Laura hadn't expected him to turn the question around on her, and she felt her cheeks flare up as she tripped and stumbled through a noncommittal answer.
Misinterpreting her response, he said, "I'm sorry; that was nosy of me."
"Not at all; I asked first."
She let it go at that. The perfect opportunity to admit to him that she'd just been dumped: blown. It seemed to her that it was something he should know—that he had to know—about her.
Ken pulled a clean polo shirt out of a drawer and said, "Is your dress dryable in a machine? Because I can lend you a robe while—"
"No! It's almost dry," she said too vehemently. "The fabric is thin, and it was just alcohol, after all. It evaporates. I'm fine."
"Okay ... well, I'm soaked," he said, clearly puzzled by the shift in her mood.
He took a step deeper into his dressing room, and the next thing she saw was his gray polo shirt go sailing into the opposite corner. He came out tucking in a dry navy version and smiling sheepishly, as if he'd just stripped for a crowd of screeching females at a bachelorette party.
"I guess we'd better tackle that food," he said. "It's gotta be almost cold by now."
She nodded, still feeling off balance and not certain why.
He picked up the shopping bag and flipped off the lights and stepped aside to let her leave the room first, and then, when she was abreast of him, unexpectedly shot his left arm out ahead of her and blocked her way.
Down went the shopping bag. He eased her into his embrace and gave her a long, hard kiss, catching her completely off guard. She let herself slip into the erotic thrill of it, crushing her lips to his, aware of spreading heat, aware that she was burning all over and willing for more.
And then suddenly he broke the kiss off so abruptly that she caught her breath in a moan of distress. But he remained close, his breath mixing with hers, smiling down at her in the near dark.
Dazed, she said, "What ... was that all about?"
"Just checkin'," he said softly.
"And what have you found?"
"It's still there."
"Well, thank heaven for that." A second later, she said, "What's still there?"
"That thing they call—"
"Chemistry?"
"Yep," he said, sliding his hands up and down the sides of her body. And then he added, "I hate this dress."
Which surprised her. "I feel really good when I wear this dress."
"Sure you do, because you look really good. I hate this dress because it's on you and not on the floor," he said softly, and he caught it on each side of her hips and began peeling it up over her torso, reversing the fabric on itself.
"Lift your arms," he said.
Just like that. Her dress was coming off, just like that, and she could feel a cool breeze from somewhere whispering across her back. And she thought, irrelevantly, that waterfront properties were like that: all about cool breezes. And it seemed to her that while she was assessing the temperature outside, the temperature inside of her was heating up, burning up.
He slid the sundress over her head and let it drop in a puddle at their feet, and then he pulled his clean, dry shirt up and off in an easy swoop and dropped it on top of her dress.
She said, a little nervously, "Tsk. More laundry. You were probably Rosie Nedworth's biggest customer."
"How do you think she got to retire early?" he quipped.
He unsnapped the catch in the front of her bra—with startling ease for a one-time nerd—and slid the garment from her shoulders. More cool May air washed over her, followed by the even more startling warmth of his hands cupping her breasts. He stroked her with his thumbs, and she became light-headed from the pleasure of it. She closed her eyes, bit her lower lip.
"Second ... base," she said in a soft moan.
"One base farther than I ever got with anyone in school," he murmured, and he lowered his mouth to hers for another kiss, hot and warm and tasting of the wine they'd spilled over themselves. Her bare breasts were pressed against his bare chest, her fingers threaded behind his neck, an invitation if ever there was one for him to head on down to third.
He did just that, pulling away the elastic of her underpants and slipping his hand inside, seeking her nub and making her jump, then backing off to a broader, more sensual rub with the flat of his hand, then pinpointing again, all of it reducing her knees to rubber, her breathing to a series of helpless pants. He was simultaneously holding her up and taking her down, and she was caught in the crossfire, victimized by her own surging desire and her basic inability to move.
He asked, "Am I doing it right?" but she caught the easy confidence in the voice behind the question. He stroked and rubbed and stroked again, and she whimpered, "Oh-h ... not ... so ... bad." And the smile came through as he said, "This is third base, right? I never knew who to ask."
By now her forehead was bent into his chest, her legs parted, her arms limp as she waited for the release from the unbearable tension that was coiling inside her. It didn't seem possible to feel so good and so bad—and so utterly focused—at the same time. The pace of her panting picked up, and he picked up the pace of his strokes, until at last a long, low moan slid out from her on a full-body shudder.
He wrapped his arms around her and held her close—she assumed, as a courtesy, to keep her from collapsing to the floor.
Satisfied. It was a profound sensation, ending a string of frustrations at work, at the nursery, and—she hated to admit it—in bed. Satisfied. She'd forgotten how good it felt to be at the end of a job well done.
"Thank you," she whispered, because it was the first thing that came to her mind and because it was true. She was grateful. She wasn't even embarrassed that she was grateful; he was that good.
His laugh was soft, bemused. He tilted her chin up and kissed her. "My pleasure," he said. "Believe me on that," he said, nibbling her lower lip, dragging a trail of soft kisses from there through the curve of her neck.
