by Cherry Adair
He hadn’t thought. He’d felt. With more passion than finesse, he’d pressed her supple young body against the refrigerator. He’d kissed her until they’d both been breathless, then he’d kissed her some more. He’d touched her breast through the flimsy fabric of her dress and wanted it all. Wanted her naked beneath him. Wanted her strong runner’s legs wrapped about his waist. Wanted to sink into her wet heat and have his wicked way with her.
Finally it had penetrated his brainless state that Cat was struggling in his arms.
He felt the deep scalding flush of shame now, nine years later, as violently as he had then. There’d been no excuse for his behavior. Unless being a twenty-four-year-old with a sporadic love life and a suddenly enormously high sex drive counted.
Horrified at his loss of control, he’d let her go immediately. But not immediately enough to prevent her from throwing up on his shoes.
His horror at his own inappropriate conduct had manifested itself in a scathing lecture on her behavior.
With one wounded look, after his betrayal, Cat had fled.
He’d gone back the next day to apologize. Cat had been her usual quiet, contained, cheerful, kid sister self. Luke had been so relieved he’d almost kissed her in gratitude. Well, he was a slow learner.
He did the decent, honorable thing. He’d left her alone, and done everything in his power to reinforce their brother-sister relationship. It had worked out just damn well fine. Until now.
He wondered if they needed architects in China.
* * *
“YUM, IT SMELLS terrific in here. Been baking?” Catherine tossed her purse on the counter and eyed Luke’s apparel. She rubbed her itchy elbow and grinned. He wore a navy-and-white-striped bib apron, and from the look of him, little else. “Interesting new fashion statement, even for you.”
“It’s hot in here.”
“No kidding.” Even with her hair piled up on top of her head and minimal clothing, she was hot. Looking at an almost naked Luke made her hotter still. She made a rapid inventory of the kitchen instead. Dirty dishes were piled haphazardly in the sink, and the doughy hooks from the Cuisinart lay on the flour-dusted counter.
She frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“You bake when you’re uptight.”
“I bake when I want to eat whatever I’m baking.”
Right. “Okay. Is that bread ready?”
Luke shoved the dish towel-covered board across the granite center island. “Help yourself.” He uncovered the loaf and snagged the butter dish before whacking off a thick, fragrant, yeasty slice. “Nice evening?” He leaned against the counter, arms folded, ankles crossed.
Catherine slathered butter on the hot bread and took a bite. “Mmm. This is fabulous. It was...terrific.” Luke had terrific legs. Hairy, tanned, muscular. Runner’s legs. Although he never ran when he could walk, or walked when he could be prone. She couldn’t wait to get him prone. “What brought on this spurt of domesticity?”
“I have someone else I want you to meet,” he said at the same time. “His name is Steve Manfield.”
Catherine reached over her shoulder to scratch an itch between her shoulder blades. “Good grief! I told you, I’ve already found my Mr.—”
“Please tell me Mr. Right isn’t Ted?”
“Nope. Not Ted,” Catherine said obediently, and resisted rolling her eyes.
“Well, you should meet Steve before you decide. He’s a decent guy. Owns his own insurance agency here in the city. Financially solid. Has a terrific house with a pool, which is appreciating in value every day. Loves kids. Has a couple of dogs. I think you and old Steve will have a lot in common.”
“With that glowing testimonial, how can a girl refuse?” Catherine said dryly. “I do, however. Refuse, that is.”
“One date couldn’t hurt, Cat. Just to be sure.”
“I’m sure now.”
“We’ll double-date this weekend, how’s that?”
Catherine shook her head in exasperation. She was sorely tempted to whack him over the head with the breadboard.
“Overkill, Luke. And a total waste of time. Besides, we’re going to a wedding. Remember?”
Luke groaned. “I was trying to forge... Why are you scratching like that?”
