Read Between the Lines

by Erica Spindler

  That he could so blithely picture her married with children was like a slap in the face. To cover her hurt, she reached for her wine and sipped it. It was cool, dry and soothing, and she held it against her tongue for a moment before swallowing. When she trusted her voice, she murmured, “I could ask you the same question.”

  He watched as she tipped her head to drink. Her neck arched and his eyes lingered. If he pressed his lips to the place where her pulse beat wildly at the base of her throat, would she smell of baby powder and lilacs? Even as he wondered, he dragged his thoughts back to her question. “Marrying has never even been an option.” He downed the last of his wine and set aside the glass. “How about you? Ever wanted to take that big step?”

  Katherine lowered her eyes. “Yes,” she said softly. “Once, a long time ago.”

  Michael wasn’t sure if he had heard the pain in her voice or just sensed it, but he knew that she’d been deeply hurt. “What—” His throat closed over the words, and he coughed to clear it “—happened.”

  She picked up her glass, then realizing it was already empty, set it back down. “He didn’t love me the same way.”

  The graduate student she’d dated their last year of school, Michael thought with certainty. He remembered the two of them together, more than once he’d battled the urge to wring the man’s neck. He’d never understood what she’d seen in that wimp.

  Pushing away the memory, he touched the curve of her cheek. Her skin was too inviting, and he feathered his fingers across the smooth, warm flesh. When she lifted her face into the caress, he caught his breath. “He was crazy. You’re a prize.”

  Katherine raised her eyes to his and her pulse scrambled. His were soft, dark and mesmerizing. She shook her head, unsure whether in denial of his words or of his effect on her.

  “Yes.” He slid his hand into her hair. It was silky against his skin and to prolong the sensation, he combed his fingers through the gossamer strands for a moment before cupping her neck. “A prize.”

  Her breath shuddered past her lips. His touch and words were hypnotic and when he applied the tiniest pressure with his fingers, she leaned willingly toward him.

  “Couldn’t he see what I do?” he asked, lowering his eyes to her mouth. “You’re smart and funny, talented and--”

  Katherine brought her hands to his chest and curled her fingers into his loosely woven sweater. He was so close she could see the tiny gold flecks in his eyes and feel his breath against her parted lips. He smelled of some spicy soap and something male that she recognized as dangerous. The combination was heady, and she inched even closer.

  “--and so lovely,” he finished.

  He meant to kiss her, Katherine realized, pulse thundering in her head. She should push him away and demand an apology. If their lips met, he would know how she felt about him.

  All the logical reasons why she should refuse him raced from her mind. They were replaced by a need so strong as to be overpowering. With a small sound of pleasure, she parted her lips, waiting for his.

  She would taste sweet and feel wonderful against him, Michael acknowledged, gathering her closer. As he did, the scent of baby powder and lilacs enveloped him. What was he doing? he wondered. How could it be that he wanted her so badly he ached?

  He didn’t know or care; he only felt. Dazed, unnerved, he reached up and unfastened the clip in her hair and the midnight strands tumbled to her shoulders.

  At the same moment he tangled his fingers in the thick, soft mass, an image of his mother’s face, ravaged by pain, popped into his head. He’d only been six the night his father had walked out, but the image was as vivid as if it had been yesterday.

  Katie. Michael opened his eyes. Hers were tightly closed and she looked incredibly fragile. A knot formed in his chest. He had assured her she would be safe if he was her partner. He’d promised her the bedroom door would stay closed. And now, at the first opportunity, he was seducing her. Some things seemed to run in the family.

  Feeling like the boy he’d been at eighteen instead of the man he had become, the man he wanted to be, he took a shaky breath. If only she wasn’t so soft and yielding against him. He tightened his fingers in her hair in denial. He and Katherine were just friends... they would stay that way. He couldn’t chance anything else.

  Marshaling all his self-control, Michael relaxed his fingers and eased her away. She made a sound of resistance as he did, and he silently groaned. Why did she have to be so damn sweet?

