by Diana Palmer
“Believe it or not, I didn’t bring you here to make you uncomfortable,” he said. His dark eyes narrowed. “Something else bothers you, besides the menu,” he said abruptly. “What?”
She couldn’t seem to fool him. Anyway, why bother, she thought recklessly. He’d seen where she lived; he must have some idea of her background. “All these utensils,” she confessed, gesturing toward them. “At home we have a knife, a fork, and a spoon, and I only know where they go because of home economics class at school.”
He chuckled. “Well, I’ll try to educate you.” He did, amusing her with the various salad and dessert forks and the collection of spoons until the waiter came with their orders.
She watched him to see which utensils to use. By the time they reached dessert—a scrumptious pecan pie with vanilla ice cream on top—she felt as if she’d had an education in the culinary arts.
“What did we eat?” she asked in a whisper when they’d finished dessert and were having a second cup of strong black coffee with real cream.
“Boeuf bourbonnaise,” he informed her. He leaned forward and lowered his deep voice. “It’s an uptown French beef stew.”
She laughed softly. “Is it, really?”
“Really. It’s made with the kind of spices we put in pies and with a good red wine.”
“I’ll have to dig out my cookbooks and try it on the family,” she mused. “I’ll bet Granddad would slip his to the dog.”
“Do you have a dog?” he asked.
She remembered his big German shepherd and felt sorry for him. “We did have; an old hound we called Blue. But the mailman ran over him last year. I’m sorry about Gus. I guess you really miss him.”
He moved his coffee cup in its thin china saucer absently. He nodded. “The house is pretty quiet. Nobody needs to be taken for a walk anymore.”
“Rourke, why don’t you get another dog?” she asked gently. “Really, it’s the best thing to do. There are pet shops all over Atlanta. You could find any breed you liked.”
He searched her soft eyes. “What breed do you like?”
She smiled. “I like collies,” she said. “But I’ve heard that they don’t do well here in the South because it gets so hot. And they’re long-haired, so the fur gets everywhere.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I like basset hounds.”
She laughed. “I like them, too.”
“You’ll have to come with me when I go looking for one,” he said idly. “After all, it was your idea.”
Becky felt as if she’d been shot through with pleasure. “Oh, I’d enjoy that,” she said.
“So would I. Maybe next weekend. I’ve got a pretty full calendar during the week, but we’ll find time.”
She wondered what he’d say if she told him that she was falling in love with him. Probably he’d grin and think she was joking, but it was the truth. He appealed to her in so many ways.
“Let’s go over to that new nightclub in Underground Atlanta and dance for an hour or so,” he murmured, checking his watch. He raised an eyebrow. “You said once that you liked opera.”
“Well, yes,” she began.
“They’re playing Turandot at the Fox next month. We can go.”
“To a real opera?” She caught her breath.
“Yes. You can wear that dress, as a matter of fact,” he added with a long, meaningful look. “You’re dishy, Becky.”
She smiled at him. “Not really, but thank you for saying so.”
“Come on.”
He got up and helped her up, watching her with warm curiosity while he waited to pay the bill. She seemed to find the restaurant fascinating. He found her the same way. He was looking forward to introducing her to a new world of luxury and culture, even if it only lasted for a few weeks. He enjoyed being with her. Loneliness was beginning to wear on him. He liked having someone to go places with. Even an evening out was a treat for him, and Becky’s delight with her surroundings made it all worthwhile.
One unpleasant thought marred his pleasure in the evening. He’d become a target, and they still hadn’t found out who’d put the bomb in his car. He could be putting Becky at risk just by being seen with her, and that bothered him. He didn’t want her hurt. But if it was just him the perpetrator was after, perhaps Becky wouldn’t be at risk. He wouldn’t allow himself to think about her brother or the Harrises at all.
He took her to Underground Atlanta, to one of the newer clubs, and Becky found herself in another world. This was the Atlanta she’d never seen—the bright and sparking nightlife that made friends of total strangers.