“Don’t ask.” She considered squeezing between Luke and the opposite counter to get to the refrigerator and a glass of icy-cold milk. She’d hate to pass up any opportunity to touch him. Especially dressed the way he was right now. A nice slow shimmy, Catherine decided.
Luke waited until she was almost through the straits before he snagged her arm. His eyes did a rapid scan of her arms and shoulders, bared by the pumpkin-colored halter dress. “Are you aware you’re covered with a red rash?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Shellfish?”
Catherine rubbed her upper chest, where the welts were now on fire. “Would you pour me a glass of milk, please? I think there was some sort of lobster base in the sauce we had at the restaurant.” The little container of crab she couldn’t resist at Fisherman’s Wharf before going into the movie alone had been worth a little itching.
He took down a glass, filled it and handed it to her. “Here. You ate it anyway.” He shook his head. “Stay right there, I’ll get the calamine.”
Luke brushed past her to go to the cabinet where he kept his vast array of first-aid supplies—a five-year-old box of Band-Aids, a two-year-old bottle of aspirin and the calamine lotion. Luke was, as they said, always in rude good health. It warmed her heart to know he had the lotion, which only she used.
Catherine sipped the milk without tasting it. He had the neatest, tightest little butt she’d ever seen. Luke in underwear and an apron was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen in her life. More than her skin itched. Catherine bit her lip. What did she have to do? Use Nick’s two-by-four over his head? Strip naked and lie on the floor at his feet?
Luke grabbed the paper towels from under the sink and came back with the pink bottle in his hand. “Turn ’round.”
The first dab was nice and cold. His stiff cotton apron brushed the back of her legs as he stepped closer.
“What are you doing?” he asked, dabbing away at her shoulders with the calamine-soaked paper towel.
“Undoing the halter so you can get to my neck.”
“Stop scratching.”
“I’m rubbing.”
“Don’t do that, either.” He pushed her hand gently out of his way, then his fingers touched her shoulder as he patted downward. She felt the warmth of his breath against her skin. It made the loose curls at her nape dance and tickle her neck. Moisture prickled between her breasts and she held her hand there to keep the top of the dress up, and her heart from jerking right out of her chest.
What she’d rather do was let go and turn around. She almost clucked, she was so chicken. Her breath jammed in her lungs. She stayed as she was, back turned, and let him dot and dab at the rash.
She felt like she had when she’d been a kid, standing on the highest diving board at the YWCA, her toes clenched around the end of the board, looking down at that pale blue water shimmering a mile beneath her. Wanting to jump, but sick with the adrenaline rush, breathless with excitement, dizzy with terror. One. Two. Three... She removed her hand and let her dress drop to her waist.
“What are you doing?” Luke demanded, voice hoarse. He stood directly behind her. When he breathed in, the fragrance of her skin blotted out all rational thought. When he breathed out, corkscrew tendrils of her upswept hair fluttered against her bare back. With a silent curse, he gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the unconscious invitation of a topless Catherine Harris. And he only had a view of her slender back peppered with cinnamon freckles, nasty pink blotches and smears of lotion. He didn’t have to
see her breasts to know she was naked from the waist up. Blood rushed from his head to his groin.
“Unless you’re going to doctor all of me, I’ll do my front while you do the back,” Cat murmured, open palm extended over her bare shoulder. “Hand me the lotion, will you?”
For half a heartbeat their eyes met. Her lashes flickered as she gazed at his mouth for a fraction of a second. Her pupils dilated just a little as she looked up, directly into his eyes.
Heat sheeted Luke’s body in a lightning-flash rush. God almighty, Cat had no idea what those amber eyes of hers could do to a man. He knew if he inspected himself he’d find the damned apron tented over his erection. He couldn’t look anywhere other than into Cat’s eyes.
So near and yet so far.
He wanted her so badly. But he knew if he touched her it would just make the wanting, the needing, the ache, worse. Not only would he have betrayed her trust, if he touched her like a lover, even once, he knew he’d never stop. And he’d never get over her.
