Run So Far

by Peggy Nicholson

  A folded paper on the counter caught her eye. Fletch’s handwriting was large and bold, a nervy, slashing line, not a businessman’s scrawl at all. ‘Glad to know you’re a woman who likes beds. Will stop back later—we still have to talk. Dinner is my treat tonight.—Fletch.’

  Not ‘will you have dinner with me,’ but ‘dinner is my treat’. It figured. If he were the pirate he looked, he’d not be sailing as first mate. The man liked to give the orders, that was sure.

  ‘Well, I have other plans, Mister McKay.’ Jolian folded the note into a paper aeroplane and aimed it at the briefcase. Just what those plans were, she didn’t know yet, but she did know that one Fletcher McKay would not figure among them. There must be some way to dent that man’s insufferable ego. The plane pulled a low, lazy swoop, stalled out on the upturn, and crashed tail first to the rug. Yaffa picked a stealthy, roundabout path towards it, tail-tip flicking. Oh, yes, she did have plans, come to think of it—George and the French restaurant. An oddly deflating thought.

  The day was oddly deflating as well. Jolian worked on her designs in fits and starts, but her concentration and her work were under par. Vacuuming, laundry, and other chores filled the gaps between designs, but busy as she stayed, she found herself pausing each time footsteps climbed the stairs. And when the phone rang at last, she ran for it. But it was only Hannah Bernstein, with the news that Suzie’s parents from Springfield had just collected the girl and she had left smiling. Parents and child sent their thanks.

  Well, that was good news at least. One for Jane. Jolian hung the phone up with a smile, but that smile slowly faded as her eyes fell on his luggage. Where was he? And what time was it? Four? Time to get ready for her date. And what to wear? Suddenly she had the impulse to knock the socks off George Trumble. That would show him. She didn’t stop to analyse just which him would be shown exactly what as she headed for the bathroom and the rose-scented bubble-bath.

  ‘A penny for your thoughts.’

  George would say something like that, Jolian thought as she watched the brandy swirling in her glass. She looked up from under her lashes, smiled mysteriously and said nothing. He would hardly care to know that she was re-living the slow, engulfing fire of that last kiss last night, or that it was the fiftieth time she’d done so today! She tasted the brandy with a cat-like flick of her tongue. That slow-burning glow inside ... just so. That was how it had felt last night...

  ‘No, really, what are you thinking?’

  He would insist. ‘Oh, just about corporate law ... how ... fascinating it sounds.’ As fascinating as preparing tax returns. Possibly as thrilling as raising earthworms, but she doubted it. And you’re completely, totally unfair, she thought quickly, smiling up at him to make up for it.

  Across the table, George swallowed hard. ‘I’m ... glad you think so, Jolian. And did I tell you how beautiful you are tonight?’

  Jolian nodded. Twice. So the softly swirling, sapphire blue dress was a success, or perhaps it was her hair, pinned up off her neck in a soft, sleek pattern of French braids, or perhaps it was the scent of roses ... Anyway, she had knocked his socks off. She was suddenly sure she had no desire to see George Trumble without his socks.

  Now Fletch McKay without his ... socks ... would be another matter entirely. She hid a wry smile in her brandy snifter. Just ask him and I’m sure he’d be glad to show you, dope! No, it was the fudge factor, all right. Exquisite at the time of eating, paid for in heartburn later. Now why couldn’t she fall for George here, as wholesome and stolid as a plate of steamed carrots? She grinned in spite of herself.

  ‘And who’s that smile for?’

  ‘Oh ... my cat. I just remembered it’s past her feeding time.’

  ‘She can wait.’

  ‘She can, but she doesn’t wait quietly, and the neighbours complain.’

  ‘All right, then. Waiter?’

  On the drive home, she kept him on the topic of law. George waxed expansive as she murmured questions and exclamations at the proper intervals, and she had time to think. This would be her last date with George; it was far better to be lonely alone than lonely in company. He was a very nice guy, but...

  A sudden wave of depression washed over her as they turned into her street. How many very-nice-guys-but had she met in her lifetime? What was wrong with her? The fault had to be hers. Other people found people to love and marry ... Puritan, he’d called her. Perhaps perfectionist was a better label.

