Summer Heat

by Carly Phillips

  Lance chuckled. Mothers were good. Dads were okay, but grandmas were the ultimate. “Yep.”

  Cody leapt up and gave Lance a huge, encompassing hug. “Oh, boy! I love my grandma!”

  Lance closed his eyes, smelling peanut butter and sunshine on the soft, round little body of his son. He felt almost dizzy with love. “She loves you, too, kiddo. Let’s go ask your mom if you can go see your grandma now.”

  Cody pulled back and nodded vigorously. Before Lance entirely let him go, Cody put his small hand on Lance’s cheek. “You’re my daddy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I call you Daddy?”

  Lance found his throat didn’t work. He nodded.

  * * *

  Life changed with blinding speed for Tamara over the next few weeks. Money and time—the two most strained commodities in her life for four years—were suddenly plentiful. Besides Lance’s generous sum for back child support, between Ty and Curtis, Louise, and Lance himself, Tamara found she also never had to worry about finding a baby-sitter.

  With the money, she was cautious. She invested most of it in a high-yield savings account. She bought Cody new clothes, and herself a new pair of jeans. And one Saturday morning, right after Lance came to pick up Cody, she went to Denver for the day. She brought home two things, a modest but powerful computer setup, and a spring catalog for the University of Colorado at Denver.

  The boxes were still sitting in the living room when Lance brought Cody home. She was cooking supper when they came in, chattering about trucks, and Tamara gathered they’d been to the warehouse where Forrest Construction kept their heavy equipment.

  “Mom!” Cody cried, running into the kitchen. “I got to ride in a tractor!”

  “Good for you,” she said, and kissed him. “Are you about ready to eat?”

  “I’m starving!”

  “Good. Go wash your hands and get ready.”

  He ran off. Tamara heard Lance in the living room, grunting over the computer, but she felt oddly frozen at the stove, her hand permanently attached to the wooden spoon in her hand.

  Three weeks, and not one night had passed that Tamara didn’t stay awake long after she should have been sleeping, thinking of Lance in her bed. Her pillows smelled of his hair, and the mattress held the notes of his skin. It was probably her imagination, but it felt real enough. She couldn’t climb under the covers without remembering the searing night they’d spent together there. She thought often that it would be easier to just sleep on the couch.

  Instead, she somehow slept there again and again, sinfully spinning erotic pictures of his mouth on her neck, his hands gliding over her body. Over and over again, she thought of him coming into the kitchen that morning, and planting that single kiss on her mouth.

  The vivid imaginings spilled over into her waking life, making it hard to look Lance in the eye when he came to get Cody, or dropped him off. She was afraid he’d see the longing in her eyes.

  Because he seemed to accept this new, platonic relationship without any trouble. He was polite and distant, in order to give her dignity, she supposed. One night, when she was coming home from work, she’d seen him in his car with a laughing brunette, very elegant and slim. Obviously out on a date.

  She tried not to think about it.

  Tonight he was lingering longer than usual. Generally, he simply walked Cody to the door, came in for a moment and left again. She wondered what was keeping him tonight.

  The computer. Of course. Maybe he might even know how to set it up. Putting the spoon down, she hurried into the other room.

  But coming onto him suddenly was not a good idea. He knelt before the boxes, one strong hand on the computer box. His coat was shed carelessly on the couch, and the sleeve of his shirt was rolled three quarters of the way up, showing that beautiful, vein-ridged forearm. His hair had gone uncut for awhile, and it spilled over his collar, thick and golden and touchable.

  A wave of such violent desire struck her that Tamara couldn’t remember what had brought her into the room. She stopped in the archway, breathless with want.

  He looked up, and for one wishful moment, Tamara thought she saw the same hunger in his eyes. It disappeared in an instant, replaced by a smile that held not a trace of guile or seduction. “You got a computer. Good move.”

  His voice, sounding so normal, broke the heated spell. Tamara lifted her eyebrows ruefully. “It seemed like a great idea at the time, but you know me and machines—now I’m afraid to set it up.”