“It’s beautiful,” she exclaimed when they were seated near the dance floor. “But I don’t think I can do that.” She gestured toward several couples who seemed to be human contortionists as they danced to the throbbing rhythm of the music.
“Neither can I,” he murmured dryly. He’d ordered ginger ale for himself and Becky, forgoing his usual scotch and water. He didn’t want to give her the impression that he was a hard-drinking man. In fact, he wasn’t. He liked the occasional scotch and water, but that was about the extent of his interest in alcohol.
“Do they ever play slow music?” she asked.
Just as she made the remark, the music stopped and a slow, bluesy melody began to build. Kilpatrick got to his feet and held out his hand. Becky put hers into it and followed him onto the dance floor.
He was much taller than she was, but they melted together as if they’d been especially designed to fit. He smoothed her hand onto his chest and held it against the soft fabric of his dinner jacket with his own big, lean hand warm over it. His other hand slid around her waist and drew her completely against him so that her body rested against his as they moved, her cheek against his chest.
She felt like heaven in his arms. Her body was soft and warm, and the smell of her was like wildflowers in his nostrils. He looked down at her, so vulnerable and trusting in his arms, and thought that he’d never felt quite so content. But with the contentment was a fierce awareness of her as a woman, a heated need to have her even closer than this, to bend his head and take her soft mouth under his, to teach her passion.
Becky was unaware of his deep hunger, but she was feeling one of her own. His body was taut and fit, and the feel of it was making her heart beat fast. He smelled of spicy cologne and soap—masculine smells that acted like a drug on her emotions. It had been years since she’d danced with anyone, and never with anyone like Kilpatrick. He led her around the floor with consummate ease, as if dancing was second nature to him. It probably was. He knew a lot about women, and this nightclub seemed to be his kind of place. That meant he’d probably taken other women out to similar places, and gone dancing like this, except that at the end of the evening, he hadn’t taken his date straight home. Her face burned as she saw unwanted images of Kilpatrick with other women and she stiffened slightly in his arms.
“What is it?” he asked at her forehead, his voice deep and slow and lazy.
“Nothing,” she whispered.
His hand at her back pulled her closer, sliding up to the flesh left bare by the cut of her dress, warm and sensuous on her bare skin. “Tell me, Becky.”
She sighed softly and looked up at him. She hadn’t realized his face was so close. In the dim light, it seemed darker than ever, harder, and his superiority in age made him seem a world away from her. “Why did you ask me out?” she whispered.
He didn’t smile. His dark eyes held hers and he almost stopped dancing. His body moved slowly against her as the music blared around them and other couples drifted past. “Don’t you have any idea?” he asked quietly.
Her lips parted on a held breath. “Because of the lemon pound cake?” she ventured.
His hand slid up into the thickness of her hair and grasped it, holding her face at just the right angle as he bent toward her. “Because of this,” he breathed.
She couldn’t believe what he did. Her eyes widened with faint surprise as his hard lips brushed across hers on
ce, twice, in a lazy exploration that was pure seduction.
The lean fingers in her hair contracted, making her gasp so that her lips parted. He made a sound deep in his throat and began to move again to the music. His mouth didn’t touch hers, but hovered just above her lips, making her head spin as they danced.
Her eyes met his shyly as she felt his coffee-scented breath on her lips.
“Exciting, isn’t it?” he whispered huskily and his fingers began to move in her hair, caressing movements that made her body react fiercely. “Half of Atlanta around us, and I’m making love to you on a dance floor.”
“You…aren’t,” she managed.
“No?” He smiled. It was a different smile from any she’d ever seen on a man’s face before. It threatened and seduced at the same time. He tugged her head back farther on his shoulder and executed a turn that brought one long, powerful leg in between both of hers, a contact that made her gasp out loud even as his mouth moved closer and she breathed him.
