by Dawn Atkins
“Sounds complicated.”
“It is. There are predictable patterns, but each company is unique.”
“And you love it.”
“I do. Very much. If I keep growing, I’ll need to bring on a partner soon. First, I’ll need to recover from being away so long, but if I can help Wharton, it’s worth everything to me.”
“On that subject, I talked to Candee about giving you some insights into the business department. She wants the three of us to talk it over.” He cleared his throat, not looking forward to the meeting.
“So...a three-way?” Tara grinned.
“I doubt it will be that fun.” Tara had been right. Candee had been upset by their meeting. He hoped Candee wouldn’t give Tara hell when they met. “She suggested Monday night at my house.”
“Sounds good.”
“I hope it will be.” He hoped it would be brief. The less time Tara and Candee spent together, the less chance they’d get on each other’s nerves, hurt anyone’s feelings or turn on him as the common enemy.
“Things are coming together,” she said sounding happy. “I’ll be working at Wharton, looking into what’s happening there. Once Tony gets the car to his shop to check it, we’ll know what caused the wreck.”
“There’s a glitch there. The salvage guy said your insurance company has to sign off before he’ll release the car.”
“Damn,” she said. “I have to get that adjuster on the phone. That’s all there is to it.” She blew out a breath. “One step forward, two steps back.”
“I did talk to one of the poker players for you,” Dylan said. “Mitch Bender was at the meeting last night, so I asked him about your father.”
“What did he say?” She turned to face him in her seat, eager and nervous, honing in on him.
“He said that Abbott seemed agitated. He lost three hands straight, which was unusual, then he left in the middle of a game to take a call—also odd, since he usually ignored his cell phone and got irritated when the other guys interrupted a game taking phone calls. A little later, he took a break and went to the john, but they could hear him talking on the phone. He left without speaking to any of them.”
“The call must have upset him. Maybe it was from Faye. Maybe she called him, rather than the other way around. Had he been drinking? Did you ask Mitch that?”
“He hadn’t noticed, but Bill Fallon called him the next morning and told him that if anyone official asked about Abbott, he should say that Abbott had had his usual iced tea. That seemed odd to Mitch.”
“So Fallon did think Dad was drunk. It’s still weird that he was right there at the scene. I don’t buy his story about the medicine run for his wife.”
“Maybe the first call your father got came from Fallon. Maybe Fallon wanted to meet your father somewhere.”
“To talk about Mom, maybe? I don’t know. There are too many possibilities.”
“Which is why we need to know more before we—”
“Accuse anyone. Got it. You made your point last night.” She shot him a look.
“Like I said, I never get tired of being right.”
“So how did your meeting go?” she asked him.
“Not bad. The mayor’s an obstacle right now. We need the right candidate to take his place. I’ve got to keep Troy from jumping into the race. My ace in the hole is that he hates politics. He wants to work for the town, not a bunch of constituents ready to recall him.”
“Will the timing work? The election and your shift to full-time manager?”
“Good question.” He’d begun to worry, too, with his father behaving as he had been. He shook his head. “Forget that. We’re supposed to be relaxing.” He took the turnoff toward the river.
“Wait. Are we going to the river for a picnic?”
“We’ll eat eventually,” he said.
“Then is it a hike? It’s beautiful this time of year.”
“Kind of,” he said, smiling in advance, knowing she’d love his idea, certain it would be exactly what they both needed, a chance to enjoy some harmless fun together. He parked in the lower picnic area. A path wound around the hill to a series of caves. There were several trails down to the river from there.
He got out and headed for the back of the Land Rover.
By the time Tara joined him, he’d donned his helmet, grabbed his gun and held out hers.
“Paintball?” She laughed out loud. “You’re kidding!”
“The range closed down a few years back, but I bought up some pellets. I figured we could rock-hop and use the caves and outcroppings for cover. What do you think?”
“I think you’re brilliant.” Her voice was lighter than he’d heard since she’d returned to Wharton. He’d forgotten how good it felt to make her happy.
“The paint’s mud-colored and biodegradable.”
“That is so you. Set up a wild stunt, but protect the environment.” Her admiration warmed him. For all that he understood her, she understood him, too. And he realized he hadn’t felt that connection with anyone in ten years, not even with Candee.
She took the cartridge he offered her. “I’m rusty,” she warned.
“It’s like riding a bike.”
“I think that’s what they say about sex, isn’t it?”
“That, too.” Their gazes tangled. Each time this happened, the urge became stronger and the voice of reason weaker.
“I brought sweats and towels in case we land in the river.” He raised a hand. “Do not call me Do Right Boy. You’ll thank me when you’re shivering.”
“Fair enough.”
He took out the two bags of paint pellets and handed her one.
“That all you got?” she said.
“I won’t need half this to beat you.”
She pretended to aim at his chest, then blew smoke from the end of her gun, a very sexy move that sent a jolt through his equipment, made him want to yank her to him and kiss her hard. Thank God, they’d be in constant motion for a while.
“Bring it on,” he said, but she needed the win more than he did, so he intended to lose. “I figure we’d play capture the flag.” He paused. “Except I forgot the flags.”