  George insisted on walking her to her door, his arm around her waist, and they were half a step out of sync the whole way up. Jolian nerved herself for the coming kiss, tried to blot out last night’s. The contrast would be brutal.

  The envelope she had tacked to her door was gone. So Fletch had come by to collect his luggage and find her ‘thanks, but no thanks for the supper’ note. She hoped he’d remembered to leave the key on the table as requested. She fished her own keys out of her purse, but George took them from her.

  ‘Allow me.’ He paused expectantly.

  Now was the point when she should invite him in for coffee. However ... ‘It’s been a lovely evening, George. I enjoyed it.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to end yet...’

  ‘Well, I have to feed my cat.’ And why was Yaffa so quiet? Could Fletch have let her out? Surely not.

  ’I’ll help you. Cats always love me.’ His hands found her upper arms, massaged her nervously.

  ‘Not this cat, George. And I’m awfully sleepy tonight, but thank you. It was a terrific restaurant.’

  He took it with less grace than she had expected. His face was sullen as he pulled her forward, and she realised as the kiss grew wetter and hotter than she’d bargained for that he was going to make the most of it, if a kiss was all he had coming. ‘Hey!’ she protested softly, bumping back against the door.

  ‘Jolian, you don’t know what you do to me!’ He crowded closer, and he was panting now.

  ‘Hey, come on, George!’ If this was a sample of what she did to him, she wanted no more. Wet, clumsy—‘Hey!’

  The door opened suddenly under her weight, flooding the landing with light, and cat fur brushed her legs. She would have fallen but for the grapple-hold George had on her. He blinked past her shoulder.

  ‘I thought that was you knocking. Did you forget your key, Jolian?’ The low voice was smooth as whisky, quietly amused.

  ‘I—’ She turned in George’s loosened grasp, her fear of a moment ago sliding towards rage. How dared he—

  But he had dared more. Leaning casually against the door frame, Fletch was dressed only in slacks, his wide, hairy chest still beaded from the shower, his dark hair damply combed. He smiled gently at George. ‘Fickle little thing, isn’t she? You wouldn’t think she was in my arms last night, would you?’

  Jolian drew a hissing breath. ‘ You...!’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ He set a large finger across her lips. ‘Not in public, love. Now say goodnight to the man.’ He closed the door gently in her face.

  ‘Who the hell was that!” George exploded.

  ‘My father!’ she snapped. One jerk was quite enough; two were intolerable.

  ‘Your—’ George let go of her and stepped back. ‘Okay, Jolian, it’s been interesting. See you around.’ He handed her the keys, wheeled with magnificent dignity and stepped on Yaffa’s tail.

  ‘Wow!’

  She had one glimpse of him, cream-coloured, kicking ball of fur wrapped around left ankle, and then he was gone. Cat curses, thumps, and some words that were not only unlawyerly but probably illegal echoed up the stairwell.

  ‘George, don’t hurt her!’

  Behind her, Fletch let out a whoop of pure bliss. ‘Hurt her! You’re heartless, lady!’

  ‘You!’ Jolian spun around. He stood in the doorway again, still bare-chested, head thrown back in laughter, and the target was irresistible. She whopped an open fingered forehand into his stomach just as he laughed again. ‘Ow!’ It was like hitting warm brick.

  A hand slapped down over he
r bruised fingers, trapping them against that damp, muscular warmth. Narrow-eyed, he glared down at her. ‘Watch it, sweetheart. I’m not your boy-friend.’

  ‘I’ll say you’re not!’ And there was no breaking that hold. His fingers merely tightened.

  ‘As bad-tempered as your cat, aren’t you?’

  ‘Ya? ... Yaffa!’ Hand still trapped, she whirled back towards the stairs to see Yaffa gliding up the last step, ears laid back, chocolate tail enormous. Eyes flaming, she swept past their feet and disappeared. Down below, a door slammed, shaking the house.

  ‘So she’s okay. Are you?’

  ‘No thanks to you!’

  ‘Come on, Jolian, what was I supposed to do? You’re twenty-five, though you look like a teenager who’s just been pawed at the senior prom. Goddamnit, he cut you!’ He dropped her hand and ran a quick finger under her bottom lip. ‘No, just lipstick. Good, I’d never catch him now.’

