by EC Sheedy
"Why?"
"Why what? Why did I give up or why was he such a boor?"
"Why would you think he needed to be set up? He's a very attractive man, and—"
"Ah... You noticed, huh?"
Evan ignored the interruption. "As I was going to say. I'm sure your brother has no problem with women."
"You're right. He doesn't. What he has a problem with is relationships. He prefers arrangements made with women of, shall we say, flexible virtue. Ever since that witch he married..." Her voice trailed off. "Anyway, for a while there, I had the insane, and highly unproductive, urge to rehabilitate him. Hence the introductions. I failed so... Excuse me for a second, will you?"
Evan heard Caressa turn away from the phone. She was one of the top interior designers in Victoria and too busy for her own good. Her voice whispered over the lines as she issued instructions to her harried assistant. Evan played with a pencil and waited.
She hadn't liked what Caressa had told her, nor did she understand it. She'd been thinking about Linc all morning, wondering about his sharp edges, his hostile reaction to her, and his deliberate attempt to shock her this morning. She should dislike him, and his moody, sullen attitude; instead she was intrigued. Not smart. Not smart at all.
Caressa came back on the line. "Evan? Look, I'm sorry, but I've gotta run. I've got a meeting in ten minutes. Can we talk about big brother another time?" Caressa sounded rushed and frustrated.
"Sure. I'll be seeing you Thursday night anyway."
"Thursday? What's Thursday?"
Evan could hear the rustle of paper coming through her receiver. "Reading group? Eight o'clock?" Evan smiled before adding the coup de grace. "At your place?"
Silence. "Oh damn!"
"Caressa Stewart, I'm surprised at you. You mean you didn't remember?"
"Is that perverted delight I hear in your voice?"
"It is. See you Thursday." Evan started to hang up when she heard Caressa's call.
"Evan! What in hell are we supposed to have read?"
"Byron, Fame and Infamy. It was your idea to read a biography as I recall. But don't worry, it's only about six hundred pages."
An exasperated sigh flew over the line. "Great. Just great."
Evan replaced the receiver and grinned. The grin melted when she realized the call hadn't gone exactly as she'd intended. She'd wanted to know about Linc, but she was no closer to understanding him now than she'd been this morning—other than learning he liked women of "flexible virtue." That description put her firmly out of the running. The last time she'd been flexible, she was eighteen. It hadn't paid off then, and she doubted it would now. All she had to do was stay out of Linc's way until the cabin was ready. It was a big house and property, so that shouldn't be a problem. Resolved, she turned back to her keyboard.
* * *
Evan hadn't crossed paths with Linc since Monday. There'd been a chance for overtime this week, and she'd taken it, working every night until close to ten. By the time she got home, he was either out or holed up behind the closed door of his office.
She pulled the brush through her freshly washed hair and pinned its length behind her ears. She was clipping on a pair of silver earrings when Cal strode in her open door.
"Reading night, huh?" he asked, watching her clip on the second earring.
"Uh-huh."
"What dull old book is on for tonight?"
Evan smiled. "Byron, and he's anything but dull."
Cal rolled his eyes. Evan glanced in the mirror to apply lipstick before turning to face him. "What's your plan? I hope it's not another dead-zone night watching television."
"Nope. I told Linc I'd help him set up his new computer. It came today."
"You're sure he wants you there, that you're not intruding?" She gave him a pointed look, she knew Cal's thirst for all things digital was unquenchable.
"No way. I told him I knew a little bit about computers, and he asked me to help."
Evan cocked her head. "Poor Linc. 'A little bit about computers'? That's what you told him?"
Cal smiled innocently and leaned down to kiss her cheek. She'd never get used to him being so much taller than her.
"Have a good time tonight—with boring Byron."
Watching him go out the door, she swallowed, first a warm chuckle when she thought about Linc and his new computer, then a lump of mother's pride.
