Social Graces

by Dixie Browning

  “Come sit, drink some tea, eat a bite and then you might want to return the call that came just after you left.”

  She was wearing a fuzzy pink outfit that didn’t deserve to be called sweats, but probably was. He waited for her to read the message.

  She scanned it, caught her breath and lifted a pair of gleaming moss-colored eyes. “You talked to her? Was she—did she sound all right? I’ve been so worried.”

  “Briefly,” he said. “She wanted to know where you were, and I told her you’d gone out for a couple of hours. Then she wanted to know who I was, and I told her—”

  “You told her what? That you were Will Jordan’s brother?”

  “Stepbrother.” He shook his head. “I told her I was doing some house repairs for you.”

  “That’s all?”

  He jerked a chair from under the table and straddled it. “Look, whether you believe me or not, I’m not in the habit of deceiving people. But neither am I in the habit of broadcasting my private business to strangers.”

  “Miss Mitty’s not a stranger. You knew I’d been trying to get in touch with her.”

  “I knew you’d called several times. I suspected you were worried, and yes, I knew she used to work for your father.” According to Will, Mitty Stoddard was an over-the-hill busybody who’d guarded Frank Bonnard like a junkyard dog with a juicy bone. Also according to Will, Bonnard’s secretary might even have had a hand in the lady’s early retirement, if being figuratively shoved out the door at the age of seventy-two could be called early retirement. Will didn’t know quite how, and Mac considered the whole topic irrelevant.

  Leaving a half-made sandwich and taking her tea with her, Val hurried into the next room. Mac could hear her punching in numbers and muttering under her breath. Then he heard, “Miss Mitty? Oh, thank goodness! I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been.”

  He stepped out onto the back porch to give her some privacy. Eavesdropping was a cut below what even he would stoop to. He’d already stooped pretty low, but he’d like to think he was too honorable to dance this particular version of the limbo.

  The rain had slowed to a drizzle so he went and padlocked the shed he’d left open earlier. No reason why—there was nothing of value inside—it was just something to do. Then he stopped by her car, ran a visual check on her tire pressure and did the same to his Land Cruiser. There was just enough light left to see by. When he figured he’d given her enough time, he went back inside, noisily shutting the back door. He was damp, disgruntled and curious.

  She met him in the kitchen. “Is your friend all right?” he asked.

  Her cheeks were flushed, the blotches of color standing out against her pallor. “She is now. Well, not really—at her age…” She shook her head, dislodging the towel she’d been wearing like a turban.

  Unwilling to press her, he switched on the burner to heat more water for tea. The sandwich makings were still on the table. He waited, sensing that she needed to talk, and, as his were the only available ears, chances were he wouldn’t even need to prime the pump.

  “She broke her hip. That’s why I couldn’t get in touch with her for so long, she was in this rehabilitation center after she got out of the hospital, and didn’t want to worry me with everything else that was going on. Her niece could’ve called me. I forgot to ask why she hadn’t, but then, being practically without a phone for almost a week…”

  “Make your sandwich, you need food. Or I’ll make it for you.”

  While she was smearing bread with mustard and horseradish, he pulled up a chair across the table. “Did she know about your father? Will said she retired before the—that is, a while back.”

  Between big hungry bites, Val told him about Miss Mitty, her father’s all-around assistant and adviser, who had been almost as much a part of her life as had Belinda, the housekeeper who’d had a big hand in getting her through puberty and adolescence.

  “You know, I never realized it before,” she said thoughtfully, “but I don’t think they particularly liked each other—Belinda and Miss Mitty. They both loved us, though—my father and me—so they never let it show.”

  He nodded. When the kettle began to simmer, he got up, retrieved a fresh tea bag and filled her cup.

  “I was afraid Miss Mitty hadn’t heard about Dad, and I’d have to be the one to tell her, but she reads all the news online. She’s better with a computer than I ever was, isn’t that amazing? I mean, everyone knows how babies are practically born hooked up to the Internet, but women Miss Mitty’s age…” She diluted her tea with milk and spooned in sugar. “It’s just a shame her bones aren’t as flexible as her mind.”