  “Well, ma’am, it just so happens that I know a little about it. Would you like me to do it for you?”

  No. Yes. Both answers rose in her mind. If she said okay, she’d have to endure his company for much longer than she thought she could bear it. If she said no, the computer might sit in its boxes for weeks while she developed enough nerve to tackle it.

  She couldn’t decide.

  Lance carefully put the instruction booklet aside. “I guess you’d like a little time alone with Cody, huh? I understand.” He rose and reached for his coat.

  “No. I mean, that’s not it.” She felt an embarrassing blush rise in her face. “I would like your help, but I’m reluctant to ask anything more of you.” She lifted a shoulder. “You’ve been so kind already.”

  “Well, how about a trade?” He cocked his head. “You feed me some of that supper that smells so good, and I’ll set up the computer right afterward.”

  “It’s just spaghetti,” she said. “But you’re more than welcome.”

  “Just spaghetti,” he echoed. “Sounds excellent. I’m so sick of canned green chili I could die.”

  “Canned green chili? Yuck.”

  He shrugged. “Exactly. I’m dying for home-cooked food, and unfortunately, my mother will not take pity on me every single night. I’m only allowed once or twice a week.” He gave her his dazzling grin. “She says I’m plenty old enough to have learned to cook for myself.”

  Tamara chuckled, her nervousness easing with the conversation. “She’s right.”

  “I can cook. It’s just boring to cook for yourself. You ever notice that?”

  There was a hint of loneliness in his words, and Tamara was suddenly glad to be able to provide something small to ease it. “Come on. We’ll eat in the kitchen.”

  * * *

  Lance couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Tonight she wore a dark green sweater that had seen better days. He liked the way the old threads shaped themselves to her body, cupping her breasts, molding her slim waist, even giving him a glimpse of soft white breast peeking over the V neck every now and then. Instead of her usual jeans, she wore a simple full skirt, warm and long, with socks on her feet. It made her look feminine and sweet.

  As they ate, his wretched imagination kept giving him alluring visions of the body below that sweater, of those jade-green eyes heated to twice their intensity when she was filled with desire and him. He kept imagining the way it would feel to kiss her, slip his hand inside her sweater, make her cry out again. He kept remembering how responsive she was, so richly accepting of her body’s demands that she had come apart against him.

  He wanted to do it again.

  But he kept his conversation light, telling jokes about the job they were doing for a fussy suburbanite who’d changed her mind about the position of light fixtures three times. He played straight man to Cody’s knock-knock jokes. Tamara laughed easily, and filled his plate twice, and seemed completely unaware of the effect she had on him. It drove him crazy.

  Cody, worn-out after the long day, was cranky through most of the meal, and Tamara picked him up firmly after he’d drank a cup of milk. “I think someone needs an early bedtime,” she said to Lance. “If you want to get started on the computer, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Lance stood up, smiling, and bent close to kiss Cody’s cheek. He did it partly for Cody, but partly to get close to Tamara, as well, close enough he sensed her warmth. Close enough her hair brushed his cheek. Close enough he found himself ins
tantly, painfully hard.

  “Night,” he said.

  “Night, Daddy,” Cody replied, laying his head on his mother’s shoulder. Lance turned away, hiding himself behind the table. Maybe she wouldn’t notice. But maybe she would.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said. Her voice was perfectly even.

  He scraped and stacked the plates and wiped off the stove and counter. He wouldn’t take the time to do the dishes because it was going to be tough enough to get out of here without making an idiot of himself as it was. She’d made it perfectly plain she didn’t want him—that he wasn’t her kind of man, and Lance had enough sense to know it was true. He’d get the computer together and get the hell out of here.

  By the time she returned, he’d opened all the boxes and taken the components out, examining each one for any sign of trouble or tampering. It was a good machine—not fancy, but very good. When she returned, he said as much. “You must have done your homework.”

  “Actually, I don’t know very much about it.” She sat in a chair by the lamp and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “The guy in the store was very helpful. He even gave me a fifteen percent discount on the price.”