She was hardly aware of the music. He did it again, and again, his eyes blazing into hers, his body an instrument of the most exquisite torture. She caught at his arm when the contact worked on her so deeply that her knees went weak.
“Are you going to faint on me, Becky?” he whispered, sliding his cheek against hers so that his breath was warm on her ear. He nibbled the lobe delicately. “If it’s this affecting on a dance floor, try to imagine how it’s going to feel on your front porch when I kiss you good night. I can promise you, I won’t be this gentle.”
She shivered. He laughed softly and stopped as the music ended. She couldn’t look at him as he escorted her back to their table; she was overwhelmed by the sensations she’d felt. Sensuality was new to her. So was desire, but surely that was what she’d felt shivering through her body at the veiled threat in his words.
“Look at me, you coward,” he taunted when they were sipping piña coladas a little later.
She lifted her eyes, and a shock of pleasure ran through her as she met that dark, knowing gaze.
“Tell me you don’t want my mouth, Becky,” he murmured, letting his gaze fall to her parted lips.
“If you don’t stop that, I’m going to melt on the floor,” she said in a husky whisper. “Shame on you.”
He chuckled over his drink. “Dewy-eyed innocent,” he murmured. “You’re a refreshing change, Rebecca Cullen. At least I know what kind of woman I’m dealing with this time,” he added, half to himself.
She stared at him curiously. “What do you mean?”
He finished his drink and stared at the empty glass with narrowed eyes. “Did you know that I was engaged once, when I was in my twenties?”
“Yes,” she said.
He lifted his gaze to hers. “She was a lesbian.”
She didn’t know what to say. She knew what a lesbian was, but it puzzled her that he’d become engaged to one.
“Did you know?” she asked finally.
“Good God, no!” he returned curtly. “She was beautiful and sophisticated, and considered in my circles to be a good catch. She came from old money. I was crazy about her.” He twirled the empty glass in his hands, smarting from the memory. “She teased me and provoked me until I was wild to have her. We got engaged, and one night she invited me over after a dinner I had to attend.”
His eyes narrowed. “I was two hours late. I guess she’d given me up, but her door was unlocked, so I assumed she was waiting. I’d worked myself into a frenzy. She was mine, and that night all my dreams were going to come true. I pushed open her bedroom door and got the shock of my life.” He put the glass down. “She was in bed with her female law clerk, and the situation spoke for itself. I took my ring back and she begged me not to give her away. After that, I didn’t trust women very much. I’ve had my flings, but nobody’s gotten close enough to touch my heart again. It was a hard lesson,” he concluded with a wry smile.
“Yes, I imagine it was. Do you…still love her?” she asked hesitantly.
He shook his head. “It would be a waste, don’t you think? Sexual preferences don’t change. It wouldn’t have worked.”
“I suppose not.” She felt his pain. Her soft hazel eyes searched his hard face, and she wondered at the vulnerability she saw there. “Is that what you meant when you said you knew what kind of woman I was?”
He nodded. “The way you react to me is comforting, Rebecca,” he mused, smiling gently. “At least your responses are normal ones for a woman. I never noticed it until the engagement was past history, but she always seemed to suffer me on the dance floor or anywhere else that called for intimacy. I don’t think she could have surrendered to me under any circumstances.”
Becky flushed. This was a kind of plain speaking she’d never experienced. “I see.”
He chuckled. “Embarrased? I don’t suppose you’ve ever discussed such things at home.”
“No,” she replied with a faint smile. “You see, my grandfather is rather old-fashioned. I can talk to Maggie at the office, but not about that sort of thing,” she added.
He studied her with open curiosity. “Did you never get to go on dates?”
She shrugged. “When?” she asked gently. “There were the chores to do—the cooking and cleaning and helping Granddad on the farm. Since last year, I’ve had to look after him, as well. And Clay…” She broke off, staring down at the tablecloth. “Well, I guess you can imagine how that’s complicated things. Now Granddad worries about him, too. Mack’s gone broody.” She shook her head. “I used to wonder, you know, if life was this complicated for everybody. The girlfriends I had at school used to talk about their families and about things they did together, but nobody had as many chores as I did. I guess I grew up young.”