Her son. Her incredible and gifted son. He made up for every trial, every test, every hard knock she'd ever had. She'd give him the best or die trying.
Then it was her time. All hers.
* * *
It was after midnight when Evan returned to the house, a house quiet with sleep, only a dim night light on in the spacious hall.
Evan smiled when she thought about her evening. Caressa had pulled it off again. No way had she read the book on Byron—at least not all of it. Not Caressa. She'd concentrated on the juicy bits, the amorous Lord Byron's endless list of paramours, his scandalous womanizing, and finally the nineteenth century's version of Fatal Attraction, his ill-fated affair with Lady Caroline Lamb. Within an hour, the six women in the group were laughing uproariously and all pretense of an educational exchange was abandoned. Instead, the conversation, a bawdy one, centered on men.
Evan was surprised at how open the women were about discussing their relationships, good and bad. Would she ever be that way, she wondered, open, willing to take the risks that go with love and commitment? She hadn't thought about it for a long time. It was doubtful, she told herself, shaking her head. Very doubtful. She wasn't prepared to make the compromises necessary for a successful relationship, didn't want the weight of another person's life linked with hers. She wanted her own time and space.
Still, the night had been fun. As she headed for the winding staircase and bed, she was happily exhausted; the night of laughter and the long nights of working had caught up with her.
She took the first step before hearing a soft thud and a muttered curse. There was a light under the library door, but she hesitated before going to investigate. After all, it was after midnight. Still, if Linc was up, it might be a good time to ask him how the repairs on the cottage were coming along. At least that was what she told herself as she moved toward his office door.
She was about to knock when the door swung open. Linc stood there, running an impatient hand through his hair, looking threatening enough to disperse a shark frenzy. She stepped back.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt," she said.
"You're not. It's that thing." He jerked his head back to indicate the new computer. "When I heard someone on the stairs, I thought it was Cal."
"I think he's already asleep."
Linc's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "He deserves it. He was a great help tonight." He shook his head. "Too bad I let my ego get the better of me and decided to carry on without him." He gestured toward his computer. "I'm an intelligent man. Able to design tall buildings with a single pencil, but I'll be damned if I can configure multiple email accounts."
She laughed.
He gave her an intent look. "Your son is scarily smart, but I guess you know that."
"Yes, I do. Sometimes he scares me."
Linc watched her a moment, then stepped back from the door. "Would you like a brandy? I'm finished here, and I could use one."
Evan looked into the room. She hadn't seen it since her first day in the house. She was curious. Other than the computer screen, only one lamp illuminated the high-ceilinged space. Its light gleamed on the hardwood floor that made a frame for the deep red Persian carpet. Most of the books were unpacked and stacked on the shelves. The only telltale signs of renovation upheaval were the drop cloths over some furniture under the arched window and a couple of paint cans stacked neatly against the far wall. The room, almost completed, was comfortably beautiful.
She looked up at Linc. His expression was expectant, as if her acceptance or rejection of his offer was important.
"That sounds
nice. Thank you." She stepped past him into the room, and he closed the door. Evan went directly to the bookshelves on her right. It was too dark to read the titles, but she couldn't resist running her hand along the books' multi-colored spines. The French doors leading to Linc's small private patio were open, and the scent of honeysuckle drifted in from the garden.
She watched him walk to the antique liquor cabinet on the other side of the room, switching off the computer as he did so. Without the light of technology, the room slid easily into the silence and grandeur of the last century.
He poured two brandies. Carrying both in one hand, he walked toward her. She met him in the middle of the room.
He offered her the brandy in silence, and their fingers touched briefly when she accepted the snifter. It was still warm from his hand. She lifted it to her lips and inhaled its sultry aroma, surprised to find her hands trembling and her mouth dry. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea, this brandy. When she stood this close to Linc Stewart, the spacious room became small—unnervingly intimate. She moved to the dark fireplace. Linc followed, taking a sip of brandy and watching her.
"An amazing room," she said. "Perfect for a creative genius."