It would be an irrevocable step.
One he would never take. But it was killing him.
Wordlessly he handed her the bottle of lotion. She half turned to reach for it, and he had a brief glimpse of the narrow span of her rib cage and one pale, perfect plump breast. His eyes shot back to her face. She seemed oblivious, and he dragged in another breath, drenched with the scent of her.
His physical reaction to her was bad enough to deal with. But this was day-and-night different. An odd feeling expanded through him. A feeling that had nothing to do with his rampant sexual desire for her. It felt unbearably sweet. Poignant. Sinfully rich. His heart hitched, and yearning filled his soul....
Then he saw himself in her eyes. And what he saw was security. Safety. Trust. Promises made. Vows kept. The thought worked as effectively as a bucket of ice water.
Almost.
Torture. And bless her sweet naive heart, she had no idea. She believed she was safe with him. He let out a breath and tried to distract himself. Unfortunately, he still had her rash to contend with. He had to stand close, had to touch, had to breathe. He had to get laid. And soon. He was hanging on by the last sliver of his fingernails.
She trusts me. He dabbed all the way down to the slender span of her waist, making sure only the paper towel touched her smooth skin. “Can you do the rest yourself?” he asked, his tongue sticking to the dry roof of his mouth. He’d go directly to heaven for his restraint, and straight to hell for his thoughts. “Or do you need me to—”
She reached back and tugged at the short zipper at the small of her back. The sides flopped back, revealing the sweet curve of her waist, the gentle swell of her bottom and the beginning of cleavage. He went icy hot.
“Jesus. Did you go out tonight buck naked under this dress?” Luke croaked.
“Oh, good.” She sounded relieved. “No line. I have on a thong,” she told him mildly. “Feels like there’s a whole bunch of itchies, right here.” She brushed the pale flesh below her waist—well below her waist—with her thumb, while trying to look over her shoulder. “Can you see them?”
Luke prayed for an earthquake. A flood. A famine. A natural disaster. Something. Anything.
“Luke?”
He dabbed.
She moaned as the cold liquid soothed the burning itches.
He silently cursed. “That should do it, right?” His voice was almost nonexistent, and as hopeful as that of a penitent.
With both hands, she started slithering the fabric of her dress up her thighs. “If you’d just do the back of my le—” She broke off and allowed the material to fall down to cover her legs again. “Never mind.”
Thank God. He couldn’t take any more.
She rubbed the end of her nose with the back of her hand. “I can do the rest, thanks.”
“Did something happen tonight with—who was it?” Luke demanded.
Cat sighed, put the bottle down on the counter, then used both hands to retie the straps of her dress around her neck. She turned to face him. “Nothing happened with tonight’s date,” she snapped. “He is not the problem.”
Luke touched her warm cheek. Longing rushed through him. He yearned to have the freedom to express all the emotions churning in his gut. He felt like an insensitive jerk. Something was wrong. He let his gaze move slowly over her tight features while she glared up at him. He dropped his hand, didn’t know what to do with it, and folded his arms across his chest. She was utterly unaware of how she tied him in knots, and he’d better well keep it that way. He leaned back against the fridge, cocked his knee enough to mask the bulge in the apron, and tried his best to look...unhorny.
“Then tell me what the problem is, Catwoman. And I’ll fix it for you.”
“My Mr. Right doesn’t even know I exist.” She glared at him as if it were his fault. “What can you do about that, Luke Van Buren?”
Needing something to do with his hands, he pulled a clean mixing bowl out of the cabinet and placed it carefully on the counter between them. He looked at her. “What would you like me to do? Say the word,” he said, gathering ingredients from shelves and refrigerator. He dumped everything haphazardly on the counter beside the bowl. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
“How about if you stop moving around at the speed of light and listen, then?”
Luke leaned one shoulder against the fridge. He crossed his arms. “You have to say something, Cat. Or do you want me to guess?”