“You shouldn’t have had to,” he said quietly, feeling anger toward her father for putting her in such a position. “My God, it’s too much for one young woman.”
“Not really. I’m used to it, you see. I love them,” she said helplessly, her big hazel eyes searching his. “How do you desert people you love?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he replied. His face hardened. “I don’t know a lot about love. I live alone. I have for a long time.”
“But, who takes care of you when you get sick or hurt?” she asked suddenly, concerned.
That concern made his teeth clench. “Nobody.”
She smiled at him gently. “I’d look after you, if you did.”
“Becky,” he groaned. He shot back his cuff and looked at his watch. This was getting totally out of hand. “We’d better go. I promised to have you home by midnight.”
Becky got up, flustered. She’d said too much. She should have known how he’d react to being fussed over. She wanted to apologize, but she didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing at all.
He paid the check and led her out to the car. He put her inside absently while he tried not to be affected by what she’d said. He couldn’t let her go soft on him. It would be the very worst thing that could happen to both of them. He didn’t want her on his conscience. He wouldn’t ask her out again. He didn’t dare.
The house was dark when Rourke pulled up at the front steps. He helped Becky out of the car and escorted her to her door.
“I’m sorry,” she said gently, breaking the silence for the first time since they’d left the nightclub. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
He sighed heavily, looking down at her in the faint light from the full moon. His lean hands framed her face, and she looked so vulnerable, so hurt, that he was driven to comfort her.
“It’s all right,” he said softly. His gaze fell to her mouth. He bent, touching his hard lips to hers, and the contact went through his tall body like lightning.
He lifted his mouth just briefly and then nudged her lips with it with faint roughness, biting at them, teasing them. The fires burned high in him. It had been too long since he’d had a woman in his arms. Becky was catching the fallout. He heard her gasp as he teased her soft lips. His fingers s
peared into the hair at her temples, holding her still. She smelled of flowers, of innocence. She tasted that way, too. It drove him mad.
She gasped and a faint moan escaped her lips as he tugged at her soft lower lip with his teeth and then slowly teased her mouth with his, biting at it, steadily increasing the pressure and the rough contact until her mouth was blindly following his, desperately hungry. She whispered his name pleadingly and reached up to him, on fire with sensation that frightened her even as they took control of her body.
As he felt her give in to him, his hands left her face and slid around her, bringing her body into his so that she could feel the length of him against her. Then the teasing stopped, as his mouth parted hers ruthlessly and ground into it with a pressure that forced her head back into his broad shoulder.
She hadn’t been kissed often, and never like this. She was trembling all over as he gave her what her mouth had been begging for. She felt the fierce possession of his lips with aching joy. She breathed in the smoky taste of his mouth, drowned in the unbridled fervor of his kiss. She moaned and reached up to hold him, her mouth answering his in a frenzy of shaken emotion.
He felt her tremble and abruptly drew back. His own breath came roughly as he stared down at her rapt, stunned face. Her wide hazel eyes mirrored the aroused confusion she was feeling. He felt guilty.
“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“I don’t understand,” she whispered, grateful for his hands on her arms, because she was weak enough to slide to the floor without support. Her whole body throbbed.
“Becky, a man kisses a woman like that when he’s trying to entice her into bed,” he said heavily. His lean hands slid up and down the soft flesh of her arms. “It was the last way I should have kissed you. I suppose it’s been longer than I realized.”
“It’s all right,” she said softly.
He let her go slowly, watching her with mingled emotions of his own. His body felt taut and uneasy, but he was going to have to get it under control. Becky wasn’t the kind of woman he could satisfy his hungers with. She needed a marrying man, not a confirmed bachelor.