"So it's ... your turn now?" she said, arching her neck for him.
"Our turn," he corrected. "Come," he murmured into her heated skin. "What do you say we make love properly now? We won't even have to undo the bed."
She laughed, a little flutter of reviving passion. "As long as you put it that way ..."
"Wait until you see how many ways I can put it."
He took her hand to lead her to his bed, and that's when it began to sink in: they were about to make love. She was going to take him inside of her, to give herself to him. She was going to hold him close against her heart. And when they returned to their separate lives—as they inevitably would—Ken was going to have a claim on that heart.
She saw no other possibility. She wouldn't be going to bed with him merely for release; he had just taken care of that. No, this would not be about having sex. This would be about making love. This would involve her emotions—and those emotions presently were a mess.
"Ken," she said, pulling back gently.
He turned. She could see that he was surprised by the gesture. She felt like a shy schoolgirl hanging back on that dread first day. "I can't do this."
He looked truly blindsided. He cocked his head, as if he hadn't heard her right. "Because ...?"
"Because I can't. Not now. I just can't," she confessed miserably.
She knew how it looked. It looked awful. As if she were the worst kind of tease. That didn't stop her from saying again, "I just ... can't."
He still looked confused, but there was an edge to it now. "Was it something I said?" he asked a little dryly.
"No, no, it's not you at all," she insisted, which was a lie. "It's ... it's everything. It's the wine, it's the bones, it's Will, it's Snack, Corinne, the nursery, it's ... oh, God. Everything." She sighed a deep, shuddering sigh. "Suddenly it's all hitting me at once."
He let out a sound of exasperation, and automatically she winced, expecting an outburst to follow.
He saw her fear and said, "Laura—God. Don't ever react that wa
y to me. Did you think I was going to force you? It's myself I'm mad at. I had my brain on hold. I wasn't thinking; I should've considered what you've been through ..."
Relieved, she said, "I didn't want you to believe that just because I got satisfied—"
"I don't think that," he said quickly. "I ambushed you."
"But I didn't stop you."
"Why would you? How could you?" he said simply. "You needed the release."
"You make it sound so mechanical," she protested.
"In a way, it was," he said, taking her in his arms. "There's nothing wrong with needing to let off steam, even if it's sexual steam." He held her close—but his chest was bare, and so was hers, and it was hard to find real comfort in his embrace. She was far too on guard.
Clearly he felt her tensing up, because he said wryly, "I think probably this isn't such a great idea." He freed her, then scooped up her discarded dress and her bra and handed them to her with a smile that was both resigned and bemused.
She felt terrible. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry."
"No regrets," he admonished gently. "Never apologize, never explain. Not about something like this."
And meanwhile, she was only wearing underpants. Feeling way too much like a go-go dancer, Laura turned her dress right-side out, stuffed her bra in one of the pockets, and slipped the dress over her head. Armored now in lavender, she felt more able to face the shirtless man in front of her.
She was so grateful to him for not being angry at her that she blurted, "There's something else you should know."
He leaned back on his dresser and crossed his arms over his too-bare, too-broad, too-male chest. Looking calm but warily intrigued, he said, "There's more?"
"It's not really relevant, but ... you should know that I just broke it off with my fiancé. Or rather, my fiancé just broke it off with me," she felt obliged to admit.
"What?" Ken said, straightening back up again. "You were engaged?"
"More or less."
"Until when?"
"The month before last."
He let out a long, slow stream of air, clearly trying to get himself back under control. He looked away and then looked back at her. His eyes seemed somehow darker, the way water looks when a cloud passes between it and the sun. He had to unclench his jaw to say, "I wish you'd told me that before now."
She had to challenge that. "When?"
"I don't know," he admitted, and she heard definite irritation in his voice. "Sometime. Before tonight, anyway."
"I didn't know we'd be ending up here," she said in self-defense.
"I did," he shot back.
"Oh." Well, so much for spontaneity. "I had no idea," she said rather primly.
"When I suggested a romantic evening on the beach, bells didn't go off?"
"Back at Captain Jack's? I assumed you were playing to the audience."
"Yeah. You."
"I didn't take you seriously. Why would I?" she said, trying to sound unconcerned as she looked around for her sandals. "I mean, you're who you are and I'm who I am."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he said hotly, turning her around to face him.
Ah, now this, she understood. An angry male was familiar territory to her, easier to flee than one who was a charmer.
Don't respond. Don't argue, don't say boo. Just keep your head down and you'll get out without getting hurt. That went double for matters of the heart.
Her answer was to ease out of his grip.
"Laura! Damn it, I asked you a question," he said, clearly getting more and more frustrated.
"You already know the answer," she told him, despite her vow to stay low. "You're the bank president, a member of the ruling class. I'm just a Shore."
You'll love me and leave me and then where will I be?
"Oh, please. You're not serious," he said.
"Never more so."
"Are you just looking for an excuse not to go to bed with me? Christ, Laura, you had plenty of valid reasons, chief among them, a broken engagement; you didn't have to go reaching for something so dumb as class warfare."
"It's the truth!" she snapped.
In fact, he sounded very patrician as he said, "This isn't Victorian England, you know. Wake up and smell the country, will you? We live in a democracy."
