by Nora Roberts
She rose on her toes, linked her hands behind his head. And laid her mouth, soft and inviting, on his. The jolt of pleasure shot straight through him. He had to fight the urge to grab her as he had before, to release even a portion of that pent-up lust. He ran his hands up her body, regrettably shielded by the coat, then down it again until the jolt mellowed to a shimmer.
She drew back, and a pretty flush warmed that milk porcelain skin. “You have a real talent for that, Professor.”
“I spent a lot of time thinking about kissing you back—way back. I’ve recently revisited that thinking. That might be why.”
“Or, you’re just a natural. We’d better go, or I’m going to talk myself out of dinner.”
“I don’t expect you to—”
“I might.”
Because he was, again, momentarily stunned, she beat him to the door, and opened it herself.
She filled the car. It’s how he thought of it. Her scent, her voice, her laugh. The simple reality of her. As strange as it was, his nerves calmed.
“Do you always drive the exact speed limit?” she asked.
“It’s irritating, isn’t it?” He glanced her way, and when he saw her eyes laughing at him, he had to grin. “If I go over by more than a couple miles an hour, I feel like a criminal. Corrine used to . . .”
“Corrine?” she said when he trailed off.
“Just someone I annoyed with my driving.” And everything else, apparently.
“An old girlfriend.”
“Nothing, really.” Why hadn’t he turned on the radio?
“See, now it’s a mystery, and I’m more curious. I’ll tell you about one of my exes first—to prime the pump.” She turned her face to him until he could feel those green eyes laughing again. “How about the fledgling rock star, the one who resembled Jon Bon Jovi through the filter of infatuation. In looks, not talent. His name was Greg, but he liked to be called Rock. He actually did.”
“Rock what?”
“Ah, just Rock. Like Prince, or Madonna. Anyway, at twenty, he seemed incredibly hot and cool, and in my sexual delirium I spent a lot of time, talent, and money taking head shots of him and his band, group shots, shots for their self-produced CD. I drove their van, played groupie and roadie. For over two months. Until I caught him sucking face with his bass player. A guy named Dirk.”
“Oh. Well, that’s very sad.”
“I heard the amusement in that.”
“Not if you were really hurt.”
“I was crushed. For at least five minutes. Then I was pissed for weeks. I’d been his beard, the bastard. My satisfaction comes from the fact that he now sells kitchen appliances in Stamford. Not major appliances either. I mean like blenders and toaster ovens.”
“I like a good toaster oven.”
She laughed as he turned into a parking lot. “The Willows—nice choice, Carter. The food’s always good here. Laurel worked here as pastry chef before we started Vows, and for a while after when we were getting off the ground.”
“I didn’t know that. I haven’t been here for a couple months, but the last time I came with—”
“Corrine.”
“No.” He smiled a little. “With a couple of friends who set me up with a blind date. Very strange evening, but the food was, as you said, good.”
He got out of the car, started to walk around to open her door. But she climbed out before he got there. When she held out a hand to him, casually, his heart took a quick, extra, thump.
“Why strange?”
“She had a voice like a violin might have made if you neglected to rosin the bow. It’s an unfair observation, but pretty accurate. Plus she’d recently gone on a no-carb, no-fat, no-salt diet. She ate an undressed salad, one leaf, one sprig, one carrot curl at a time. It was disconcerting.”
“I eat like a horse.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“You watch.”
Just as they reached the door, it opened. The man who stepped out wore an open coat, no hat, gloves, or scarf. The wind immediately kicked the dark hair around his ridiculously handsome face. One glance at Mac had his well-cut lips curving, and his sea-at-midnight eyes lighting.
“Hey, Macadamia.” He hoisted her up by the elbows, smacked a kiss to her lips. “Of all the gin joints in all the . . . Carter?” He dumped Mac back on her feet, shot out a friendly hand. “How the hell are you?”
“I’m fine, Del. How are you?”
“Good. It’s been too long. What’re you two doing here?”
