Lady Moonlight

by Rita Rainville

  "I'll tell him when," Dane said with a straight face.

  "Have you ever heard of a conflict of interest?"

  Kara inquired.

  "'What's the matter, tough stuff, afraid of the competition?"

  "How can you even ask?" she wondered aloud. "I have a team I can't talk to, a rigged referee, and my opponent was probably a college all-star. That just makes it interesting." She turned away from Dane's lazy grin and motioned her team into a huddle.

  The first play set the tone for the rest of the game.

  Her girls treated the ball like a hot potato and finally tossed it to Kara. She yelped and started running.

  Evading Dane's boys was the easy part. Clutching the ball, she looked around and saw Dane loping at an angle to intercept her. His expectant look filled her with determination. She decided she would make a touchdown or die in the attempt. At the same time, she wondered if she had retained any of the speed she had developed from her sprinting days in college.

  Fairly flying over the sand, she heard the kids screeching behind her and, sooner than she'd thought possible, the thud of Dane's feet. Just as she thought she had made it, she was tackled and gently tumbled to the sand. When she stopped rolling, she was flat on her back, wrapped in Dane's arms, protected from the impact by his big body.

  She looked up at him as his hands slid down and rested on her rounded bottom. Her glance rose a notch and she found herself staring at a circle of brown, grinning faces. Drawing in a deep breath, she yelled, "Foul! Referee, call a foul! We're playing touch," she muttered to Dane, "not tackle. Remember?"

  "I'm touching," he said softly, tightening his grip. "Believe me, I'm touching."

  "Where's the referee?" Kara called as she tried to wiggle out of Dane's embrace and immediately discovered that she was locked in place by his arms. The circle of faces parted, and she discovered Juanito with his back turned, intently watching a sea gull.

  "Some help he is," she muttered.

  Dane leaned down, brushing his lips against hers.

  "He can't help you. No one can. This is just between us."

  Kara had a sinking feeling that he wasn't talking about a football game. Ignoring the implication of his words, she prodded his shoulders. "Okay," she agreed briskly, "I'm beyond help. But, you, coach, have a problem. You've set a terrific example for these grinning little wretches. They're going to try tackling each other, and we'll have an epidemic of broken bones. Before they get any ideas, you get on your feet and talk to them. Tell them you fell on me, tell them anything, but make sure they don't try it."

  Dane sighed, reluctantly shifted his weight and stood up. Reaching down, he grasped Kara's hand and effortlessly pulled her upright. He gently smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear before turning away.

  Kara watched as he squatted down and signaled for attention. He was gesturing and talking earnestly as she walked over to Carmella.

  "Your man, he is muy guapo," Carmella said softly.

  "Handsome is as handsome does," Kara answered. "Besides, he's not mine."

  Carmella arched a disbelieving eyebrow that spoke volumes.

  Kara was called back to the game before the interesting conversation could be developed. Whatever Dane had said was effective, she noted, because the game proceeded without even the most adventurous attempting a tackle.

  The rest of the afternoon spun itself away as everyone headed for the water. The older children were sorted out by swimming ability and supervised by the men. Juanito worked with the non-swimmers, and Dane taught the others the trick to body surfing.

  Kara and Carmella watched as the little ones staggered to the water's edge, squealed as waves lapped at their ankles and either plopped down in an inch of water or danced away as fast as their chubby legs would carry them.

  Mealtime was a boisterous, messy affair. Wire coat hangers were carefully straightened out; then wieners were skewered on them and roasted over the bonfire.

  The bobbing pieces of meat, ranging from raw to charred, were slapped between buns and slathered with mustard, catsup and salsa.

  "I don't know how you do it every day," Kara said later to Carmella. Hunger had been temporarily assuaged, and the firelight was reflected on a circle of young, contented faces.

  "God provides the time and energy," the other woman said serenely.

  The moon was hanging high in the sky, casting its silvery glow over the water. The gentle waves broke softly on the sand and, for a moment, all that was heard was the crackling of the fire and the distant sound of mariachis, musicians strolling from one group to another, singing and playing guitars.

