through him. She was as easy to enjoy as a dandelion growing in a forgotten lot. And like a dandelion, he suspected she had long and sturdy roots, a stubborn will to survive that would not be easily killed.

  He lifted his other hand to her face and cupped the piquant shape between his palms, spreading his finger open so he could touch as much of that tender skin as possible. “Wow,” he said, and couldn’t think of anything else to add.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Your skin is so soft I just want to feel it. Do you mind?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. She raised her lids, revealing the dusky heat in her eyes. He doubted she knew that it showed so plainly, so alluringly. “Please don’t,” she said.

  But her body betrayed her. She shivered a little and her lips looked suddenly moist and ready.

  Lance kissed her. It was done with no thought, no planning. He just bent his head and tasted her lips. It seemed like such a simple, obvious thing to do.

  But it wasn’t simple. A bolt of something pure and clean moved through him as their lips touched, a physical sensation as powerful as a plunge into the ocean. Her lips tasted faintly of lemon tea and salt, and they fit his with an extraordinary perfection, as if their mouths had been carved together, long ago in another world, and only now fit together again.

  It was so unexpectedly satisfying that Lance didn’t even feel any need to go within. There was enough just right there, in the sweetness of lips too long untouched—and hungry, by the way she returned the kiss—and the discovery of a mouth so flawlessly molded to his own. When he inclined his head, she moved the other way; when he moved, she moved.

  Her hands came up to catch his wrists, as if to pull his hands away. But she didn’t. She only curled those small cold fingers around his arms and held on. He kissed her, and she kissed him back—small, delicate, nibbling kisses that explored this place and then another, kisses that grew longer and warmer and moister.

  Before it could be too much, or he pushed farther than he wanted or she needed, Lance lifted his head. Still holding her face, he tasted his mouth with his tongue. “Mmm,” he said, and was surprised at the husky sound of it.

  She pulled free, her color high. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “So do I.” He ran a hand through his hair, feeling how tousled it was. Weariness made him unstable on his feet. God, he’d never been so tired! “Your car is fine now. You shouldn’t have any problems.”

  Tamara dug in a backpack and came up with his keys. She put them in his hand. “What was wrong with it?”

  There had actually been quite a lot wrong. The radiator had a crack and he’d had it replaced, but he knew she didn’t have any money. He’d seen her panic this morning. One thing having money let him do was little things like this, without anybody ever having to know. It somehow made it better to have it in the first place, when so many people did not. “It wasn’t much. The spark plug and some crossed wires. Joe got it fixed.”

  “Joe Moran?”

  “Right. I paid him, so you can just pay me when you can. It was twenty-three dollars.” He grinned. “Well, actually $23.09, if you want to be exact.”

  Visible relief broke on her face. “Good. I have it right here.” She counted the bills from her wallet, and with a grin, plucked a dime to put on top. “So we’re square.”

  He chuckled and pocketed the money. From the back of a chair, he took his jean ja
cket. “Don’t forget, now. Cars don’t like to be sworn at. You didn’t swear at my darlin’, now did you?”

  “How could anyone swear at that car? It runs like cheetah. ”

  “Amazing, isn’t she?” He put his jacket on. “I used to have one in high school, but a crazy woman trashed it when she got mad at me.”

  “Trashed it? How?”

  “She took a hammer to the windows and the lights, and slit the tires.” He frowned, remembering how wounded and furious he’d been, coming out of the school to find the car destroyed. “And as if that wasn’t enough, she put holes all over the body with a screwdriver.”

  “Good grief! What was she so mad about?” Tamara was surprised. Valerie’s version of their ill-fated romance had not included these things.

  “I broke up with her.” He shrugged. “That was about the fifth or sixth time I tried. She was crazy, that girl.” He shook his head, remembering. “Crazy Valerie. I wonder what happened to her.”

  A sudden cold infused the room. “She died,” Tamara said abruptly.

  “What?”

  Tamara’s eyes glittered with an icy light, and her posture was definitely not friendly now. “Valerie Jensen, right? She drove herself off a cliff.”

  A pang touched him. “Poor kid. When did it happen?”

