Run So Far

by Peggy Nicholson

  He followed her, tiptoeing obediently, up the two flights of stairs, one eyebrow raised slightly, an odd smile on his dark face. Suddenly he stopped, staring into the dark above. ‘What in God’s name was that?’ The sound came again, the anguished moan of a banshee with strep throat.

  ‘That’s what I’m cooking for your supper, if she wakes the neighbours!’ Jolian bounded—ahead of him, hissing threats at the cat as she unlocked the door. Yaffa poured out on to the landing, voicing feline complaints of starvation and woe, and scooping her up. Jolian turned to face her guest, jiggling the Siamese in her arms. ‘Yaffa, meet Mr. Fletcher McKay.’ Two steps below her, Fletch stopped, his dark brows drawing together. ‘Cats,’ he said finally between his teeth. ‘Marvellous animals.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Jolian transferred Yaffa to her shoulder and led the way into the room. ‘She hates men, too. Just don’t try to pet her.’

  ‘No problem!’

  He prowled the living room rather like a big cat himself while she fed Yaffa, put a frozen steak in the broiler and poured them each a glass of burgundy. The carpet muffled her footsteps as she came up behind him where he stood at the window. Close up, he was even taller than she’d thought; her head came up to his wide shoulders, no higher. ‘Fletch?’ He stiffened and then turned slowly, his dark eyes searching her face as she handed him his glass. ‘Thank you for tonight,’ she said softly. It was hard to speak when he looked like that. Words took on unexpected meanings, seemed to echo and evolve as they spun in the air.

  He seemed to be listening to the echoes as well, as he took a slow, considering sip of the wine, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘My pleasure.’ He reached out to draw his glass slowly along her jawline, smiled slowly as her chin lifted away and she frowned. ‘I couldn’t let you run off to tilt with windmills all alone, you little lunatic. Do you do that often?’

  She shook her head. No, tonight’s rescue mission had gone far beyond the usual limits of hotline duty, emotional or physical. But there’d been no way to deny such a direct and personal call for help. If only Jane could have called five years ago ... She found his eyes still on her face and turned away from that measuring gaze to stare out of the window, listening to the elm leaves whisper in the dark. ‘It’s going to rain.’

  His arm brushed her shoulder as he came to stand beside her, staring out into the night. ‘Yes.’

  And he was thinking of his son, she realised suddenly. ‘He’ll find someplace dry, Fletch. He said he could take care of himself.’

  Beside her, he snorted, took another drink. ‘That’s what all fourteen-year-olds think, God help ’em. You saw how well they handle the real world tonight.’

  Fourteen years. He must have married early—quite early. ‘Why did Jem run?’

  Wide shoulders lifted slightly as he took a long, deep breath. ‘Damned if I really know, Jolian. I was hoping he might have told you. I haven’t talked with Jem since July.’

  ‘July?’ Suddenly Jolian remembered the steak. She retreated towards the kitchen, staring back over her shoulder. ‘July?’

  He followed her and poured himself more wine, topped off her glass as well. ‘It was one hectic summer, Jolian. I’m in the middle of a major deal—I’ve been putting that together since June. The housekeeper we’ve had since I—since Jem was six—moved to Texas. And Jem was running with a group of boys I didn’t know and wasn’t sure I liked. For all those reasons, it seemed a good time to pack him off to summer camp.’ He leaned against the counter beside her, watching as she peeled an avocado for the salad.

  ‘And when he came back from there?’

  He sighed slowly. ‘I was in California, Jolian, on this acquisition business. I’d intended to be home to welcome him, but I was delayed.’ He drank again quickly and stared down at her hands, one corner of his mouth barely lifting in a rather hard half-smile. ‘And then I stayed on a few more days,’ he admitted wryly. ‘I’d met an old ... friend.’ In spite of the toughness of that faint smile, or perhaps because of it, his words had the sound of a confession. They carried a load of quiet regret.

  Jolian reached past him to rinse her hands at the sink. He didn’t step back as she had expected him to and her shoulder rubbed across his hard chest. She flicked a glance up at him, frowning as his half-smile slowly became whole. No doubt about it, this man would have many ... friends. Droves of them. Hordes. All he wanted and then some. She retreated to the cabinet and found half a loaf of French bread, stood staring at it for a moment. What next? It was hard to think with him so near ... Oh, set the table, of course. ‘So what happened then?’