  Lightly, to fight the rise of jealousy he felt, Lance said, “Must have thought you were cute.” He looked up to gauge her reaction.

  She smiled, and it was a very womanly, knowing smile. “I think you could be right.”

  Lance fought the wild, dark emotion that rose in him at the thought of some other man with his hands on her. He tried to summon a devilish comment or wicked smile, but they both deserted him. “Well, I’m glad you got a good deal.” He shifted his gaze from her eyes and halted.

  The sweater she wore was made of some kind of open weave, with little holes that didn’t mean much—until the light was behind her. As it was now.

  It illuminated everything, coming from behind to highlight one breast perfectly under the loose fabric. He felt electrified as he absorbed the simple beauty of the light touching her that way, washing down her slim side, curving around her ribs, kissing the edge of a nipple. A nipple, he noticed with a wave of dizziness, that was unmistakably aroused.

  He looked up. Before she could hide it, he saw a naked yearning on her face, an expression of such furious hunger that it knocked the wind out of him. Slowly he put down the instruction packet in his hands.

  Deliberately this time, he let her see him look at her—at her face, at her beautiful, seductive mouth, at her throat and at her breasts. She didn’t move, and the air was so thick with the promise of their passion that Lance felt dizzy. “You know,” he said quietly, “the light comes right through that sweater. I can see your breasts like you were naked.”

  He almost didn’t hear her, she spoke so quietly. “I know.”

  She’d done it on purpose. Sat in that chair knowing he would see her body and be tempted. The thought shattered his control. He stood up and walked to the chair, not caring that she might be able to tell this time that he was aroused. He dropped to his knees before the chair, and reached for her.

  At the first brush of his hand over her shoulder, Tamara made a pained sound, and he lost it. He pulled her close, tugging her legs around him. She came willingly, wrapping herself around him, pressing her body close to his. His hands fell almost savagely in her hair and he hauled her to him, plunging his tongue in her mouth with a groan. That sweet mouth, so eager and hungry and deep.

  But not enough. He felt blind and deaf and dumb, aware only of the violent need of a woman he could not get out of his head. He reached for the edge of her sweater and pulled, frustrated that he could not get it off quickly enough. It stuck on her shoulders, and he bent his head to kiss that creamy flesh, following her collarbone to the hollow of her throat, struggling to free her from the sweater.

  All at once, it tore with a sound that seemed very loud. Tamara cried out, pulling him closer, and with a cry, he tore harder. It tumbled off her shoulders, catching at her elbows. Lance unfastened the bra below, freeing her breasts to his mouth, to his hands. Her skin was silky, supple, warm, and he felt he would explode. He thought he’d imagined how she felt, that no one could be so beautiful to the eye and to the touch and to the taste. But she was. He sucked her deeply into his mouth, kneading her hips with his hands, feeling her fingers digging into his flesh.

  And this time, he wouldn’t lose her. Not this time. He reached below her skirts and yanked off her panties, and freed himself, and there, kneeling before her, her torn sweater falling around her beautiful breasts and graceful shoulders, Lance entered her with one sure, clean stroke.

  Like the rest, this was violent. She moved to accommodate him, clinging to his shoulders, her legs clasped around him. Her skirt draped his thighs, and he clutched her ass as his need rose to a wild screaming in him. Her name rose to his lips like a chant, like a lifeline, and he whispered it softly, over and over, his heart pounding with need and love and hunger and a thousand things he couldn’t name. He felt whole for the first time since he’d been in her bed, whole like uncut bread, like sunlight.

  He came apart against her, even as he tried to resist. She clutched him tightly and Lance shuddered, aching to cry out, knowing he couldn’t or he’d wake Cody. In a mindless, thoughtless, light-struck plane, he gave her himself on a level he knew he’d never given.

  She held out almost to the last instant, and then Lance felt her follow him, the spasms of her body wrenching around him, giving him the last possible heights of pleasure. She held him tight, arms and legs and body, and buried her face in his hair, making a quiet aching sound that stabbed clear through him, her hands dug deep in his hair.