  Ruben lay back, cupping his head in his hands, looking at the sky. Suddenly he nudged Alberto, pointed up and said something. Alberto looked, poked Carmen and repeated the words. Soon all of them were staring at the sky. They turned to Kara, chattering among themselves, and nodded in satisfaction.

  "La senorita como la luz de la luna," they agreed.

  Kara turned puzzled eyes to Juanito. Amusement lit his eyes as he explained. "They say your hair is the color of the moon. They have decided that tonight you are the lady of the moonlight."

  " La senorita como la luz de la luna," they said once more in satisfaction.

  "No, chicos," Dane said firmly. "Mi senorita."

  Even Kara recognized the stressed possessive word.

  Not the lady, but my lady. She turned dark, indignant eyes on him. But the hot words on her lips were stopped when he smiled, wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close to him.

  Juanito's eyes met those of his wife, and he nodded.

  Turning, he reached for his guitar and began strumming softly. Carmella sang, nodding for the others to join her.

  "Born diplomats," Dane murmured in Kara's ear as his arm tightened.

  Kara felt him wince as her elbow dug into his ribs.

  "You're pushing, Logan," she whispered. "You'll get yours later."

  "I can hardly wait."

  Before long, the music lulled the babies to sleep.

  Carmella looked around and said with a smile, "We should go before we have twelve sleeping ninos on our hands."

  Yawning youngsters reluctantly piled into Dane's truck and were covered with blankets. Before the men had packed the supplies into the other truck, the children were asleep. When they reached the farm, the older ones were awakened and they groggily stumbled to their beds. The babies were tucked in without being disturbed.

  Kara hugged Carmella and Juanito. "Good night. It was fun. We'll try it again soon."

  The couple turned to Dane. "Come back and see us. Any time."

  "Thanks, I'll do that." He nudged Kara toward the truck. As they drove out of the yard, they called one last good night and turned onto the road.

  Kara's sigh combined fatigue and contentment.

  Dane draped an arm around her shoulders and urged her closer. They were silent as they passed the huge, paved parking lots of the racetrack, rode through town and passed the Customs area.

  Dane looked down at the windblown, silvery hair.

  "Why so quiet?"

  Kara stirred, wondering how she had ended up pressed against him from shoulder to knee. "Partly tired, partly thinking about Benito. There's something about him that bothers me, and I can't put my finger on it."

  He dropped a hand on her thigh, gently kneading.

  "Think out loud. Maybe between us we can piece it together."

  "It's something about the way he moves. I was watching him play ball this afternoon. His coordination is off, his . . . responses are too slow. It worries me. I hope he doesn't have some awful degenerative disease."

  "You're right," Dane said thoughtfully. "I didn't notice it while we were playing, but now that you mention it, I think there is something. I doubt that it's serious, though. When I was about his age, the kid next door to me was like that. Always getting zapped with baseballs, never able to catch a football. We thought he was just a klutz."

  "What was it?"

>   Dane grinned. "He needed glasses. He never said anything because he thought everyone saw things fuzzy the way he did."

  "Glasses!" Kara burst out in relief. "I never thought of that. I'll mention it the next time I see Carmella." She fell silent again, mentally adding the price of glasses to the cost of clothing for the two latest additions to the rapidly growing family.

  "Now what?" Dane asked in resignation.

  "Nothing. Well, almost nothing. No, nothing," she said decisively, remembering his unequivocal speech about helping people at their first meeting. He might have softened enough to help supervise a beach party, but she wasn't going to supply him with the material for another "patsy" lecture.

  She was still brooding as she handed over her keys and watched him open her front door.

  "I'd give a lot for a cup of coffee right now."

  Kara eyed Dane suspiciously, remembering the last time he had invited himself in voicing the same desire.

  "I mean it this time," he assured her as he strode toward the kitchen. "No instant or decaffeninated, though. It's been almost twelve hours since I've had any, and I want the real stuff, brewed. Do you have the makings?"