“We thought, since we’re told they have food here, we’d eat.”
Del grinned at Mac. “That’s a plan. So you’re having dinner. Together. I didn’t realize you were an item.”
“We’re not,” they said together. Then Carter cleared his throat.
“We’re having dinner.”
“Yeah, that’s been established. I had a quick business meeting over a drink, and I’m meeting some friends across town. Or I’d come in and have one with you, and cross-examine the witnesses. But, gotta go. Later.”
Mac watched Delaney Brown jog toward the parking lot. “Who was that guy?” she asked, and made Carter laugh.
As she slid in, Mac wondered if Carter had requested a corner booth, or if they’d just gotten lucky. It added just a hint of intimacy to play against the upscale casual tone of the restaurant. She turned down the offer of a cocktail in favor of wine with dinner, then ignoring her menu, turned to Carter.
“So, the salad-eating squeaky violin. No follow-up?”
“I don’t think either party was interested in one.”
“Do you go on many blind dates?”
“That was my first and last. You?”
“Never. Too scary. Plus, the four of us made a pact, years ago, never to try to fix each other up. It’s worked out for the best. So, are you interested in sharing a bottle of wine, Dr. Maguire?”
He slid the wine list toward her. “You pick.”
“That’s brave of you.” She opened it, scanned. “I’m not a wine buff, I just take pictures of them, but they do have this Shiraz I like.”
Even as she spoke, their server stepped to the table with a bottle of Shiraz.
“That’s excellent service,” Mac commented.
“Mr. Maguire? Mr. Brown phoned and would like you to have this with his compliments. Or, if it doesn’t suit, whatever bottle you’d like.”
“Those Brown kids.” Mac shook her head. “They never miss. I’d love a glass, thanks. Okay?” she said to Carter.
“Sure. That was awfully nice of him.”
It was, Mac thought, as well as a subtle little wink. First chance he got, she knew, Del would be teasing her brainless.
SHE DIDN’T EAT LIKE A HORSE IN CARTER’S ESTIMATION, BUT she didn’t pick her way through a lonely salad for ninety minutes either. He liked the way she gestured with her wineglass or with her fork as she talked. And the way she stabbed a bite of his sea bass from his plate to try it without asking if he minded.
He wouldn’t have, but not asking was . . . friendlier.
“Here, take a hunk of this steak.” She cut off a portion.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Do you eat red meat?”
“Yes.”
“Just try it. It’s like we’ve got the surf and turf thing going.”
“All right. Do you want some of this rice?”
“No. I can never figure out why anyone would. Anyway, back to the topic at hand. You actually had your English Lit class watch Clueless to evaluate the updating of Austen’s Emma.”
“It demonstrates that literature—and storytelling—isn’t stagnant, that the themes, dynamics, even social mores of Emma translate to the contemporary.”
“I wished I’d had teachers like you. Did you like it? Clueless ?”
“Yes. It’s clever.”
“I love movies. We had a double-feature last night, but I OD’d on the pot pie and fell asleep during Music and Lyrics. Hugh Grant.” She gestured with her wi
neglass again. “Sense and Sensibility. Did you see it?”
“I did. I thought it was a lovely and respectful adaptation. Did you read it?”
“No. I know, terrible. I did read Pride and Prejudice. Loved it. I keep meaning to read it again now that I’d have Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy in my brain, so even better. What’s your favorite book-to-movie deal?”
“Personal favorite? Mockingbird.”
“Oh, Gregory Peck. I read the book,” she added. “It’s great, but oh, Gregory Peck. Atticus Finch. The perfect father. That scene at the very end, where she’s—what’s her name?”
“Scout.”
“Yeah, where she’s narrating and you see him through the window, sitting beside his son’s bed. It kills me. It’s so beautiful. When I watched it as a kid, I used to imagine Atticus was my father. Or Gregory Peck—either one would do. He’d be there, when you woke up in the morning. I guess I’ve never gotten over that. Pitiful.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know what it’s like, growing up without a father. You don’t see yours often?”