"I'm no genius. Just an architect who got lucky."
"More than luck, I think. Your work is brilliant. That Paris gallery you did two years ago is stunning. Then there's that amazing local library in Memphis that won that award last year. Your work is the best I've ever—" A wave of embarrassment surged over her. She'd said too much, given away too much. It wasn't as if Linc, a world-recognized architect, needed her opinion on his work. She needed to backtrack. "Of course, I don't know much about architecture." She set her brandy snifter on the mantel. Certain her face was flushed, she was glad for the dimly lit room
"You know what you like. That's all that matters." He looked at her for what seemed an endless moment, then touched her cheek, tracing a line with his finger down, then across to her chin. He lifted her face, turned it to his. "So thank you. I'm honored you took the time to look at my work—and very glad you like it."
She stared at him. His smile caught her off guard, and while she worked to ignore the tightening in the pit of her stomach, her gaze dropped to his mouth. A smiling Linc Stewart was irresistible. When she started to shift away, he cupped her chin with a trace more firmness.
"Don't turn away from me." His smile deepened, and Evan trembled as his mouth moved slowly toward hers. She shouldn't do this, shouldn't let this happen. It would be a mistake, she told herself, tensing as his face came closer still.
He whispered her name against her lips, and his warm, brandy-scented breath warmed her face. He brushed his lips over hers. Softly. Gently. Like a touch of windblown silk. A kiss but not a kiss. Wizardry.
"I don't think this is such a good idea," she whispered, her voice alien, low and husky.
"You don't?" Linc's question came with another soft brush of his lips. Evan's chest heaved as she tried to calm the unruly thumping in her breast. She closed her eyes tight before opening them again to see him staring down at her. She was trapped between him and the mantel. His arms were braced on it as he studied her. She swallowed.
"No, I don't. I mean, really, I—"
Again he brushed her mouth with his, and a fierce thrill shot through her. She gasped for breath. This was crazy. Maybe the craziest thing—
"Kiss me," he whispered.
—she'd ever do. Their eyes met and he smiled. The smile invited, seduced, promised...
She gave a shuddery breath, and his mouth descended to hers. His fingers twisted into her hair as lips fitted to lips. Perfectly. In that moment, Evan was the focus of all of Linc's powers of seduction. Lips that a second ago teased, now demanded, and his tongue went deep, tasting her. When he groaned, her knees weakened, her head spun, and her body trembled.
She clutched at his sides, and he became her stanchion, her only support when her responses threatened to take her to her knees. She clung to him, reveled when his body hardened against her thigh. His mouth a miracle on hers. She was thirty years old and she had never, absolutely never, been kissed like this. Nipping gently on her lower lip, Linc drew back, his heart pumping hard against the hand she held, palm flat, against his chest.
"Linc, that was..." She had no idea what it was.
"Only the beginning," he finished, his words a husky, uneven rumble against her cheek. He kissed, then nibbled, her earlobe. A delicious warmth penetrated her, and she pressed into him, exposing more throat for his questing mouth.
Then his words registered. Beginning?
No!
There would be no beginning. My God! What was she thinking? Linc Stewart wasn't for her. She must be crazy. Panic erased passion, and her body quivered with a frightening nervousness.
"Stop," she said in a shaky, uncertain voice; then stepped quickly out of his reach. "I want you to stop."
Chapter 4
"Is that what you really want, Evan? Me to stop?"
"Yes." She reached for her brandy snifter and cupped it in both hands, staring at the topaz liquid. When she glanced up at him, her face was a study in embarrassment and misery. He fought the urge to again take her in his arms.
"I see," he said, and stepped away from her. The lady had said no. Loud and clear.
He hadn't heard that word since his marriage, and it still stung, sharply and deeply. Since his time with Moira, he'd made it a practice to avoid women with a penchant for the negative. When he needed a woman, he preferred an agreeable one, one given to good, safe, uninvolved sex. He had no intention of ever again engaging his emotions.