  When it was spent, they did not separate. Lance sunk onto his knees, holding her close to him, kissing her shoulder, stroking her back, smelling her deep. She let herself be held.

  “You feel so good,” he said, and his voice was hoarse. “I’ve wanted you every minute of every day since the last time.”

  “Me, too,” she confessed against his neck. She straightened to look at him, their bodies still joined. “No.” The tattered sweater, revealing her nakedness, was almost unbearably erotic. He opened a palm on her shoulder and stroked her skin, the upper slope of her breast, her arm. “You’re passionate and sexy and beautiful.” He circled the tip of her breast with one finger. “You make me crazy, Tamara. I’m not kidding.”

  “I used to have a boyfriend,” she said, tracing the edge of the hair on his chest, “who hated it when I did something like that to try and seduce him.” She looked at him, suddenly earnest. “But I couldn’t stand for you to leave tonight without—” She halted, stricken.

  He kissed her urgently. “Don’t ever be ashamed with me. Not ever.” He clasped her face between his hands and kissed her again, very gently. He closed his eyes to concentrate on just the sweetness of her mouth, and a thickness filled his throat. He wanted to protect her, to please her, take care of her. “I think that man must have been an idiot.”

  “I think he was.”

  Now came the awkward part. They were both half-undressed and somehow there had to be some dignity to recomposing themselves. His legs were falling asleep. Gently he reached for the blanket on the chair, and pulled it forward to drape around her shoulders. “I must be getting old,” he said with a smile. “We have to move before I can’t walk tomorrow.”

  She clutched the blanket around her shoulders, and with a small sound, eased away. Her skirts fluttered down modestly, and the blanket covered her as she sat on the floor. Lance shifted and pulled his clothes back together, but when she would have moved away completely, he grabbed her. Settling in the chair, he tugged her hand, intending to cradle her in his lap for a while.

  Suddenly she went rigid. “Lance,” she said, horror on her face. “We didn’t use a condom.”

  A cold wash of claustrophobia struck him. He’d never, ever forgotten such a thing before. What the hell was wrong with him?

  But he had a sick feeling that he knew.

 
The wild man of Red Creek, with a string of women from here to Timbuktu, had fallen in love, fallen in love with a woman he could not allow himself to want.

  Jake had been right, that snowy cold morning. Lance had it bad. And instead of falling for someone like himself, someone with a wild streak who might forgive the odd night lost to drink or wanderlust or any number of sins, Lance had lost his head over a woman who needed to be safe and secure and steady. All the things he wasn’t.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tamara lay within the circle of Lance’s embrace and tried to ignore the war of emotions in her breast. Her head fit exactly into the cradle of his shoulder, and his arms fit comfortably around her. So right. He was so right.

  Even this moment, which could have been awkward and strange, was not. They curled together in the chair without speaking, a warmth and comfortable silence pulsing between them, a silence that needed no artificial bracing.

  Under her ear, Tamara could hear his heart beating, a dear and intimate sound. Hearing it, Tamara put her hand over the place, on his silky-haired chest, and wanted to tell him that she loved him. She wanted to tell him she loved the gentleness of his hand in her hair now, in contrast to the hungry violence of their joining. She wanted to tell him that the scent of his skin in her nose was like all the best of a mountain summer, like a meadow at noon. She wanted to tell him he was the most generous, kind man she’d ever known.

  But her confession would burden him, and instead, she simply turned her face to his chest and nuzzled him.

  His embrace tightened, and under her ear, his heart moved faster. She wondered what he would say if he could find the courage. She wondered if he felt the same strange comfort with her that she did with him.

  “I’m sorry about that, Tamara,” he said into the quiet.

  “About what?”

  “About the condom. It never even crossed my mind.” His hand slid up and down her back, kneading and circling. “You won’t get sick or anything—I swear. I got tested a couple of months ago for a physical, and you’re the only woman I’ve slept with in six or eight months.”