“No, hardly ever. When I do—every few years—he’s enormously charming, very affectionate. I end up getting sucked in, then bruised when he goes off and ignores me immediately after. He’s an in-the-moment sort of person. If you’re not in that moment with him, you don’t exist.”
“It hurts you.”
“Yes, it does. Over and over. And that’s too depressing a topic for this really nice dinner. Give me one more. Another adaptation you like.”
He wanted to stroke her hair, to put an arm around her. But that wasn’t the comfort she wanted. He circled through his brain. “Stand by Me.”
She frowned, obviously trying to place it. “I don’t know that one. Who wrote it? Steinbeck? Fitzgerald? Yeats?”
“Stephen King. It’s based on his novella The Body.”
“Seriously? You read King? He scares the crap out of me, but I can’t resist it. Wait! That’s the one with the kids, the boys hiking to look for somebody, some dead guy, who maybe got hit by a train? I’m remembering this. Kiefer Sutherland plays a complete asshole hood. He was great.”
“It’s about friendship and loyalty. Coming of age, standing together.”
“You’re right,” she said, studying his face. “It is. I bet you’re a really amazing teacher.”
“Some days.”
She nudged her plate aside, then leaned back with her wine. “What do you do when you’re not teaching, reading, or watching movies based on novels or novellas?”
“That’s a lot right there.”
“Golf, rock climbing, stamp collecting?”
He smiled, shook his head. “No.”
“International intrigue, watercolors, duck hunting?”
“I had to give up the international intrigue due to travel fatigue. I’m pretty boring.”
“No, you’re not. And believe me I keep expecting you to be.”
“Ah . . . thank you?”
She leaned forward to poke a finger in his arm, leaned back again. “All right, Carter, now that you’ve indulged in—good God—nearly three-quarters of a single glass of wine—”
“I’m driving.”
“At the speed limit,” she agreed. “It’s time to tell me about Corrine.”
“Oh, well, there’s really nothing to tell.”
She saw it, just a flicker of it in his eyes. “She hurt you. I’m sorry. I’m insensitive and pushy.”
“No, you’re not. And I keep expecting you to be.”
She smiled. “Look how cute you are in your smarty-pants. Now why don’t you order dessert, so I can pretend to be self-righteous and not—then eat half of yours?”
They lingered. She’d forgotten what it was like to have a meal with a man she could have long, twisty conversation with. One who listened, who paid attention—whether or not he was thinking about the possible bonus round at the end of the evening.
He made her think, she realized. And entertained her. And damn it, the man was charming, in such a low-key, unstudied way.
Plus, when he’d put his glasses on to read the menu, it just set her juices on simmer.
“Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asked her when they walked back to the car. “It’s probably too late for a movie. A club?”
“I clubbed out with the pals the other night.” Another time though, she thought. It occurred to her she might’ve been very wrong in assuming Carter Maguire wouldn’t fit in the club scene. “I should get back. I’ve put in a few long ones this week, and I have work to catch up on tomorrow.”
He opened her door. “Are you going to see me again?”
It gave her a little jump in the belly that he’d ask, and just that way. Giving her the power, she thought. Terrifying. “I’m thinking about it.”
“Okay.”
When he’d joined her, started the car, she angled toward him. “Top five reasons you want to see me again.”
“Do they have to be in order of priority?”
Damn it, damn it, she really liked him. “No. Just quick, top of your head answers.”
“Okay. I like the way you talk. I like the way you look. I want to know more about you. I want to sleep with you. And when I’m with you, I feel.”
“Feel what?”
“Just feel.”
“Those are good answers,” she said after a moment. “Really good answers.”
“Are you going to give me your five?”
“I’m still working on them. But in the interest of full disclosure, you should know I’m good on a date, but tend to grade lower on relationships.”
“I don’t see that. How can you when you’ve had lifelong relationships with your three friends? Layers of relationships with them.”
