by Pamela Clare
I sure learned a lot about you, sweetheart.
She would set him straight on that score. He didn’t know anything about her.
Unable make the skirt’s zipper lie flat, she stripped it off and tossed it on the floor beside the other outfits she’d tried on. Then she turned to face the catastrophe of her closet. It wasn’t like her to fuss over clothes. But then she hadn’t felt much like herself all day.
She’d barely been able to concentrate at work. The lab results on the ice she’d taken from Northrup wouldn’t be available until the middle of next week, and the state had until Monday to respond to her open-records request. She’d tried to focus on deciphering the documents Mr. Marsh had given her, only to have her thoughts drift time and again to Reece.
The hard feel of his arms around her as he’d kept her from falling on the ice. The hot kiss of his fingers on her cheek as he brushed a strand of hair from her face. His devastating smile.
No man had the right to be that sexy.
No, she corrected herself, Reece Sheridan wasn’t a man. He was a politician. As long as she remembered that, she’d be fine.
She glanced at her alarm clock and felt her stomach knot. He would be here in fifteen minutes, and she still wasn’t dressed.
“Mommy, what’s this?” Connor held up her mascara. He had long since grown bored with the Sponge Bob DVD she’d put on to entertain him and had taken to playing with the antique perfume bottles on her vanity.
“It’s mascara. It makes women’s eyelashes longer and darker.” She searched through the hideous assortment of work clothes hanging in her closet and reached for the black velvet dress she’d worn to last year’s Christmas party.
“Why do women want their eyelashes to be longer?”
“Because we’re silly and think longer, darker eyelashes will make men fall in love with us.” She slipped the dress over her head, pulled it down over her hips, and looked in the mirror. The soft material clung to her skin, while the plunging princess neckline made it seem like she had breasts. But would he think she was wearing it to impress him? She certainly didn’t want him to think she’d put any special effort into getting ready for this date.
“Is a man going to fall in love with you?”
She turned sideways and gazed at her profile. “Apparently not in this lifetime.”
The doorbell rang.
Her heart gave a violent leap, and she hurried to her bedroom window.
The baby-sitter.
“Come, Connor. Sierra’s here.”
Kara quickly filled Sierra in on the basics—how long to heat Connor’s mac and cheese in the microwave, which DVDs he liked most these days, how to reach her in case of trouble—while trying to ignore the way the teenager constantly flicked the metal in her newly pierced tongue against her teeth. She had just slipped into a pair of black tights and Victorian-style boots when the doorbell rang again.
Pulse racing, she took one last look in the mirror and touched up her lipstick.
What in the world were you thinking, McMillan?
She turned away from her reflection, forced herself to take a deep breath, and walked down the hallway to answer the door, trying to pretend that she was like Holly and went on dates with gorgeous men every night.
Another man, another night.
She opened the door and forgot to be nervous, forgot to think, forgot to breathe.
He stood outside in his long gray overcoat, a smile on his firm, sensual lips. “Kara.”
Despite the cold, his coat was unbuttoned, giving her a glimpse of the crisp, white shirt, burgundy silk tie, and charcoal tailored slacks he wore beneath it.
If he ever gets tired of politics, he can always model for Playgirl.
The thought flickered through her mind and then vanished as embarrassment set in.
“Reece. Come in out of the cold. I’ll just get my coat.” She opened the door for him and walked down the hallway to the coat closet. She had just pulled her dress coat from its hanger when Conner came bouncing out of her bedroom and down the hallway with something in his hand.
“Mommy, what’s this jiggle stick?”
She looked up to see her son standing not two feet away from Reece with her purple jelly vibrator in his hand. And he was shaking it, making it waggle back and forth.
“Oh, my God! Connor!” Blood rushed to her face, and she grabbed it from her son’s hands. “Give me that!”
If she could have vanished from the face of the earth in that instant she would have gladly done so. Unable to meet Reece’s gaze and ignoring Sierra’s amused giggles, she hurried down the hallway, feeling utterly and completely humiliated.
Beautiful, McMillan! Now Senator Reece Sheridan has seen your vibrator!
There was absolutely no chance that he had mistaken it for anything but a sex toy because the damned thing looked just like a penis.
A huge, purple penis.
A huge, purple, veined penis, for God’s sake!
Her insides withered and shrank, and she wondered for a moment if she could barricade herself in her bedroom and stay there forever.
Then she saw that her sock drawer was open. It wasn’t hard to figure out what had happened. Connor had been with her while she’d been putting on her tights. She must have left the drawer open. And he’d found her vibrator lying on top—right where she’d left it last night after fantasizing about a certain state senator.
She dropped the device back into her drawer, slammed it shut, and sat on the edge of her bed.
She was never going to be able to face Reece Sheridan again.
REECE BIT his tongue and vowed not to laugh. He’d seen the look of horror on Kara’s face and knew she was embarrassed beyond words.
Jiggle stick.
“Mine’s black,” offered the teenage baby-sitter with a shrug before walking over to the television and shuffling through a pile of DVDs.
Reece kept a straight face and knelt down until he was eye to eye with Kara’s son. “You must be Connor.”