  He dropped his hand as her lids fluttered up. Her blue eyes were stormy with need, and Michael realized if he didn’t leave her now, he might not be able to. He stood up before she’d even dropped her hands from his chest.

  “I’m thinking I’d better check in with the bar.” He dragged a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at her. “I must have been smoking crack to think I could leave the bar on a Friday night.” He grabbed his coat. “Thanks for the company, Katie. See you...tomorrow.”

  And then he was gone.

  Chapter 4

  Numbly, Katherine stared at the place where Michael had been only a moment ago. She realized she still had her hands lifted, as if they were still pressed to his chest, and dropped them. She stood and started down the hallway to her own bedroom.

  Moonlight bathed the room in cool blue and, not bothering to turn on a light, she crossed to the bed and sank onto its edge. She’d done it again—let down her guard and allowed Michael to get to her.

  Her nose started to itch from holding back tears. How could she have been so blind, so stupid? She’d actually believed that she was over her feelings for him. She’d convinced herself that being eight years older would mean being that much wiser when it came to Michael. Katherine made a sound of self-disgust and flopped back against the mattress. Well, tonight her delusions about being indifferent and in control had been shattered—she was as susceptible to him at thirty as she’d been at eighteen. All it had taken was a couple of hours, a peanut-butter sandwich and the temptation of his mouth against hers.

  Heat burned her cheeks as she thought of the way she’d parted her lips and clutched at his sweater. Could she have been any more obvious? Any more desperate?

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she silently swore. The disappointment was even worse than the embarrassment. Tonight she’d allowed herself to indulge in a fantasy, then had let the fantasy blossom into hope.

  Katherine dragged herself back into a sitting position. This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman, not a naive eighteen-year-old. Even if she couldn’t conquer her feelings for Michael, she would suppress them.

  Squaring her chin, Katherine stood, crossed to the bureau and opened the top drawer. Her flannel nightgown was there, and she pulled it out. The fabric’s fuzzy texture was familiar, even comforting, against her palms, and she curled her fingers into it. Her mother had given her a gown like this every Christmas for as long as she could remember. This one was pink, white and perennially innocent; they were all practical—warm and sturdy and... anything but sexy.

  The image of the gown from twelve years ago—white with a scattering of the tiniest blue flowers, as girlish and chaste as she herself had been—popped into her mind. It had been late February, and a night much like this one. She’d gone to bed early, having stayed up several nights running, studying for exams. At first the pounding had seemed to be a part of her dream. Then, gradually, she’d realized that the sound was coming from outside her head, and her eyes had drifted open.

  “Katie, open up. Katie... I need you.”

  Michael. And soon as the realization had penetrated, she’d shot out of bed and across the room, not bothering to grab her glasses or robe. “What’s wrong?” she’d asked, her voice quivering with a combination of concern and sleep. When he’d only groaned, she frantically went for the chain and lock, fumbling in her haste.

  As soon as she opened the door, she knew he’d been drinking. He was leaning against the doorjamb, head lowered, coat unzipped. An admonition sprang t
o her lips.

  Then he looked at her.

  Katherine swallowed her lecture. Something was wrong. Something more than a few too many beers and too little sleep. Michael was hurting. Even without her glasses she could tell his dark eyes were wounded, his mouth etched with pain. She stepped aside so he could enter, then closed the door behind him.

  “Michael?” She put a hand on his arm, the leather of his jacket cold and brittle under her fingers.

  The breath shuddered past his lips, and he slipped his arms around her, gathering her close. The winter night clung to him, but she didn’t shiver or pull back. Instead, she pressed her cheek to his chest, trying to share her warmth, trying to comfort without words.

  When the biting cold was replaced by searing warmth, he whispered, “I just needed to see you.”

  Even now, twelve years later, tears trickled from the corners of her eyes at the memory, and Katherine furiously swiped at them. That night was in the past; if she was to move forward, it had to stay there.