  Scowling now, Fletch shrugged out of his coat and padded across to sling it over the back of a chair. ‘He took some money I’d left around the house, just enough for a plane ticket to New York. Left me a polite little IOU, reminding me that I could repay myself from his savings account—he can’t get at that without my co-signature. He convinced the new housekeeper—who’s since been dismissed—that his mother had sent for him, and he flew off to New York to find her.’ Head bent, he stared down at his wine glass, turning it slowly, the black brows a jagged line above the dark, thick lashes.

  ‘And did he?’ Jolian cut the steak, forked it on to two plates, brought them to the table, and sat.

  ‘Hmm? Oh, yes.’ He set his glass on the table and, still standing, loosened his tie, his dark eyes cold and distant. ‘Liz entertained him for two weeks while—she claims—he dropped hints that she let him live with her. At the end of two weeks, she gave him his plane fare back to Chicago, patted him on the head, and showed him where the airport limousine stopped.’ He whipped the tie off with a sudden vicious yank, stood holding it in his hand as if he’d never seen one before. ‘That’s the last anyone had heard of him, till he called you.’ His angry, deep eyes lifted to her troubled face. He smiled crookedly and sat down.

  ‘So she didn’t want him,’ Jolian mused as she buttered a slice of bread.

  ‘She never wanted either of us.’ It was a quiet, factual statement, stripped bare of all emotion, and it left her nothing to say. They ate in silence while she tried to picture a woman who wouldn’t want this man.

  They cleared the table together without speaking, and she turned down an offer to do the dishes. ‘I’ll do them tomorrow. No, I mean today ... Later.’ She smiled sleepily and leaned back against the counter, blinking up at him as he checked his watch.

  ‘Lord, Jolian, it’s nearly three o’clock! Where’s the nearest hotel?’

  I shouldn’t do this, she thought as she pointed at the convertible sofa under the windows. ‘Right there if you want it, Fletch. It’s a bit late to go hotel-hunting.’

  The green-gold eyes stroked across her face in thoughtful appraisal. No doubt he was weighing how little or much this offer might mean. ‘And where does your man-eating cat sleep?’ he asked finally, half smiling.

  Jolian muffled a yawn. ‘She won’t trouble you, Fletch. She sleeps with me.’

  His half-smile completed itself slowly. ‘Now that could trouble me plenty!’ The smile deepened as her chin lifted dangerously, and he” reached out to lay a fingertip across her parting lips. ‘But not ... tonight.’ As it dropped away, his finger pressed down gently, rolling her bottom lip out to graze the moist, soft skin just inside it. Another stolen kiss. Turning away before she could find her breath, he headed for the door. ‘I’ll get my bag, then.’

  Not tonight! Jolian yanked out the sofa with savage, swift hands. The conceit of the man! As if all that kept them apart were his sleepiness and her cat! Not tonight. As if her willingness, no, her eagerness to jump into bed with him on any night at all was a foregone conclusion!

  Selecting linens from the hall closet, she dumped them on to the opened couch and stalked back down the hallway towards the bathroom and her bedroom beyond. Jo let him make his own bed. She’d lost enough sleep over Fletcher McKay already.

  It was some time later when Yaffa stirred and sat up in the circle of her arm. Jolian groaned and ope
ned her eyes as the cat padded across her stomach and dropped to the bedroom floor. What now? She blinked up at the ceiling, couldn’t find it in the darkness above, a murmurous, rushing darkness. Rain, that was it. Even as she identified the sound, it seemed to gather and swell. Downpour. Good night to be in bed. She stretched luxuriously beneath the warm sheets and rolled over, smiling, and remembered the open windows in the living room. And Fletch. Damn. Would he wake up? Have the sense to shut them? The rain always seemed to blow in on that side of the house. She turned over slowly to stare up towards the ceiling again. Stop, rain. It was chuckling in the gutters now, thundering on the low roof above her bed, mocking her command. Surely he would wake up. Surely. And if he doesn’t, you get to bail the living room in the morning, she told herself, sitting up reluctantly. If you want something done ... Slithering into the blue silk robe she’d bought last month for two rings and a bracelet, she slipped out the bedroom door, nearly closing it on Yaffa’s probing whiskers. She had to feel her way into the living room, her eyes wide in the darkness. To her right, the sofa was a dim, rumpled mass. The rattle of rain through the dry leaves outside told her that the windows were indeed still open wide. Before her, something stirred and she stopped, picking out the tall shape at the window. Fletch. Staring out into the night and the rain.