  "Of course I do, but I don't especially want to make it," she said, wondering why this man always brought out the worst in her. Maybe, she decided, it was because tact never seemed to work. It took a bulldozer to make a dent in his hide. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm dirty and tired. I want to take a shower and go to bed."

  She tried leading him to the front door and lost him at the dining-room table.

  "What's this?" he asked, looking down at a jumble of photos spread all over the table.

  Leaving the door with a reluctance he ignored, she came to a halt next to him. "My mother gave me a box full of old family photos. I'm trying to organize them chronologically; then I'll put them in an album."

  "My God," he said suddenly, seeming to take in her appearance for the first time. "You do look like you've been through the wars." He turned her around and gave her a gentle shove. "I'll make the coffee while you shower; then we can look at your pictures."

  "You don't want to do that," she protested. "There's nothing worse than looking at pictures of people you've never met." She stopped for the simple reason that he was no longer there.

  Listening to the noises coming from the kitchen, she finally shrugged and headed for the shower.

  She was right, of course. Nothing put him to sleep faster than someone reaching for a family photo album. But for the first time in his life he was intensely curious about a woman. He wanted to know everything about her. Was her hair that silvery shade when she was a child? Did she like bananas, ever wear braces? Was she accident-prone? Did she always have a penchant for the underdog? How old was she when she started dating? Had her smile always been so blinding? What was her favorite color, flavor of ice cream, sport? Did she cry at sad movies?

  Of course she did, he decided, pulling down coffee mugs. She probably also cried at those with moments of triumph or tenderness, or happy endings. While waiting for the coffee, he found the cream and lifted the lids of various containers. The last one yielded what looked like homemade chocolate chip cookies.

  He filled a small bowl with a handful and took everything to the cluttered table.

  ❧

  Kara reluctantly passed over a blue knee-length robe and reached for a clean pair of jeans and a cotton shirt. After dressing quickly and brushing back her towel-dried hair, she frowned into the mirror. She wasn't about to put makeup on this late in the evening. He'd just have to take her as she was. No, scratch that, she advised herself hurriedly. Too frequently for her peace of mind he had the look of a man who intended to do just that.

  She found him examining stacks of photos with absorbed interest. He had made himself very much at home, she noted absently. The cookies were almost gone, and his cup looked ready for a refill.

  "Fascinating, aren't they?" she asked, watching him as he kept the pictures in their original order by placing them face-down in a pile. He swept them up and carefully returned them to their assigned space.

  "Hm-hmm." He slid her mug closer to him and eased his chair back a bit. "Sit here," he directed, sliding his arm around her waist and easing her down on his thigh.

  "I'm too heavy," she objected as she perched gingerly on a leg so muscular it felt like a wooden beam.

  "I can handle it," he assured her. "You may eat like a lumberjack, but you still don't weigh any more than a butterfly. Come on, I want you close so you can tell me who these people are. Is the coffee too potent?"

  As she obediently lifted her cup to test the strength, Kara realized that once again she had been outmaneuvered. Slick technique, she decided. Every time she argued about something, he gave a rational explanation and asked a question that changed the subject.

  Not bad. In fact, it was well worth cultivating.

  For the next thirty minutes she pointed out friends and relatives and answered questions. Yes, she was allergic to animal hair, but that didn't stop her from bringing home stray dogs. Yes, that was her at fourteen wearing a ponytail and flashing braces. There she was learning to water-ski. Not exactly star material, but she finally, managed to stay up on her feet.

  Kara eventually set her mug down with a definite clink. "You've seen my father, my mother, two brothers and assorted branches of the family tree. You even got a glimpse of Uncle Walter, for heaven's sake. That's enough, the end, finis."

  She raised her hand to cover a huge yawn and stood up. He rose with her, and she mumbled, "You make wonderful coffee, but even that can't keep me awake. You're going out the door. I'm going to lock that nice, shiny dead bolt and fall into bed."

  As she turned to follow her own excellent advice, she found that her body wouldn't cooperate.