“I don’t have sex with them.”
“That’s an interesting disclaimer, but intimacy’s only a part of relationships that go beyond friendship. It doesn’t define them.”
“Come on, Carter, sex is a whopper. Not to mention the work and effort that goes into maintaining a relationship that includes it. But just to focus on sex for a minute.”
“I’m not sure that’s smart when I’m driving.”
“What if we hit that level, and it’s a bust? What then?”
“Well, I’d first apply the basic rule. Most things improve with practice. I’d be willing to practice quite a bit.”
“Cute. But if it isn’t a bust, that’s when things start getting complicated.”
He glanced at her. “Do you always borrow trouble?”
“Yes, in this area, I do. I haven’t stayed friendly with any of my exes. I don’t mean it’s all ‘I hate his guts and wish he’d die a lingering death, or at least be doomed to selling toaster ovens for all eternity.’ But after it’s done, we just stop connecting. And I like you.”
He drove for a while in silence. “Let me sum up. You like me, and feel if we have sex and it’s not good, we won’t like each other. If it is good, we’ll complicate things and end up not liking each other.”
“It sounds stupid when you say it.”
“Food for thought.”
She muffled a snort of laughter. “You’re a smart-ass, Carter. You’re subtle and sneaky about it, but you’re a smart-ass. I like that, too.”
“I like that you’re not particularly subtle about it. So I guess this relationship is doomed.”
She slid him a damning glance, but her lips twitched. When he parked in front of her studio, he smiled at her. “You keep my mind engaged, Mackensie. When I’m with you, and when I’m not.”
He got out of the car, walked her to the door. “If I called you tomorrow, would that be pushy?”
“No.” She kept her eyes on his as she reached in her bag for her keys. “I’m thinking about asking you in.”
“But—”
“Hey. I’m supposed to be the one who says but.”
“And you’re free to expand on that. But it’s not a good idea. Yet. Because when, if,” he corrected, “
we go to bed, it shouldn’t be to prove a point or answer a question. I think it just has to be because we want each other.”
“You’re a rational man, Carter. I think you’d better kiss me good night.”
He leaned in, and he framed her face with his hands. Long fingers, she thought, cool against her skin. Eyes soft in color, intense in expression holding hers. A moment, another, so that her heart already raced before his lips brushed hers.
Gentle, easy, so that her racing heart sighed.
As her skin, her blood warmed, he drew her closer and deepened, deepened the kiss, a whisper at a time until everything blurred.
She went pliant, and the long, low sigh she made was surrender. He wanted to touch her, to feel those lovely breasts in his hands, to stroke his fingers down the length of her back, to know the thrill of having her legs locked around him.
He wanted more than a rational man could.
He stepped back, contenting himself with a brush of his thumb over her bottom lip.
“This could be a mistake,” she said. Letting herself in, quickly, she leaned back against the door. And she wondered if the mistake was not asking him in, or knowing that she would before much longer.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MAC PUT IN A SOLID FOUR HOURS WITH THUMBNAILS, Photoshop, prints. The work kept her focused and level. There could be no mind-wandering journeys about sexy English teachers when she had clients expecting—and deserving—her best.
She concentrated on balancing color, brightening or dulling the saturation to translate the mood, the emotion.
She sharpened a candid of the bride and groom, both laughing as they charged down the aisle, hands locked together, and blurred the background, everything but the two of them.
Just the two of them, she thought, wildly happy in those first seconds of marriage. Everything around them soft-focus and dreamlike, and their faces, their movement, their unity vivid.
It would come rushing back, she thought, other voices, movement, demands, connections. But in this instant, in this image, they were all.
Pleased, she added noise, just a hint of grain before she tried a soft proof to test her paper. Once she’d printed it, she studied it, searching for flaws.
She added it, as she sometimes did, to the order placed. A little gift for the new couple. Shifting work stations, she unboxed the combination album her clients had chosen, and began to assemble the pages with images that told the story of the day.