  His head turned swiftly as she came up beside him, then turned back again. ‘It’s not raining in yet?’ she asked softly.

  ‘No, but it’s sure as hell raining out.’ His head leaned slowly forward till it touched the screen. ‘He’s out there, Jolian, somewhere. He catches colds at the drop of a hat...’

  ‘Fletch, stop!’ She reached out to touch his arm and then thought better of it.

  ‘What the hell good’s a father, if he can’t keep a roof over his own son?’ He cursed softly, his forehead brushing against the screen.

  ‘Fletch, he’s a bright kid. At the very least, he’s under a bridge, in a phone booth, at the bus station ...’

  ‘That’s quite a comfort, sweetheart. My kid among the winos, the bums, and the perverts. Thanks!’

  Jolian turned to lean back against the windowsill, looking up at him, and realised suddenly that his muscular silhouette was too clean. He was bare-chested, and she didn’t dare look lower. She swallowed. ‘Look, Fletch, you’re tired and there’s nothing you can do about it tonight. Try to stop thinking about him.’

  His breath hissed in a soft laugh, then he leaned towards her. She felt more than saw an arm go past her waist, found that she was trapped now between his arms and the windowsill. ‘All right. But do you know what happens the second I stop thinking about Jem?’ Her voice would sound funny if she tried to speak now. She shook her head slowly and leaned backwards till her hair touched the screen. Trapped.

  ‘I start thinking of doing this.’ Warm fingers curled round her wrists, slid slowly upwards over the cool, slippery fabric that draped her arms.

  ‘And this.’ His hands followed the rounded, slim shapes of her upper arms up to her shoulders, glided up across those hollow, delicate planes to close lightly around her throat. The warmth of his hands on her bare skin was as shocking as the gesture. Jolian closed her eyes and pulled a deep, shivery breath. But the hands stroked on, caressing slowly up her neck till his outspread fingers combed into the thick, silky hair at the back of her head.

  ‘Fletch ...’ Cupped in his arms, Jolian found her voice at last, or a shred of it anyway. The thrumming of the rain at her back was a sensation as well as a sound now, seemed to be inside the room as if warm, crystal raindrops shimmered across her bare skin. Raindrops falling in a tingling, throbbing dance across wakening flesh. ‘Fletch, don’t!’

  ‘Don’t what, my silky?’ His fingers tightened in her hair, pulled her head back gently. ‘Don’t do this?’ He whispered the words against her parted lips, seemed still to be speaking after the murmur died away. Warm, slow, soundless words tickled into her mouth and her lips answered them silently. He gathered her closer, his fingers rasping through her hair.

  ‘Or don’t do this?’ He lifted his mouth to whisper against her cheek and then his lips trailed a hot, moist path down her throat. Behind her his hands kept pace, gliding down the back of her neck, down across her shuddering shoulders to slide around her waist and pull her still closer.

  ‘Don’t!’

  ‘Don’t what?’ His whisper was laugh and caress all at once now. ‘Don’t kiss you here?’ His lips moved against the base of her throat and she arched her back with a soft hiss. ‘Or ... here?’ The sheer fabric over her throbbing breast seemed to steam and then dissolve beneath his lips and his arms tightened around her till she gasped for air.

  His back was warm and smooth as heated stone, and what were her hands doing there? Moving like that? Her body was tingling all over beneath the torrent of his lovemaking. His whispers seemed to come through the curtain of rain in her mind. They were falling through that rain, and only when her back sank into the cushions did she realise that it was really so. His weight and heat settled over her, electrifying, terrifying. ‘Fletch, don’t.’

  A hand cupped her cheek, an unseen thumb stroked across her lips, and his low voice soothed above her. ‘Don’t be frightened, love. Don’t be frightened.’

  ‘Then don’t frighten me!’ she gasped, as his lips brushed her chin. Her hands found the wide shoulders above her and pushed helplessly. ‘Please...’