  She was past speech by now. He pulled her in gently and closed the door. She drifted across the room, noticed in passing that he’d taken over the table. The briefcase was open, papers stacked and scattered; a cup of coffee and a gold pen lay waiting. Made himself at home, hadn’t he? She wandered on to her bedroom, wilted at the dressing table. Last night ... tonight ... everything seemed to be catching up with her at once...

  In the mirror, her eyes were enormous and shadowed, the smooth hair a shambles. Behind her, Fletch pushed open the door and padded in, carrying two glasses of wine. He was still shirtless. Jolian opened her mouth and then shut it again. She should protest this invasion, but she hadn’t the strength yet. And somehow the apartment, this room even, seemed to be his, not hers, tonight. He set a glass by her hand.

  ‘Drink up. You need it.’

  ‘Go to hell!’

  ‘Later.’ A large, gentle hand feathered across the top of her head as he stared down at her, smiling that half smile. ‘Must have been pretty once.’ He tugged slowly at a loose pin. A curl untwisted and slid down her cheek. His hand caressed along her temple, found another pin, pulled it gently. ‘When you’re forty, Jolian, you’ll look stunning with it up.’ Another lock cascaded down her neck, and another. ‘But at your age, I like it ... like this, all free and heavy ... something a man can bury his hands in.’ He tossed the pins down on the table and picked up her hairbrush. ‘Come on, drink up.’

  Jolian heaved a deep sigh and drank. In a moment she would get up, throw him out. But he looked so big ... so unthrowable ... Through half-closed eyes, she watched those big rhythmic hands in the mirror. He was soothing her just like she soothed Yaffa, wasn’t he? She drank again and listened to her hair crackle, resisted the pull of the brush with dreamy, slow nods. Any moment now she would be purring. Wake up, Jolian. ‘Why ... why did you stay?’ she asked.

  ‘For two reasons.’ Fletch put the brush down and buried his fingers in her hair, his fingertips moving in slow, rustling circles. ‘I have to talk to you about Jem.’ Slowly he pulled her head back to rest against his waist.

  She leaned against him, hypnotised by the warmth, the sound, and the lovely sensations, her eyelashes drooping. ‘And?’ she breathed finally.

  ‘And I wanted this.’ The fingertips were gliding down now, slowly, so slowly. Smoothing her throat, warming her shoulders ... caressing just the very top of her breasts. Moving ever so deliciously slowly now. It was breathtakingly erotic, watching him touch her in the mirror at the-moment she felt his touch. Her breasts were swelling, aching for him to gather them in, but his hands moved so slowly ...

  Their eyes met in the mirror, hers heavy with desire, his almost black and gleaming, and he smiled, one eyebrow lifting. He was giving her time to say no. Daring her to say no.

  Head tilted back, Jolian drew a deep, shaking breath, her breasts rising. His hands glided lower across the thin fabric of her dress, so slowly, the fingers stiffly outspread, the open palms at last finding, circling, caressing just the tips of her taut nipples. Deep in her throat, she purred, and the fingers closed gently over her breasts. ‘Ohhh ...’ She arched her back slowly and he made a deep, half-laughing, male sound.

  Wake up, Jolian. Wake up. Her eyes fluttered open and closed again. ‘Are you seducing me, Fletcher McKay?’ she murmured dreamily.

  His fingers slid slowly, so slowly, up the slopes of her breasts, climbed the peaks, danced slowly there, melting her. ‘Want me to? I’m very good at it.’

  Funny how words could hurt. Why should that hurt? She lifted her head slowly, found those dark eyes waiting for her in the mirror above that faint, reckless smile. ‘No ... thanks.’

  His fingers stopped and the smile faded. ‘No?’

  Somehow she found the strength to find his hands, lift them away. ‘No.’

  His eyes narrowed and she swallowed hard as she met his gaze. He picked up his glass and wheeled away. In the mirror she watched him toss off the wine, shrug and turn back to her. ‘So let’s talk, then.’

  She shook her head. ‘Please, Fletch, I can’t talk now. I want to sleep.’

  A large hand smoothed down the line of her jaw, brushed her bottom lip with a butterfly touch. ‘Then let’s sleep together. We can talk later.’

  ‘Sleep! Ha!’

  His finger traced the shape of her mouth and he smiled. ‘Well, we can sleep later, too.’