  They talked some more, but it was obvious that she was exhausted. “Leave everything,” he told her. “I’ll wash up and put away. Either go to bed or go relax in the living room.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, and stifled a yawn. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. We still need to talk about why you were snooping through my files.”

  “Ouch. Could we retract the term snooping?”

  She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. He said, “Okay, here goes. Chances are I was looking for the same thing you’ve been looking for. That is, some evidence that might lead to whoever cooked the books at your father’s company.”

  “My father didn’t do it,” she said flatly.

  “Neither did Will.”

  They eyed each other warily. When Mac found his thoughts straying in another direction, he turned and stacked the few dishes in the drainer and ran water over them. “If we’re going to talk, you need to sit down. Lying down would be even better, because whether or not you want to admit it, lady, you’re bushed.”

  This time she couldn’t stifle her yawn. Still yawning, she wandered away, and moments later he heard her sigh as she settled onto the sofa. He was tempted to join her, to fold the duvet around her, massage her shoulders and finish up by rubbing lotion into those red, rough hands.

  After drying his own hands, he rolled down his sleeves and joined her. “All right, start talking,” she said before he could frame his first question.

  Sergeant Valerie. Make that General.

  “Like I said, I’m looking for the same thing you are. Makes sense to me to pool our resources.” He waited for a reaction. While he watched, she closed her eyes and grimaced.

  “What?” he said.

  “Cramp.” The word came through clenched teeth. She started to stand, but he was up before she could get both feet on the floor.

  “Where? Your calf? Right or left?”

  “Foot. Right one.”

  By the time he’d slipped off her shoe and bent her toes toward her body, then worked the sole of her foot between his hands, she was lying back on the sofa, eyes closed, groaning in either pleasure or pain, he couldn’t be certain which.

  “I think that’s got it,” she whispered.

  “Anything else?” He held his hands up as if he were a surgeon scrubbed for an operation.

  She looked at his raised hands and almost smiled. Almost, but not quite. “I shouldn’t,” she said. “We really do need to talk.”

  “We can talk tomorrow, tell me what else hurts.”

  “I have to go to work tomorrow.”

  “Valerie, what’s hurting? You can’t tackle another cleaning job if your muscles freeze up on you.”

  Instead of answering, she rolled over onto her stomach and twitched one shoulder. It was all the invitation he needed.

  Eventually she said lethargically, “I still have a bone to pick with you. Ahh…right there.”

  It was weakness on her part, sheer self-indulgence, but Val let him work his magic on her aching shoulders. When his hands moved to her lower back, she couldn’t find the energy to protest. By morning, that would probably have stiffened up, too. Crawling around on her knees, dragging junk out from under furniture. A single wading shoe. Two used paper plates. A kid’s snorkel.

  She sighed again. They had come to some sort of an agreemen
t…hadn’t they? And honestly, she rationalized, it made sense. What one person saw as insignificant, another pair of eyes might see as vitally important.

  “Two brains are better than one,” she murmured sleepily.

  His hands slowed, circled her shoulders, his thumbs now working at the rigid deltoids. Where had it all come from—the tension? It couldn’t be simply the result of cleaning one filthy cottage and two fairly clean ones. Red hands and sore knees, sure, but tension?

  He leaned over and inhaled. She could feel his breath on her cheek, her neck. “Your hair smells like ginger lilies. I think.”

  Without opening her eyes, she smiled. “You think?”

  “White flowers. Grow in Florida. Smell sweet, not at all like ginger?”

  “Close enough,” she managed to whisper just before she felt his lips on her nape. Oh, please don’t do that. I don’t have the strength to resist….