The kid was adorable, with his mother’s elfin facial features and her dark hair, paired with big, brown eyes. He eyed Reece curiously and nodded. “Who are you?”
“My name is Reece, and I like the Broncos, too.” He pointed to Connor’s Denver Broncos T-shirt. “I bet you have your own football.”
Connor smiled, nodded. “Do you want to see it?”
“You bet.” Reece found himself wondering who the boy’s father was and why Kara had never married the man.
Connor turned and scampered down the hallway just as his mother reappeared.
She was dressed in a black velvet dress that seemed to be airbrushed onto her slender body. It was cut low enough to reveal the soft curves of her breasts. Her long dark hair was pulled back from her face in a barrette. Simple pearls adorned her ears. The faint scent of perfume floated gently in the air around her.
Classy. Elegant. Sexy as hell.
Reece’s gut instinct was to skip dinner and focus instead on satisfying a more basic hunger. He wanted to get her out of that dress as quickly as possible, to peel away the black velvet and let his hands savor the silk of her skin. But first he would use his mouth to smear that glistening red lipstick of hers all over the place.
Unfortunately, he could tell that was not what she had in mind.
“Reece, I’ve been thinking maybe this isn’t a good idea.” She didn’t look him in the eye, and he could tell she was mortified.
“I think it’s the best idea I’ve had in a long time. You look beautiful.” He took her coat from her arm, and held it up for her, refusing even to consider leaving without her. “Come to dinner with me. We’ll talk. Nothing more.”
She looked into his eyes as if measuring the sincerity of his words, then turned her back to him, and slid her arms into her coat sleeves. “All right.”
Just then Connor dashed into the room, an orange and blue Nerf football in hand, and threw a wobbly pass straight for Reece’s groin. Reece caught it and tossed
it gently back. “That’s a nice football, buddy. You’ve got a strong arm. Next time I come over, we’ll throw a few passes.”
The boy smiled, then roared and ran across the room as if heading for a touchdown.
“Call my cell if you need anything, Sierra. Have fun, Connor. Can Mommy have a kiss?”
KARA WAITED until they were seated at the restaurant—an upscale Italian place called Laudisio Ristorante Italiano—before bringing it up. “The way I acted the night we met—you should know I’m not really like that.”
“Considering how much you’d had to drink, I think you handled yourself pretty well.” His voice was serious, but Kara didn’t miss the smile that tugged at his lips. “I doubt anyone could drink three margaritas at The Rio without saying something . . . colorful.”
“I appreciate your tolerance, and I hope you’ll understand when I say I didn’t come here so we could have sex.”
His eyebrows rose. “That’s good, because I’d disappoint you otherwise. I came here to eat.”
Kara felt herself blush. She never blushed. “I didn’t mean . . . You know what I mean.”
He took a sip from his water glass and nodded. “This is your way of telling me you’re embarrassed about the things you said last time and making certain I know you’re not going to sleep with me tonight.”
Relieved to have it out in the open, Kara nodded. “Exactly.”
He set his water down and met her gaze, his blue eyes boring bluntly into hers. “If all I wanted was a quick fuck, I would have taken you up on your offer for a cup of tea that night. You were more than willing then, but I turned you down. Remember?”
Not this time. Ask me again when you haven’t had three.
For the second time in less than a minute, Kara felt her cheeks flame. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Reece. I always seem to be saying or doing something stupid around you. Can we start over?”
He grinned. “Sure.”
Kara leaned forward and held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Kara McMillan.”
He took her hand in his and stroked the back of her hand with his thumb—not the conventional handshake she’d been expecting. “Delighted to meet you, Kara. I’m Reece Sheridan.”
By the time he released her hand, her heart was beating noticeably faster than normal.
The black-and-white-clad waiter arrived. “Are you ready to order, sir? Perhaps wine and an appetizer?”
The wine list was the size of a three-ring binder. Kara had glanced through it and had been astonished at how much a bottle of wine could cost. Did people really drink this stuff?
Reece flipped to a specific page and then looked up at her. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” Taken aback by the question, she answered reflexively. Trust him? She barely knew him.
Reece looked up at the waiter. “We’ll have a glass of the Lacryma Christi del Vesuvio 1999 Mastroberadino with the polenta con funghi as an appetizer.” The Italian rolled off his tongue as if he spoke the language.
The waiter looked surprised and grinned. “You know your Italian wines, sir.”
“Some of them, anyway. Do you eat meat, Kara?”
She nodded, quickly glancing through the menu.
“Then make it two orders of your Vitello Saltimbocca, please, with a bottle of the Barolo 2000 Ginestra Domenico Clerico.”
Kara had never had a man order for her before, and she found herself torn between a feeling of feminist irritation and one of strange feminine delight. But then the food arrived—first the polenta and mushroom appetizer and then the tender veal—and all she could feel was gratitude. And although she knew nothing about wines, the varieties he had chosen were delectable. Taken together, it was the most delicious meal she’d had in years. By the time the waiter cleared their plates away, she was feeling surprisingly relaxed.