  She nipped his thumb as it slipped between her lips and then jerked her chin aside. ‘Thanks, but no, thanks.’ She stood up quickly, felt the room lurch for a moment and then steadied herself. Got to get him out of here! She ducked around his outstretched hand and headed for the living room.

  Pack him up and get him out of here! She collected the papers on the table, stacked them neatly into the briefcase. But an arm encircled her from behind, pulling her back against the warmth of his hard body. ‘Why won’t you let me make love to you?’ He breathed the words in her ear and she shuddered.

  ‘Because I ...’ Jolian stopped, breathing deeply, trying to remember why.

  ‘Because you don’t make love with strangers?’ His lips brushed across her hair and his arm tightened. ‘If I keep coming round like this, I won’t be a stranger much longer.’

  She shivered and turned it into a headshake. ‘Because you’re not serious.’

  His laughing whisper rasped her ear. ‘Oh, silky one, you don’t know how serious I am! Give me the night and I’ll show you.’ His lips found the top of her shoulder and she arched her back convulsively, pressing back against him.

  ‘I’m ... looking for someone who’ll ... show me the rest of his life, Fletch,’ she gasped.

  She felt his sigh as much as heard it. The arms around her loosened slowly. ‘Well, maybe you’ll find him some day, sweet silky ... maybe. But he’s not here tonight.’ He nuzzled her hair, brushed it aside as he searched for the nape of her neck. ‘So what about tonight?’

  It would hurt if she stopped to think. Hurt dreadfully. She twisted in the circle of his arms to face him. ‘Tonight?’ She tried to smile. ‘Do you think you can find your way back to the Pussycat Lounge, or shall I draw you a map?’

  His breath hissed in silent laughter, but his eyebrows came down. ‘I don’t want that, Jolian. I want you.’

  She shook her head quickly and drawled out the words, a feeble joke. ‘Well, you caaaan’t have me!’

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  ‘That’s a fact, Fletcher McKay.’

  His arms tightened again. ‘Only on my sufferance is that a fact, you silky puritan.’

  She’d got her hands up against his chest this time. Jolian pushed off, creating a little breathing space between them. ‘Are you threatening me, Mr. McKay? You’ve forgotten my man-eating cat,’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Ask that cat who fed her tonight, and no, I’m not threatening violence. There’s easier ways.’ He pulled her closer, smiling dangerously.

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘Then admit it. You know I can have you whenever I want.’

  ‘The hell you can!’

  ‘The hell I can
’t! Want a demonstration?’ One hand slid gently round to cup her breast. A slow, merciless thumb-flick brought her to bow-tight, quivering tautness in his hold.

  ‘No!’ she gasped, eyes clenching tight. ‘... please, Fletch.’

  His thumb stroked again and again as he gathered her closer. ‘Then grant me one wish,’ he demanded huskily.

  ‘... mmph?’

  ‘Have breakfast with me. We’ve got to ... talk ... maybe it’ll be easier in a restaurant than ... here.’

  ‘Ohhh ... kay.’ Anything to stop that sweet torture.

  ‘That’s better. Sure you want me to go?’

  If she opened her eyes, he’d see the truth. She kept them closed.

  Slowly he let her go, leaned her back gently till her hips found the edge of the table. She leaned back, breathing deeply, listened to the sounds as he gathered his papers, buttoned on a shirt, came to stand before her again. ‘You’re sure you want me to go, Jolian?’

  Eyes shut, she nodded.

  ‘So you can lie after all. I’ll remember that.’ A hand cupped her jaw and he kissed her, a slow, hungry, lingering kiss. ‘I’ll pick you up at eight, then.’

  Blindly, she nodded again. Slow footsteps, a door closing gently, the stairs squeaking softly as he descended. ‘Don’t go,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t go.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘Gone. Better luck next time—J.’

  That should fix him. Promises made under duress were not binding at all, as far as Jolian was concerned. She taped the note to her mailbox in the downstairs hallway and stopped to consider it, frowning. This was not her usual style. This was cowardice, leaving a note and bolting. But Fletch scared her, or rather her response to him last night scared her. She shivered suddenly, remembering those warm, practised hands gliding across her body. Yes, he could have had her last night, and no, she would not fall for someone like Fletch McKay.