  He backed away, bumped against the coffee table and one of the files slid to the floor. Neither of them noticed. When he scooped her up in his arms, Val made a weak protest, but both of them knew they were past that point. Logical or not—timely or not, he was going to do what she had dreamed about ever since that kiss on the beach. Ever since they had huddled out of the rain in a deserted shelter, his body pressing hers against the wall, her arms around his waist, her hands cupping his lean buttocks.

  Nothing else in her life made any sense—why should this?

  Ten

  Mac wanted to carry her upstairs, but Val insisted on being set on her feet. As the steps were too narrow, they jostled their way to the top, arms around waists, hips nudging hips, hearts pounding as one.

  At least, hers was. As she wasn’t wearing a bra—didn’t really need one—her feather-soft sweatshirt moved against her sensitized nipples until all she could think of was tearing off her clothes and feeling his hands on her body, his lips—

  It’s going to happen, a voice inside her whispered. Don’t fight it.

  Another voice answered, Who’s fighting? Something told her it was now or never, and never wasn’t even a faint possibility.

  Her bed was a double and her mattress was in somewhat better condition than his, but he could have taken her on any floor in the house, sandy or not, and she wouldn’t have complained as long as he joined her there.

  She felt for the overhead light switch just inside the door, but he stayed her hand. Instead, he turned on the hall light and left the door ajar. Just as well. She was hardly a centerfold candidate.

  And while she was not without experience, she suddenly felt awkward. Unlike the polished sophisticate she’d nearly married, and the tennis club gigolo she’d briefly fallen for, Mac was a real man in every sense of the word. What if he was disappointed? She would die if he looked at her flat chest and said something like, “Where’s the beef?”

  Tripp had said that once, then laughed as if he’d been only teasing. Looking back, she realized that Tripp’s brand of teasing had almost always held a hidden barb.

  “Val? It’s not too late,” Mac said, but of course it was. It had been too late the first time she’d seen him standing in the middle of her front yard like a conquering hero looking over the spoils of war.

  “I know that,” she snapped. So much for lifelong lessons in deportment. She couldn’t even manage a simple seduction scene with any style.

  Reaching for the drawstring at her waist, she looked at him as if to say, I will if you will.

  Stepping out of his shoes, Mac’s gaze never left her face. He unbuttoned his fly—he wasn’t wearing a belt. You first, those whiskey-brown eyes dared.

  Boldly, she stepped out of her pants, then quickly tugged the bottom of the pink sweatshirt down over her hips. If he liked big-bosomed women, he was flat out of luck, flat being the operative word.

  Judging from the way he stepped out of his pants, tossed them onto a chair and pulled his Columbia U sweatshirt over his head, self-consciousness wasn’t even in his vocabulary. If briefs came in cup sizes, his would be a double-D.

  He caught her staring. “Val? If you’ve changed your mind, just say so. But don’t wait too long…please?”

  Frantically, she shook her head. Oh, for goodness sake—thirty years old and you’d think she’d never done it before.

  But standing there in his navy briefs, his thick, sunstreaked hair awry, he looked so heartbreakingly beautiful she wanted to weep. Instead, she tugged off her shirt, stepped out of her panties and confronted him, daring him to back out.

  When he closed his eyes her heart sank. Then he stepped out of his briefs and stood there, fully aroused, but still not touching her. Her mouth was dry. Other parts were embarrassingly wet. “Well, are we going to do this or not?” she demanded belligerently.

  At least it broke the tension. He laughed unsteadily and reached for her. If she didn’t know better, she might even believe he was as nervous as she was. Together they made it onto the bed, and Val told herself it would be all right. This was Mac—she trusted him.

  Don’t think about tomorrow. Don’t think, just live the moment.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

  “I’m hardly fragile.” When his flattened palms made small circles on her nipples, she caught her breath.

  “Yeah, you are. Lucky for you, I’m good at handling beautiful, priceless, fragile treasures.”

  It was the last word either of them spoke for a while. He kissed her then, a gentle exploration that quickly escalated to a carnal assault. As if the taste of him weren’t intoxicating enough, the feel of his arousal pulsing against her drove her out of her mind with need.