“Right. Tell you. Yeah. Absolutely.”
Luke’s eyebrows rose. He waited as she hoisted herself up onto the counter. “I have a problem—”
“And you need my deft touch.”
“Deft touch?” Catherine hooted, amused. “You’re as clueless as he is, you turkey.”
“He who?”
“Mr. Right.”
Luke groaned.
She crossed her ankles and leaned back. The silky fabric of her dress slithered up her bare thighs.
“Okay, we can talk about me helping you. If you’re absolutely posit— What are you doing?”
She gave him an innocent look. “You said not to scratch. I’m rubbing.”
“You’re stroking,” Luke said in a choked voice.
Cat shrugged. “Whatever. It feels great. This itch is driving me nuts.”
“Hell’s bells, Cat. Your itch is driving me nuts. Stop that! Tell me what the problem is, and let’s work on it. Cat?”
“I’m thinking here.”
He clenched his teeth, pushed away from the fridge and took out his measuring cups and the big wooden spoon he liked to use for mixing. Without measuring, he tossed butter, then brown sugar into the copper bowl.
“Right. What do you think I should do? Just pull out all the stops and seduce him?”
Luke jerked away from his mixing as if he’d been catapulted across the kitchen. Sugar and butter went flying.
“Hell, no!” He raked his fingers through his hair, leaving glimmering speckles of sugar in the dark strands.
She put up her hands. “You don’t have to shout. It was a simple question. You refused to help me by educating me on seduction. Now I’m on my own. The question is how do I make him desire me? Share your vast experience and tell me.”
Luke stuck the spoon back in the bowl and stirred it to China. “What’s wrong with this Mr. Right of yours?” He broke eggs into the mixture as though he were doing intricate brain surgery.
She laughed. “Look, I know he likes me, but I want him to realize that he could love me. Right now he thinks of me as more of a—a friend.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Luke demanded. “That’s a good place to start. Most couples start with less.”
“Fine. Great. Terrific. But I’d like it to move a little faster than another twenty years of friendship.”
Something in her tone made him stare at her with added intensity. Nick. She’s talking about Nick. Luke’s knuckles went white around the spoon. He stood very still. “How do you feel about this guy, Cat? For real.”
Their eyes locked, and Cat said very quietly, “I love him with all my heart.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“YOU’RE IN LOVE with him?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“The real thing?” Very carefully, Luke put the dough-covered spoon down on the edge of the counter and didn’t notice when it clattered to the floor. This was Cat. Cautious, crablike Cat. He stared at her as if she were an alien life force. “Are you sure?”
“Without a shadow of a doubt.”
For several seconds he searched her face without saying anything, then sighed and said heavily, “I have a sinking feeling I know who it is.”
She shot him a glance. “You do?”
“Nick.”
“Nick? Who said anythi—”
“Dammit, Cat. That’s exactly what I thought.” His voice rose to new heights. “He’s a player, for God’s sake. A player.” Luke slammed his fist on the counter. Unfortunately, his hand hit the egg carton. The carton crumpled with a crackle as eggs broke.
Cat tilted her head to look at him. “Appearances can be deceiving,” she said mildly. “Maybe he just hasn’t met the woman right enough to make a commitment.”
“My point exactly.” Luke wiped his yolk-dripping fist on a paper towel.
“I believe with a little push, he’ll realize he’s a little in love with me already.”
“A push off a high cliff without a safety net is more like it,” Luke said grimly. Not Nick, he thought, his gut twisting.
This was his worst-case scenario. It was one thing for Luke to think it was Nick. But to have her confirm it...
The earthquake had come. The famine. The plague and the pestilence. She was in love with someone.
“Hey!” Cat socked him on the arm. “Are you in a coma, or what?”
“You deserve to have some sort of commitment. Jeez, Cat. I said I’d help you, and I will.” Even if it kills me.