  Resolutely, she stood and undressed, then slipped her nightgown over her head. She shivered as the cool fabric slid over her warm skin. It was so frigid outside that even the carpeting under her bare feet was cold, and she went to the dresser for a fresh pair of sweat socks. Katherine took the carefully rolled socks out of the drawer, then stared down at them, her eyes misting over once again.

  She’d done exactly the same thing twelve years ago. The night had been one of the coldest of the winter; the heating system in the old dormitory had been adequate at best. Michael used to tease her, claiming that the reason her feet were always cold was her blue blood—it was too thin. She’d pointed out that a socially prominent Chicago family and blue-blooded nobility were not the same thing. But in the end, her feet were still always cold...and wearing socks to bed had been part of her downfall.

  Katherine made a sound that was a cross between a laugh and a groan as the memory unfolded in her head....

  Michael had held her for a long time. She hadn’t known what had happened or why he needed her, and it hadn’t mattered. Michael had come to her. When his grip had become less urgent, less desperate, she’d slipped an arm around him and helped him to his room.

  Between Michael’s almost buckling weight and her being half-blind without her glasses, the lock almost proved an impossible feat. Almost, but not quite. The door swung open and Katherine grimaced as she squinted into the dark room—the floor was littered with all manner of things she couldn’t quite make out. Swearing under her breath, she tightened her hold on Michael and began to pick her way slowly toward his bed.

  She did fine; it was Michael who was the problem. He refused to cooperate and it was like trying to navigate a one-hundred-and-eighty-pound sinking ship. “Dammit, Michael, only two more—”

  Her foot landed on something that felt soft and squishy. Katherine squealed, tried to shift her weight too fast and lost her balance. As she tried to right herself, her sock-clad feet slid on the linoleum, and she and Michael tumbled to the bed, Michael landing on top.

  Katherine’s heart, already racing, tripled its beat. His body lay fully over hers, pressing her back into the soft mattress, his mouth so close that their breath met and mingled. In an attempt to steady herself, she sucked in air, then almost groaned aloud. He smelled of leather and sweat and faintly of beer. The combination was heady, male and Michael. Her hormones went crazy at the same moment she realized she was way out of her depth.

  “Hi.” Michael rested his forehead against hers, his lips curving, his voice husky.

  “Hi,” she returned, breathless, already aching.

  He lifted his head so he could meet her eyes. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yeah, it does.” He gently brushed the hair away from her face, then as if intrigued, he tangled his fingers in it. “It’s the color of a midnight sky,” he murmured, almost to himself. He rubbed the strands between his fingers. “And just as soft. Why haven’t I ever noticed that before?”

  Embarrassment washed over her, but she didn’t lower her eyes, didn’t try to move away. She couldn’t. She’d waited forever for this moment.

  “Maybe you never looked,” she whispered shyly.

  “Maybe... But I’m looking now—” he trailed his fingers along her flushed cheekbones, then traced the arch of her dark eyebrows, the delicate curve of her chin and finally, the soft fullness of her lower lip “—you’re beautiful, Katie.”

  As his eyes, hot and dark, dropped to her mouth, her head emptied of all rational thought and her mouth went dry. She dampened her suddenly parched lips with the tip of her tongue. His gaze followed the movement so intently that she squirmed beneath him. As she did, she felt his arousal. The blood rushed to her head, pleasure swamped her senses. Katherine flattened her hands on his chest but didn’t apply an ounce of pressure. “I should go.”

  “Sweet, sweet Katie.” He tangled his fingers in her hair. “Don’t go.”

  Katherine drew in a shaky breath and stared helplessly up at him. She’d never been able to lie—not even to herself—and she’d never wanted anything more than to stay. She slid her hands up around his neck, tangling her fingers in the crisp, dark curls at his nape, silently acquiescing.