  “Please,” she managed to whisper. “Now?”

  He murmured something that she was beyond hearing, much less understanding, and left her briefly. Moments later he returned. He kissed her eyes, her nose, her chin, and then moved down her throat and beyond, his hands leading the way, his lips following. She could feel her small breasts swell under the gentle assault from his tongue as he sucked her nipples, then gently grazed them with his teeth. All the while his hands were moving on her body, tracing erotic patterns on her most sensitive flesh.

  Digging into his shoulders with her fingertips, she twisted her head on the pillow, whimpering as he carried her to new heights, leading her to the very brink and back again and again. Stunned with sheer sensation, she was barely able to breathe. By the time he settled himself between her parted thighs, her fists were gripping the sheets to keep her from soaring into orbit.

  He entered her slowly. Impatiently, she thrust her hips to meet him, urging him to hurry. Braced on his elbows, he was trembling, his face the face of a stranger.

  A stranger…

  Before second thoughts could wedge their way between them he slipped his hand down her body and touched her in a way that jolted her into final orbit. “Shh, easy,” he whispered, but his voice was unsteady.

  Slowly, he moved deeply inside her. Clenching her thighs around his waist, she moved frantically to meet his thrusts. They were wildly out of synch, but it didn’t seem to matter—didn’t matter at all, as wave after wave of pulsating pleasure washed over her.

  She shuddered, caught her breath and released it in a soft scream. Never…ever…had she flown this high! Not until the last sweet, heavy ring of sensation faded, leaving behind a deep, mellow ache, did it occur to her that she still couldn’t breathe.

  She must have made some sound because Mac shifted his weight and rolled onto his side, taking her with him. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I died for a few minutes.”

  Petit mort. The small death…

  As reluctant as she was to move, Val felt her defenses click into place. She felt a desperate need to prove that what just happened meant no more to her than it had to him.

  Simple sex, she reasoned. People did it all the time.

  Simple? Pompeii had been simple. The San Francisco earthquake had been simple. Sex with MacBride was anything but simple.

  He was stirring against he
r again…down there. She was tempted just for a moment, but then common sense prevailed. “This is all very well, but I need to get some sleep,” she said shrewishly. “I have to go to work tomorrow.”

  He stared at her as if not believing what he’d just heard.

  She couldn’t believe she’d said it. Oh, God, how utterly awful. It was no less than the truth, but far from the whole truth. If they did it again, he might fall asleep in her bed, and if they spent an entire night together, nuzzling, nestling, making love again and again, she might never allow him to escape. Too weak to make it down to the kitchen, they would eventually starve. Sometime in the distant future Marian would send someone to check on her, and there they’d be—two naked skeletons, bones entwined on a rumpled bed.

  Carefully, she disentangled herself, then pretended to be asleep. The moment she felt him ease out of bed, she opened one eye. God, he was gorgeous!

  “Want me to bring up an alarm clock?” he asked. Obviously he hadn’t bought her pretense of sleep. Nor was he the least bit self-conscious about his nudity.

  “No thanks,” she said coolly, watching as he casually scooped up his clothes and left. When he was halfway to the stairs, she called after him. “Yes—would you mind? Just set it on the dresser.”

  Mac let the cold shower drill down on him for several minutes. He was deep in uncharted waters without a tank, without so much as a snorkel. His left brain had shut down completely—he couldn’t have reasoned his way out of a coat closet. As for his right brain, it kept creating these crazy images of big, soft beds and a certain slender, soft woman. A woman he’d come down here to entrap, only nothing was turning out the way he’d expected. He could no longer even pretend to be objective. Peel off the surface patina and Valerie Bonnard, heiress and socialite, was as real as any woman shoving a basket through the supermarket with two kids hanging onto her skirt. Same basic hopes, same basic fears—maybe even dreams, although she hadn’t shared those with him.

  Instead, she had shared her body.