  Dane was perched on the edge of the table, legs slightly apart. Kara was pressed against him, fitted to the lean length of his body as if tailor-made. His grasp was light, but she knew she wasn't going anywhere until he let her. The silvery flash in his eyes alerted her drowsy senses.

  She opened her mouth to protest . . . and knew she was too late. His breath was warm on her face. Even as she tasted the coffee on his lips, she stretched and slipped her arms around his neck. Dane's hands slid down into her back pockets and pressed her close against the undeniable evidence that his attention had not been entirely on photographs.

  Kissing Dane, she thought dazedly, was a bit like going under an anesthetic. It would be so easy to give up, to let him take control. The idea was tempting, and for a moment she did nothing but lean against him and savor the touch of his lips, the warmth of his body.

  "Dane?" The whisper was a puff of sound against his mouth.

  "Hmm?" he murmured without moving.

  Slowly, reluctantly, her hands slid to his chest. She was momentarily distracted as she felt the crisp hair beneath his thin shirt. Her fingers lingered, then curled into small fists and tentatively pushed.

  "Hmm?" he repeated, raising his head a fraction of an inch.

  "Better stop right now, or God only knows where we'll end up," she said shakily.

  "We both know where we're going to end up. In my bed."

  "Maybe," she said, getting her second wind.

  "No maybe about it," he said flatly.

  "But not tonight," she persevered.

  "No, not tonight. When it happens, you won't be dead on your feet."

  "In that case, may I have my pockets back?" she asked with a straight face.

  Tightening his hands again around the softly curved flesh, he pulled Kara against him and leaned down for one last, hard kiss. Raising his head, he stared at her with narrowed eyes, then turned them both toward the door.

  Feeling as if she had had a narrow escape, Kara silently released a sigh of relief. Lowering her lashes, she meekly agreed to lock and bolt the door.

  "I'll be by about one tomorrow," he said, still in the doorway.

  "'Where are we going?" She was definitely going to
have to teach him how to ask. His orders were beginning to get on her nerves.

  "Del Mar."

  "A racetrack? That's like taking a busman's holiday," she protested. "I don't have any fun at the races."

  "I have an overwhelming desire to see a semi-psychic in action," he admitted. "Just once. I'll never ask you again."

  "All right," she capitulated slowly, suddenly remembering Benito's glasses and the additional clothes. "But you have to let me do it my way. You're not to try to convince me that your system is better and pressure me to change my mind."

  "Would I do such a thing?" he asked innocently.

  "You would. You do. Constantly."

  "I'll have to work on that, won't I?"

  "You certainly will," she murmured as she locked the door and turned out the lights. "You certainly will."

  Chapter 6

  "I am absolutely, positively not superstitious," Kara muttered aloud as she smoothed down the lavender sundress and sprayed on cologne.

  Dane was due in ten minutes. Ten minutes-just long enough to drive herself crazy. Just because it had been her policy to have other people bring the money and do the betting, it didn't mean it wouldn't work if she supplied the cash, did it? Of course it didn't. Surely a simple change in procedure wouldn't affect her ability to pick the winners. She knocked on wood and crossed her fingers.

  The cause was still the same, the children still the beneficiaries, she reasoned. It would make no difference at all that her dollar bills would be slid across the counter instead of Juanito's pesos. If this peculiar ability to pick a winner was God-given, as Aunt Tillie maintained, would He abruptly withdraw it just because she was trying to prove a point?

  She wished that her intentions were as straightforward as they ordinarily were. This time, unfortunately, there was a bit of ego involved. Plus, she reluctantly admitted, a desire to beat Dane's systematic approach to smithereens. Just once, she would like to knock him off his patronizing perch, to dent his belief that whatever she did, he could do better. No, she admitted, as a brisk rap sounded on the door, her motives were far from pure.

  An hour later, sitting in a shaded area of the racetrack on the outskirts of San Diego, she sighed in relief. She had opened the program, afraid to look at the names of the horses in the first race. But there they were. Almost as if someone had taken a felt-tipped pen and highlighted them.