  The dark room whirled dizzily and the weight lifted from off her, but an arm still encircled her waist. Jolian found herself on top now, staring down into a dark face, half a smile barely seen. ‘I’m sorry. Is this better?’ His hand reached up to lace through the fall of her hair. ‘You call the shots, then, General.’

  Bracing her forearms on either side of him, Jolian tried to shut out the feel of her breasts against his hair-roughened chest, tried to remember who she was and why. For there would be no more chances tonight. And she would not wake up with a stranger. Not even such a stranger as this ... ‘All ... right. Shot ... Shot one: I offered you a couch tonight, Mr. McKay, not a lay.’

  The half-smile below her became whole, and a hand caressed slowly across her hips. ‘I guess I was taking the broad interpretation ... my mistake. And shot two?’

  ‘Shot two: you’re old enough to be my father!’

  ‘The devil I am!’ The arm around her waist tightened ominously. ‘How old are you, brat?’

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  ‘Then I’m barely twelve years older than you!’

  ‘And I bet you landed running! As I said, old enough to be my father.’

  He laughed and his fingers slithered slowly up her spine. ‘And shot three, you silky infant?’

  ‘Shot...’ Jolian swallowed hard, fighting the urge to simply melt down against him like a sun-warmed candybar. ‘Shot three: I don’t make love with perfect strangers, no matter what it looks like.’

  She felt his laughter rumbling through her clenched stomach muscles. ‘Then you’ve been missing out on a world of fun, you little puritan. And shot four?’ His arms slipped slowly up around her raised shoulders.

  ‘I...’ She didn’t have a shot four.

  His arms tightened suddenly and he crushed her down against him. His mouth met her parted lips in a kiss that seemed to burn right through her. A full and smoking broadside of heated shot. A throbbing, deafening, twenty-one-gun salute. ‘Shot four,’ he laughed huskily, as he released her at last.

  Jolian bounced off the couch like a scalded cat and raced for her room. No one pursued her and she whirled in the hall doorway, hair and silk robe flaring around her, her lips parting.

  But Fletch was aiming forefinger and thumb in an imaginary pistol at her. ‘Sleep on it!’ he rapped out.

  Shutting her teeth with a snap, she whirled away again, flung down the hall and then stopped, leaned panting against her bedroom doorknob. Why had she come out here in the first—oh! She spun around. ‘And shut those damn windows!’ she hissed.

  The low, mocking voice came ba
ck faintly. ‘Right you are ... General.’

  She didn’t slam the door. Quite ...

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was ten a.m. Couldn’t be, but it was. Yaffa crouched before the door in an intense ball, as if it would open any second now to her feline brainwaves. Jolian shut her eyes again, shutting out daylight and abused cat, tried not to remember.

  But with no luck. Those fingers, those lips, that voice were stamped into her brain, branded across a body that even now stretched in its own voluptuous, yearning memory at the thought of last night. Oh damn, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this! .

  It’s the double-fudge sundae factor all over again, she told herself bitterly. The nicest things in life are no good for you. And this one’s pure poison. This man is trouble. Trouble, Jolian Michaels. For once in your life, be smart.

  Yaffa must have caught the change in her breathing. A light weight bounced on the mattress beside her. Whiskers brushed her cheek with a feather touch and a cool whiff of tuna. ‘Yuk!’ Jolian pulled the sheet over her head.

  Those lips, that touch ... trouble. How do you trouble me, Fletcher McKay? Let me count the ways: Wrong values—work and money and work. Divorced, I think. If yes, he’s a one-time loser. If no, well, just forget it. Too old. Too experienced. And much, much, much too fast. What had he said last night? That if she didn’t sleep with strangers, she was missing a world of fun? Obviously, he had no such qualms. Not a shy lad, no. And what had Jem said? If he wasn’t at the office, he’d be at Jennifer’s, Barbara’s or somebody’s, that body being female? And no doubt every one of those females was trying every feminine wile in the book to capture that heart as well as those hands and lips he was so free with. No. If he wasn’t caught by now, he was not catchable. So forget it. Forget last night.

  Might as well try to forget your own name. She pushed the cat off and got up.

  Except for the leather bag and briefcase tucked in a corner by the sofa, Fletcher McKay might have been a dream, stirring and strange and gone with the sunlight. Jolian surveyed the room carefully, half expecting him to pounce from some corner, but she was alone. The feeling was not as pleasing as she would have thought.