"Yeah, sure. Now where did I—? Ah." She found her sandals half buried in the thick, soft shag of the flokati. Scooping them up by their slim straps, she said, "Good night, Mr. Barclay. Don't let the bedbugs bite." And she let herself out onto the terrace, closing the elegant French door carefully behind her.
No more false steps. Wasn't that what she had just got done wishing for?
Good thing she remembered her shoes.
Chapter 20
Laura may have left with her shoes, but she'd forgotten about her car: at the moment, she didn't have one.
Fine. It would be a two-mile trek and in the dark, but she had absolutely no intention of asking Ken for a lift home or even for the use of his phone to call one of the town's two cabs.
It was late. She was exhausted. But she had her pride, damn it. There was absolutely no need for him to assume that Max was part of any list of reasons for her refusal to jump into bed. How anyone could go from being so understanding to being such a total jerk was an infuriating mystery to her.
Suddenly a couple of garden lights went on, casting a soft glow over the brick patio. A doorlatch clicked. Laura whirled around to see Ken fully dressed and slapping his car keys against his thigh.
"Do you want to talk about him?"
"Who?"
"I don't know his name. The guy who broke it off."
"Max? Why would I want to talk about him?"
"Maybe it's something you have to work through," Ken said slowly, as if he were feeling his way. "Now's your chance."
"I don't have to work through Max," she said, exasperated. "I've worked through Max. It's over. Done. Finished." Aaagh. She didn't have the energy for this. After a quick and forceful sigh, she said, "It's been a long day." She pointed to his car keys. "Are you offering to drive me home?"
"If that's what you want."
"Thank you," she said, and she sat in one of the teak patio chairs. "I just have to put on my shoes."
He stood and waited while she buckled first one sandal and then the other in self-conscious silence. She felt far more awkward now than she had when she was standing half-naked in front of him.
Of all the ways for the evening to end. She fought back a sudden sting of emotion as she stood up and said briskly, "Okay, I'm all set."
"Watch your step," he warned her quietly as they walked out. "The rest of the way isn't lit."
****
Now what?
That's what Ken kept asking himself as he drove a silent Laura back to Shore Gardens. How could it have gone so wrong? Granted, he'd had other dates that hadn't ended up as ideally as he would have liked—in bed—but this one had just hit a new low. To have a woman as desirable as Laura Shore in his arms for one intensely erotic moment, and then to have her slip away ....
He was a knucklehead. He hadn't been able to resist her, and he had rushed her, and now here she was: not speaking. Only a knucklehead would have tried to take advantage of her in the state she was in. He was disgusted with himself for having lost control. If he had known that she'd just been ditched by some obvious moron, he wouldn't have touched her with a ten-foot pole. A woman in that position, and with everything else going on in her life besides?
Not with a ten-foot pole.
And yet there was something about her—a surprising vulnerability, despite her in-your-ear attitude—that made him want to be near her, and take care of her, and keep all the Will Burtons at bay. There was something about a woman who was determined to fight her own battles that made you want to share the battlefield with her. Laura was that kind of a woman.
The question was, since when had he become that kind of man? He wasn't unhappy or restless with the life he was living.
Why the need to go and complicate it with a complicated woman? Hell, the last time that he'd felt such a protective surge about someone was ... well, with Laura, that day in the woods.
The realization brought him full circle to the payback smack that Laura had given Will Burton in Captain Jack's. Smiling inwardly despite the chill in the car, he glanced at Laura. "Everything okay over there?" he ventured to ask.
"Perfectly fine."
She could have been answering from a neighboring ice floe.
His thoughts went back, inevitably, to their recent confrontation. She claimed that she was over this Max character. Ken wanted to believe her, more than he wanted to admit. But how could she possibly trust her own judgment right now? She had arrived in Chepaquit at a time of financial crisis; had spent punishing hours in an all-or-nothing effort to save the family farm; had seemed to be pulling it off; and had just been upended by the discovery—his discovery, no less—of human remains in her compost pile.
Clearly, the best thing he could do was to leave her some breathing room for the moment. The truth was, he could use a little breathing room himself. Things were moving way too fast, and that was all his fault.
His headlamps bounced their beams off yellow tape as he drove past the site of the search; he was relieved to see that the police hadn't set up lights for an all-nighter. The rest of the nursery was pitch-black, the way it was every night of the year: everyone knew that the Shores had never been ones for wasting electricity.
The house was dark, too, except for two rooms at opposite ends of the second floor.
"Looks like everyone's about to turn in," he said, trying to make ordinary conversation.
Sounding equally offhand, Laura said, "It's been a long—interesting, but long—day for all of us."
He pulled to a stop but left his engine idling, because he didn't want her to feel even remotely obliged to offer him coffee.
Fat chance. She had the door open before he had time to pull the brake.
"Laura—"
"You don't have to say anything, Ken. Tonight never should have happened."
"I know. That's how I feel."
They both said, "I'm sorry," at the same time, and then they both chuckled awkwardly at the same time, and then she closed the door and said good night through the half-opened window.
A Month at the Shore Page 18