  Michael released his breath in a long sigh. “My perfect Katie,” he murmured, his lips curving, closing in. “What would I do without--”

  His mouth brushed hers, lightly, tentatively, cataclysmically. Katherine moaned and clutched at his jacket. She was lost. His words, his touch, were the stuff of her dreams. And at this moment her every dream was coming true. She could no more resist Michael than refuse oxygen, and she parted her lips and offered her tongue.

  His kisses, which started out soft and sweet, became urgent, intoxicating. But she wasn’t content to be led. She, totally inexperienced and untouched, went wild in his arms—demanding, offering, opening.

  And he took what she offered, delving into her, his mouth muffling any sound she would have made at the quick stab of pain. With his arms cradling her as her body cradled him, they spiraled together to the heights, then plummeted back to earth.

  When it was over, he brushed his hands over her damp cheeks, his eyes filled with regret, remorse, guilt. “Aw, Katie,” he’d muttered, “I never meant—”

  Katherine jerked herself back to the present and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Remembering the look in his eyes and the apology that followed twisted in her gut like the worst case of flu. She’d been so humiliated, so hurt, she’d wanted to die. When she’d been sure he was asleep, she’d slipped quietly out of bed and gone back to her room.

  The next day Michael had had a hangover. She’d known it the moment she’d seen him. She’d also known that he didn’t remember anything of the night before. The truth of that had sliced her insides to shreds. It still did.

  Katherine looked down at her hands, saw the moisture there, felt more of it on her cheeks and swore. It was time to move on. It was time to try—really try—to make a life for herself.

  And Michael would never be a part of it—at least not the part she wanted him to be.

  It was time she faced up to that fact. The truth was, up until now she’d only paid lip service to forgetting Michael, to moving on. Like a dieter who had willpower only until the dessert cart was rolled over, she had played games; deep down, she’d denied, hoped, made excuses.

  No more. It was over.

  Her feet were numb, and Katherine sat down and pulled on her socks. That done, she stood, turned back the blankets, then crawled underneath them. There were plenty of men who would be happy to take her out—good men who were handsome, bright, successful. Men like Dean Johnson.

  Katherine pulled the covers up to her chin. Dean had been after her for months. He’d sent her flowers, called and cajoled. He was one of the most noted men in his branch of anthropology; he was as serious as she was. Why not say yes?

  Ignoring the effort it took, she smiled. T
omorrow she would.

  * * *

  Tomorrow came too soon. As the first watery light of dawn appeared on the horizon, Katherine turned away from the window. She hadn’t slept, not really. She’d tossed and turned and lain awake thinking about Michael and her vow of the night before. And the more she thought, the more she realized she wasn’t sure she could do it.

  Coffee would help, she decided staunchly. Reaching for her robe, she caught her reflection in the mirror. What did she need a robe for? Michael was never up before ten and besides—she ran a finger along the lace trim of her gown’s high neck—it wasn’t as if her full-length nightgown was at all sexy or revealing. She thought of silk, lace and sheerness... and simultaneously of Michael. His type of woman would choose effect over practicality. And you couldn’t get much more practical than flannel. With a small grimace, she headed to the kitchen.

  Light spilled from the open doorway. Thinking she’d left the light on, Katherine stepped into the room. She caught her breath as she saw she hadn’t. Michael’s back was to her as he stared into the refrigerator, and her gaze roamed slowly over him. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. The olive skin tone of his Italian ancestors made him look slightly tanned even in the middle of February. His back was lean and muscled; there was a small white scar below his right shoulder blade. Idly wondering how he’d gotten it, she lowered her eyes. His jeans were loose, as if he’d recently lost weight, and dipped low on his hips. Her pulse fluttered as she realized he had nothing underneath that soft, faded denim.

  She jerked her eyes away, counted to ten, then looked back at him. He was just a man, she reminded herself. That glorious expanse of muscled flesh was just a back. All men had backs, she had a back and—

  And he’d changed in eight years, she thought, her heart rapping against her chest. He looked tougher, leaner. His contours seemed less round and more chiseled. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. He was a man now instead of a boy.