“Who needs flags? Let’s make it interesting. Let’s call it Capture the Underwear. My bra and your boxers.”
“Really?”
“Sure.” She reached inside the sleeves of her shirt, unhooked her bra and pulled it out through the sleeve opening.
“I could never figure out how you did that,” he said.
“You were always too busy watching my boobs to notice my technique.”
“It’s a guy thing.” He tried not to stare at her softly swaying breasts as she waved her bra in front of his face. It was black and lacy and she was laughing at him.
But when he undid his belt, the laughter died on her lips and she sucked in a breath. “Uh, I’ll...” She spun her finger to signify turning, then made the move.
He smiled. She wasn’t managing her sexual responses any better than he was.
Dylan took off his boxers, grateful they weren’t threadbare, then put his pants back on.
They tied their unmentionables to two sticks.
Tara shook her bra flag at him. “Take a good look. You won’t see this again until after I’ve snatched yours.”
But he was distracted by the shape of her nipples through the soft fabric. He wanted to touch them, watch her eyes burn in response, hear her breathing hitch, her body tremble.
She snapped her fingers. “You in there, Dylan? I just said I’d own you.”
“Uh, yeah.” He cleared his throat—and his mind. “We’ll see about that.”
They set distance boundaries, planted their flags and began the battle, chasing each other back and forth across the narrow bend of the river, hopping rocks, voices echoing against the hills on either side as they yelled, shrieked, and howled, shot and missed, ducking behind boulders, lunging around tree trunks, slipping into the river with sharp gasps at the cold.
H
e felt eighteen again. Tara’s face, when he caught glimpses of it, was totally intent, totally delighted, animated and happy and so young.
Half an hour into the game, he spotted her flag, but stayed clear until he heard her yell that she’d found his. She emerged from some trees waving his underwear in triumph. “You’re mine!” she called to him.
He just smiled. She was blotched with paint and splashed with river water so that her shirt clung to her shape. He was grateful when she crossed her arms to rub them for warmth, blocking his view.
“Let’s get some dry clothes,” he said, thinking the roomy sweats would hide her curves well, though Tara could make a garbage bag with leg holes look sexy.
They dressed back to back.
“That was really fun,” she said, turning to smile at him.
He noticed a gray streak in her hair. “You’ve got some paint here.” He wiped it with a towel, standing close, smelling her perfume, feeling her eyes on him, tugged again into her magnetic field.
“I’m starved,” she said shakily, stepping back to break the hold they had on each other. “You said there was a picnic?”
“I did.”
“Let’s eat up on the ridge.” She headed up the path toward the tables near the caves. He grabbed the ice chest and the Mexican blanket he planned to use as a tablecloth and followed, catching up with her in the second cave. “This is the one, isn’t it?” she said in a breathless voice. “From that storm?”
“Yeah.” They’d made love here one August during a monsoon. The memory hit him hard. Maybe he should have picked a more neutral spot, but then he couldn’t think of a place that didn’t hold memories for them.
“There was lightning and that great smell of rain and creosote and the river.”
“I remember.”
“The light was rust and gold—almost supernatural. I felt like we were Adam and Eve in the garden.”
Making love with the storm all around, naked, sheltered in the cave and in each other’s arms, it had been almost mystical.
“Let’s eat in here,” she said.
“Sure.” He could hardly say no, it makes me think of you naked. He set the ice chest on the smooth stone floor and together they shook out the blanket, then sat on it.
As he opened the cooler, she said, “I remember you tasted like German chocolate cake and vinegar chips.” Grinning, he held out the bag of vinegar chips and a plastic-lidded bakery box of German chocolate cupcakes.
“You didn’t! You are so sentimental.”
“I remembered that you liked them,” he said, but their gazes locked, and he realized it had more to do with the memory of that time. What the hell did he think he was doing? They were alone in the cave and he could almost hear the rumble of thunder.
His subconscious had been working overtime.
She handed him a cupcake, took one herself, then dug into the chips bag, holding out her full palm so he could take some.
Watching each other, they bit into the cake then ate a chip. “Mmm,” she said.
“Yeah.” The flavors of salt, vinegar, chocolate and coconut blended well.
“I have to check.” She leaned in and kissed him softly, running her tongue along his lips. She sat back. It had been a quick, friendly kiss, nothing like the one at his house, but he could hardly see for how much he wanted more.
“Well?” he managed.
“Tastes the same...maybe better,” she said softly, her pupils huge, her hair trembling on her shoulders.
And he wasn’t quite done. “My turn.” He leaned in and took her face in his hands, kissing her more intently. She gave a little moan and returned the favor. He pulled her closer until they were chest to chest, the rush of it blasting through him, the need for her, the hunger. She tasted sweet and salty and like her.
She broke off again, fighting for breath, her eyes sparkling with blue fire, the way they got when she was aroused beyond reason. “Why can’t we leave each other alone?” She sounded desperate. Her words vibrated in the air, almost alive, raising goose bumps on his skin.