She watched as Reece poured the last of the Barolo into their glasses. “Why did you decide to go into politics?”
“I thought we agreed not to talk about work.” He set the empty bottle down and leaned back in his chair, wineglass in his hand.
She couldn’t help but notice how broad his shoulders seemed compared to the high back of the chair, and she found herself undressing him with her eyes. Would his shoulders be hard and muscular? Would his chest have lots of hair or just a little? Were his nipples red like wine or tanned and brown? “I would really like to know.”
“My students challenged me to run for office. I was teaching U.S. government to juniors and seniors that year and gave a passionate speech about the need for citizens to participate in their government if our democracy is to succeed. So they called my bluff, told me that if I cared so much I should run for office.”
“So you did.”
“Yes. I decided they were right. Besides, real-life experience is a better teacher than a textbook, and whatever I learn, I can pass on to my students.”
“You plan to return to teaching?”
“I’m not a career politician, if that’s what you’re asking. As soon as I feel I’m no longer contributing effectively—or when the voters send me packing—I’ll go back to what I love.”
Kara was almost sorry she’d asked. Throughout dinner she’d reminded herself repeatedly that he was not a man but a politician, motivated by an oversized ego and unhealthy ambition. Now he’d gone and shattered that perception. He was making her see him as not only a man—and an unbelievably sexy man at that—but also an ostensibly decent man. She hadn’t imagined anyone actually ran for office these days simply because they wanted to help people.
They sat for a moment in silence.
“You like children then?” She was certain she knew his answer, almost dreaded it.
Please let him say he hates kids.
“I adore kids. They have such a unique way of seeing things. If we stand any chance of making this world a better place, it’s through them.”
She ran her fingers over the damp stem of her wineglass, finding her mental checklist of reasons she shouldn’t spend time with him growing perilously short.
“Is Melanie your only sister?”
He shook his head. “I’m the eldest of four—one brother, two sisters. My parents got divorced when I was nine. The younger kids went to live with my mother and her family in Texas, while I stayed with my father here in Denver. Melanie just moved here two months ago. We’re just getting acquainted really.”
“That sounds like a lonely way to grow up. It must have been hard being so far away from your mom and the other children.”
He shrugged. “I suppose so. I think my mother thought of me as being my father’s son, while my brother and sisters were her children.”
Kara couldn’t imagine a mother abandoning her own child that way. “Are you and your father close?”
A troubled look crossed his face, and his gaze dropped to the table.
“I’m sorry. Is that too personal?”
“No, Kara. You can ask me anything you like.” He looked up, gave a sad smile. “My father died last May. A car accident on I-25.”
And then she remembered seeing it in a headline. She hadn’t even bothered to read the article. To her it had been nothing but another news story, ink on newsprint. To him it had represented overwhelming grief, the loss of someone he loved. “I’m so sorry.”
He reached across the table, took her hand in his, and caressed the back of it with his thumb. The contact was white-hot, made her breath catch in her lungs.
“Thanks. And, yes, we were close.”
The waiter approached with the dessert tray.
“Have you ever had Laudisio’s tiramisu?”
Kara shook her head, almost unable to speak. She’d seen a program on the Discovery Channel once, something about how the human hand has more nerve endings than most other parts of the body. She decided it must be true, as every nerve from her fingertips to her wrist was alive and tingling.
“Then you really must try it. We’ll split one order of tiramisu wi
th two glasses of the Reciotto della Valpolicello 1997 Mazzi.”
“Yes, sir.” The waiter hurried away, a big smile on his face.
“Enough about me, Kara. You’ve been ‘interviewing’ me all evening. Now it’s my turn.” He leaned forward in his chair, his hand still holding hers. “Tell me about your family.”
Distracted by his touch, by the heat of his gaze, she fought to find her voice. “There’s nothing to tell really. It’s just my mom and I. My father left when I was a baby. I’ve never even met him.”
He interrupted his relentless caresses to give her hand a sympathetic squeeze. “That must have been hard on you both.”
Unable to help herself, Kara stroked him back, running a finger slowly across his knuckles. She felt dizzy, almost drunk, but it wasn’t the wine. “My mother would never admit that. According to her, it was the best thing he could have done for either of us. She’s a bit of a . . . free spirit. She never remarried and swore she had no use for a man in her life.”
“Regardless of how she felt, it must have been difficult for you to grow up without a father.”
A strange pain Kara hadn’t allowed herself to feel since she was a teenager crept into her stomach. She forced it down, irritated with herself. She hadn’t thought about her father for years, and she couldn’t imagine why Reece’s question—no different from those she’d asked him—should have called up an emotional response. She was grateful when the waiter interrupted them with one dish of tiramisu, two small glasses of wine, and two spoons.
Reece watched Kara swallow her emotions and decided to let the subject drop. He’d been about to ask her whether she, like her mother, felt no need for a man in her life. After all, she, like her mother, was raising a child alone. But he knew instinctively that would be going too far.
He snatched up her spoon before she could reach it, scooped a small bite of their dessert, and deliberately lowered his voice. “I want your first taste of paradise to come from me.”