  “A little over four years ago.”

  “That’s really sad.” Sobered, he remembered seeing her one Christmas. She’d seemed better then. Better enough that he’d hooked up with her against his better judgment.

  Tamara’s chilly silence finally penetrated. He glance over at her, and was surprised to see pure hatred on her face. “Hey, I didn’t do it,” he said, lightly. “I swear.”

  “Nobody said you did.” Her words were dry and weary. “She was my cousin, Lance. I loved her.”

  He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.” He’d been planning to exit with an invitation to dinner, but maybe this wasn’t exactly the best timing. “I guess I’ll see you around,” he said.

  “Good night.”

  At the door, he hesitated, and looked back at her. Rigidly, she stood by the table, but her eyes were not quite so cold. “Thanks for supper,” he said, and left, closing the door behind him.

  * * *

  Tamara sank wearily into the chair, her limbs trembling with the roller coaster of emotions she’d ridden tonight. Compassion, fear, desire, fondness and pure, furious lust when he’d kissed her. Now a wild sense of betrayal and sorrow mixed with guilt.

  Crazy Valerie.

  What was she doing? From the moment he’d arrived in town, Tamara had been promising herself she’d find revenge. And what had she done instead? Laughed with him. Admired him. Wanted him.

  She buried her face in her arms. Oh, yes, she wanted him. The kiss lingered like poison on her lips. His hands, so big and callused and gentle, clung in ghostly imprints to her cheeks. He was excruciatingly tender, and yet the promise of wild, pure pleasure was there in every tiny brush of his lips, his hands, his exploring, curious fingers.

  Crazy Valerie.

  No wonder Valerie had been so smitten. Tamara had been in his presence four times, and her head was already crammed full of erotic imaginings. He gave the impression of sinfulness, combined with a surprising sweetness, and a promise of long, playful, hedonistic sex.

  What woman, with even one hormone left in her body, could resist that heady combination?

  Crazy Valerie.

  Tamara had no right to be thinking of him in this way. No right to betray her cousin’s memory because she was lonely and Lance offered a respite from the daily grind.

  She lifted her head, narrowing her eyes. He was charming and sexy and plainly liked women of all kinds, and had decided Tamara might be a nice diversion.

  Valerie had likely thought he was a nice guy, too. Until she had got to know him. Until he broke her heart. Until he used her and left her—pregnant—sending Valerie literally over the edge.

  Firmly, Tamara slammed her books closed. She’d do well to remember what had happened to her cousin. Maybe revenge was out of the question, since Tamara couldn’t trust herself in his presence. But she wouldn’t fall prey to his charm, either.

  She’d just stay away from him.

  Chapter Six

  Friday night, Lance walked into the Wild Moose Inn. It was just past nine, and the evening was in full swing. A Bob Seger oldie blasted from the jukebox, and there were couples moving on the small dance floor by the rest room.

  He’d arranged to meet his brothers here for a drink, coaxing even reclusive Tyler into an evening on the town. Lance paused just inside the door, looking for them. The place was packed full of men in their best Friday-night jeans, and women in blouses made to show off their attributes to best advantage.

  A fist of depression struck him, forcing the air from his lungs. Too much noise. Too many people. He hesitated, wondering if he ought to just turn around and go home. The apartment he’d taken was small and cheerless, without any personal touches thus far, but at least he wouldn’t have to face anyone there.

  Then he caught sight of Tamara behind the bar. A nearly audible sense of relief moved through his limbs in a whoosh, and caught; Lance let himself feast on the sight of her.

  Somehow she managed to look both friendly and frazzled. Her dark hair was swept up into a loose knot that let wisps fall down her slim white neck. She moved efficiently, retrieving beers, taking money, laughing on time at a joke someone at the bar made.

  She saw him. He lifted his chin in greeting, a smile ready on his lips. If Tamara were here, maybe the night wouldn’t be such a trial. But in response to him, her face hardened, grew cold and distant. She returned his greeting with a faint, tight smile and turned her attention back to the man at the counter.