“I wish to hell I knew,” he said. Ten years and a lifetime later, he wanted this woman like no other before or since.
“Why are we here? In this exact place?”
“I didn’t think it through clearly.”
“I think you did, Dylan. I think deep down you knew exactly what you were doing. You have instincts, too. Maybe we need this. To do this.”
She pushed him back onto the blanket and landed over him, her eyes big, her mouth soft, lips parted. “I can hardly think for all this wanting. It’s too much with everything else going on. You know?”
“I do. I know.” He wanted her. He wanted to be inside her. He rose and rolled her onto her back, so he was on top looking down at her.
“Oh.” Her eyes widened, their blue glowing up at him eagerly. “What did you say about the gawkers last night? You don’t give them power over you? Maybe we’re giving this too much power, making it too big a deal.”
“You don’t think it’s a big deal?” His hips pressed against her, his erection against her belly, her chest heaving with harsh breaths. She was flailing around for a rationale to do what they both wanted. The desire rumbled through him, an idling engine ready to roar to life.
“I know it is,” she said, then frowned, “but denying it, fighting it so hard, makes us do stupid things. Like this. We’re supposed to be having fun, blowing off steam, but we’re in a cave where we made love, torturing ourselves, denying ourselves, getting all wound up.” She licked her lips, her tongue sticking to the dry surface. He wanted to wet them with his own, meet her tongue with his. Lust surged, washing away all the barriers he kept flinging up.
Her eyes darted across his face, seeking his agreement. “If we quit fighting and just do it, the pressure will evaporate. We’ll be ourselves again. We can concentrate. Our minds will be clear.” She paused. “I mean it can’t possibly be as good as we’re imagining, right?”
That was the problem. “What if it’s better?”
“You think it could be?” Her eyes flashed emotion after emotion—hope, alarm, despair, hope again.
“It could be.” He paused. “And that’s not helpful.” It would stoke the self-destructive urge he had to strap himself into Tara’s emotional roller coaster, take his chances on the drops and twists and hair-raising turns.
He was too old for that. Too wise. The thrill wasn’t worth the crash. And there would be a crash. For all she’d matured, Tara was the same demanding, difficult, quick-release girl she’d been as a teenager. And he was the same all-in rescuer scrambling to be everything she needed and not quite making the grade.
“What do you mean?” Her eyes searched his, a blazing blue.
“I think we’re safer staying friends,” he said.
Already, without sex, they’d been slipping into old habits, old ways of being together—good and bad. No matter what emotional safeguards they tried to build in, when she left, he would suffer. He knew himself that well.
She would leave. He couldn’t forget that. It wasn’t just geography standing between them. They wanted different things, they saw the world differently and they had a long-standing, gut-level distrust of each other.
He didn’t have time for a heartbreak. Not with the last phase of his work at Ryland at a crucial point, not with his town leadership dream about to become real.
He didn’t need fresh feelings for Tara getting in the way of building a life with a woman—a life built on trust and common goals and mutual respect. He was closing in on thirty. He didn’t have time for make-believe.
“I see your point,” she said. She was hurt, he saw, but trying to hide it. She’d suggested sex and he’d declined. She had interpreted that as him not wanting her as much as she wanted him. That had been the crux of the sense of betrayal over his not going to college with her.
So he had to explain. “I’m not into casual sex and casual is the last thing I feel about you. I ruined my marriage beca
use of how I felt about you, Tara.”
She studied him, deciding whether or not he meant what he’d just said. He’d told her the truth and it hadn’t been easy.
“I believe you,” she said softly. They were lying exactly as they had been, his hands in her hair, their bodies together, faces inches from a kiss. Without moving at all, Tara withdrew from him. Desire faded from her eyes.
It hurt like hell, so he sat up and turned to the basket. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” she said, her voice breathy with relief.
He brought out the rest of the food—crostini with three kinds of spread, Bing cherries, a couple of sodas. They both avoided the cupcakes and chips.
Layering some fig-and-prosciutto spread onto a piece of bread, Tara said, “So we went over my dad’s will yesterday.”
“Yeah?”
She paused. “There was no money for me, but I knew that going in. The thing is...he gave me his library. All his books.”
“That’s nice, I guess.” Didn’t sound like much to him.
“Don’t you get it? He noticed that I love to read.” He hated that she settled for the man’s crumbs. But he had no right to judge. His relationship with his parents hadn’t been easy, either. Parents were supposed to love you no matter what, but when he’d chosen his father over his mother, a chasm grew between Dylan and his mother that existed to this day.
Love could be fragile. He’d seen that vividly then. He’d seen it with his mother and with Tara. It was a lesson that had registered down deep.
Hell, part of the reason he’d stayed with his father might have been to prove that he loved him.
“Also, he gave me his antique shotgun,” Tara was saying, so he tuned back in. “That means he found out I was shooting...” She swallowed hard, clearly struggling. “It’s sweet and awful at the same time. He could have talked to me. Written a note or an email...something.” She smiled sadly.
“Your father—”
“It’s okay. I get it. He is who he is. My mom, too. I have to accept her as she is and go from there.”