With a quick movement, he drained his snifter of brandy and moved to his computer. "I think I'll have another go at this thing. Will you excuse me?"
He turned away from her, but not before he caught her confused look. She stood behind him as he switched the computer back on. When he turned back to her, she was staring at him, her expression thoughtful now. He knew the look. It preceded questions. He sighed and ran an impatient hand through his hair.
"Look, I get it," he said. "Chalk it up as another tasteless pass and forget it. Okay? Believe me, your precious virtue is safe from me. I don't go where I'm not wanted."
"That's not—" Her lips moved and compressed, as if words were to be said, but difficult to find. Her eyelashes fluttered down, then up, and she looked at him squarely. "Your kiss was wanted and–exciting." Again her lashes fluttered down. "I haven't been kissed in a long time. And I'm so... sorry. Another time, another place... maybe..." She stopped abruptly, and placed her snifter on the large, square coffee table. "Thanks for the brandy. I'd better head for bed. I have to work tomorrow." When she looked at him again, her gaze was uncertain.
"Are we okay?" she asked.
Linc hesitated, sucked in some air, and spoke what he hoped was the truth. "Yes, we're okay. Go to bed."
He watched her walk away from him, heard the door close behind her. He stood looking at the door a long time, slowly massaging the back of his neck. No questions. Not a one. He was vaguely disappointed. It seemed he was the one with all the questions. For the first time in years, he was curious about a woman.
"You're as much of a fool as ever, Stewart," he muttered to himself as he turned back to the computer. It sat there: impersonal, ready, and uninvolved. He switched it on.
* * *
Less than seven hours later, he met Evan in the kitchen. She was leaning on the counter, reading a book and drinking coffee. If last night had left any residue of embarrassment, it didn't show.
He was asking himself why that irritated him, when she asked, "I made coffee. Would you like some?"
"Thanks, I'll get it." He got a mug from the second shelf and poured himself a strong, hot brew. He took a swallow and leaned against the counter opposite her. Her attention had returned to her book. His irritation grew. Why the hell was he as edgy as broken glass, while she stood there calmly reading—he bent his head to catch the title—England from the Eighteenth Centu
ry?
"History?" he asked, sipping coffee and watching her over the rim of the mug.
She looked up, nodded, and closed the book, and, without added comment, glanced at her watch. "I'd better get going," she said, stuffing the book into a large tote bag. "In this rain, the traffic will be deadly."
"I'll drive you." He put down his mug.
Why it pleased him when she blushed at his offer, he didn't know. But it did. Maybe Miss Poised and Polished North wasn't as immune to him as he thought.
"I don't need you to drive me. Really."
"I know. See you at the door."
He had nearly escaped the kitchen when she called him.
"Linc?"
He turned.
"Are you planning to, uh, start something?"
He deliberated. "Yes. My car."
* * *
When she arrived home that night, Linc was gone. Last night had caught up with her; she was exhausted. With effort, she turned her attention to Maud.
"He'll be in Seattle until Wednesday," Maud said. "And to be honest, I'm not the least sorry. I don't know what's gotten into him. He's not generally so moody and—Oh, Jenny, dear, please sit properly at the table. And you should eat more of your dinner."
"I don't want to," Jenny whined, half sitting, then half slipping from her chair. Her face was set in a stubborn mask. "I hate carrots. They're stupid."
"Jenny, please..." Maud stopped and rubbed her temples. Evan looked hard at her for the first time since coming home. From the tired lines around Maud's eyes and the weary slump to her shoulders, it was obvious that the headache she'd complained about earlier was worsening.
"Maud, why don't you make a pot of tea? I'll take care of Jenny. You should go to bed."
"What about Cal?" Maud asked. "He'll be home soon, and he'll need to eat," she protested.
"Maud, don't worry about Cal. That's my job. What are you trying to do, make me look bad?" Evan teased.