  Lance frowned. In the two weeks since he’d last seen her, he’d thought of her often. More often, really, than was comfortable. Women didn’t usually get under his skin, but Tamara seemed to have done just that. He couldn’t stop remembering how comfortable she made him feel. How much at ease.

  The kiss had ruined it. He’d known even when he’d done it that it was wrong. Wrong for her, anyway. The memory of that long, chaste press of lips lingered in his memory like golden honey.

  Rubbing absently at the ache in his midsection, he spied his brothers way back in a dark corner. Lance joined them. “Are we in hiding back here?”

  “Ty got here first,” Jake said with a wry grin, shaking the tumbler of Scotch in his hands.

  Ty had braided his pale, long hair, and had even shaved the wheat-colored grizzling of beard from his jaw. “We can move if you want.” He shrugged. “It makes no difference to me. I just didn’t want to have to make conversation with anybody.”

  Lance grinned. “You’re a hermit, man.”

  “I’m here.” Ty lifted a bottle of Guinness stout and scanned the room as if it were filled with dragons. “Don’t know why you guys couldn’t come up to my place.”

  “Tyler, let me tell you something.” Jake slid close and put his arm around Ty. He gestured with one long-fingered hand. “You see that table over there? We call those women. They’re nice and soft, and good for what ails you.”

  “Not interested.” Tyler said. His mouth tilted in a faint, derisive smile. “But I’m guessing the blonde wants you bad, Jakey. Such a surprise.”

  Lance glanced over his shoulder to see who they were talking about. Not far away was a table of five or six women, not one past twenty-five. A couple of them were very pretty, a couple more not bad. One was quite heavy, and looked hopeful. The blonde Tyler mentioned was about twenty-two, dressed in a city style with a sleek haircut that marked her as one of the rich kids that vacationed up here. She cocked a smile toward them.

  “Yeah, Jake, you got her.”

  Jake lifted his glass in a toast, and the young woman returned the gesture. Jake said, “Excuse me, boys,” and slid out of the booth.

  Lance watched him. Jake’s dark hair was cropped close to his head, and h
is jaw was shadowed with a three-day beard. He wore a pair of jeans and boots, like a rancher, and a simple chambray shirt. The girls at the table visibly straightened at his approach. When he bent over to whisper in the blonde’s ear, she blushed and went to dance with him.

  “Damn,” Tyler said. “He’s a dog these days. I bet he’s dated twenty-five different women since he hit town a month ago.” Tyler lifted an eyebrow. “Thought that was your job.”

  “I’m too damned tired. Dad left a mess at the company.”

  “I’m not surprised. He was feeling pretty bad for about six months before he died. But you know Dad—doctors were for sissies.”

  The waitress stopped by and Lance ordered a beer. He looked at Jake, dancing and flirtatiously moving closer to the woman in his arms. In the uneven light from overhead, the gaunt hollows under his eyes and cheekbones were highlighted. “I’m worried about Jake,” Lance said. “I wonder if he ever sleeps.”

  “Sure doesn’t look like it.” Tyler shook his head. “I used to hate all that military neatness, but it’s too weird to see him like this.”

  “Wonder what happened?”

  “Whatever it is, he’s not talking.” He fixed his pale gaze on Jake. “Must have been something big. You know he left the army with only four years to full retirement?”

  Lance nodded. “What about you? How are you doing?”

  Tyler shrugged. “Same old, same old. I just do what I do.”

  “Still not dating at all?” Ty’s wife had died three years before, and he had rarely come down out of the mountains since.

  “It’s not that I made a vow or anything,” Ty said, his eyes clouding. “It’s just that I haven’t met a woman I wanted to date.”

  Lance knew better than to push. “I guess it just takes time. I bet you’ll find somebody sooner or later.” He grinned. “Of course, you have to actually talk to another woman every once in a while.”

  “I don’t really want another woman.” Tyler shrugged. “I’m just not interested.”

  The waitress brought the beer and Lance paid her. He glanced at the bar. Tamara worked steadfastly. Her blouse was a pretty green thing with a scoop neck, and he liked the way it made her look like a wistful romantic heroine. “You know the bartender?”