The look he gave her melted the starch in her knees, brought her hands slipping possessively up his chest, raised her lips to meet his kiss, had her breathless with yearning. A restless urgency tangled with years of carefully honed control and came out the victor. Deep inside her, nerves tightened, flowered with hope. Her body craved the intimacy of his touch, her skin flushed with expectation. Eagerness pulsed through her veins, filled her with a simmering anticipation. It had been a long time since she’d been in a situation like this, a long time since she’d been with a man she truly desired. She thought—was fairly certain—that it had been a long time for Nate, as well, but he seemed to feel no urge to rush.
And yet…and yet, she could hear the shaky rush of his breathing, feel the rapid pounding of his heart beneath her palm, knew he was not unaffected by this heady excitement, that his control came at a cost. The knowledge sent a thrill racing along her nerve paths and she opened her mouth, allowing her tongue to seek pleasure within his. With a low moan, he countered her move, opening up a new and seductive vista in their mounting ardor. The embrace that had been tenderly controlled, gently leading, became firm, purposeful, demanding. His arms tightened around her, his lips bruised hers with his hunger and he gleaned the promise of passion from her mouth.
His hand moved to her waist then, negotiating with the hem of her sweater for entrance and proceeding unerringly, without hesitation or doubt, to cup the fullness of her breast in his palm. It was clear instantly he had experience in pleasuring, was practiced in the art of seduction, and understood the value and beauty of foreplay. His touch left her aching, needy. His kisses pledged sensual delights yet to come. His confidence assured her she was in very capable hands.
Miranda had thought making love with Nate would be satisfying, lovely, perhaps, but nothing out of the ordinary. He was, after all, a lot older than she and, somehow, in her planning, that had seemed a plus. She would be the seductress, he would be her willing slave. Or some similar scenario. Not for a second had she expected this…this rash, reckless feeling that she could not only surrender to the experience, but find pure delight in doing so. She, who never let herself feel out of control, felt suddenly, perfectly free to follow the roller-coaster ride of tension and release, the fast-slow escalation of desire, to leave the how of it in his obviously expert hands.
That wasn’t like her. Not at all. But maybe there was some truth, after all, in the idea that the right man at the right time could change a woman’s mind. About a lot of things.
He broke the kiss, abruptly, pulled back to look down at her with eyes darkened by longing. “Miranda,” he said.
Just that. Her name. A husky question and answer, woven together. She knew the question, he knew the answer. This was simply a moment to savor the knowing, to anticipate, to wonder.
“Nathaniel,” she whispered. Just that and nothing more.
He took her hand, enclosed it in the large warmth of his palm and led her toward the hallway. But only a few steps into the journey to the red satin sheets, he stopped, turned to give her a kiss that couldn’t wait. Another step, and it was she who stopped him, wrapping her arms around his neck, drawing his head down to hers, prolonging the suspense, feeding the fire. When he pinned her to the wall, she knew it was justly deserved…and excessively satisfying. Hunger made ravenous by the anticipation. Desire slaked like a long thirst, only to return the instant his lips left hers. Passion increased a thousand times over with every sensual pause.
Neither his sweater nor hers made it as far as the bedroom door, having disappeared somewhere in the hall, sacrifices to his—and her—insatiable need to touch. Flesh to hands. Hands to flesh. Lips caressing. Sighs intermingled. Behind them the light spilled into the hall. Before them, moonlight danced through an unshaded window. Between them, eagerness thrummed an overture they both knew and yet had never heard before.
They reached the bed eventually, losing shoes, socks, everything that hindered the desire to touch without limitations, to discover and explore each other. There was magic, then, within the small bedroom, as he guided her down onto the satin sheets. Cool, yes, beneath her…which felt lovely to her fevered skin. Slick, too, and sinfully inviting as Nate slid down beside her.
Miranda lost track of time after that, measured the moments in kisses, in the low throaty sounds of pleasure. His. And hers. She had never been a nonparticipant and met his every challenge with one of her own. She stroked him, nibbled him, caressed him and yet surrendered control again and again to the raw need his practiced touch so easily aroused. He was far and away the best lover she’d ever imagined, much less had, and he teased and titillated, soothed and satisfied, until she was weak with wanting and ready. So ready.
Then, and only then, did he fit his strength into the softness of her and begin a strangely new seduction. Their bodies found a pleasurable rhythm, which moved too quickly toward a climax. Nate slowed the movement, seduced her again with kisses, settled anew into harmonious agreement. All too soon, Miranda reached a crashing, breathtaking, glorious climax.
Breathing hard, yet hardly breathing, she gloried in the sweetness of kisses moist with their lovemaking, touches grown lazy in purpose, loving in repose. The afterglow cradled them, kept their bodies entwined, satisfied. For the moment.
“Mmm.” He sighed as he propped his head on his hand, gazed lovingly down at her. “Thank God you plan ahead.”
“I made a list,” she confessed.
“You’re a wanton woman, Miranda Danville. Devious, wildly sexy and determined to have your way with me.” He kissed her, and her response was to slide her palm across his chest, tangling her fingers in the hair that curled there, teasing him with fingertips that were both wanton and determined. He captured her hand before it could move lower and she could have her way with him again. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to have discovered your secret vices and I will be encouraging you to use them against me…very shortly.”
She smiled, lazily, longingly. “Who knew,” she whispered.
“Who knew what?” he asked.
That she could give herself over so completely to a man. That he would be such a passionate lover. That the two of them would be so good together. But she voiced none of those thoughts, just offered him the parting of her lips in another invitation. “Who knew,” she whispered, “that red satin sheets would be such an aphrodisiac.”
Chapter Nine
“Miranda? We have a, uh, slight problem with the caterer.”
Miranda had been doodling—doodling!—on her notepad, lost in a pleasant daydream about Nate. It had been nearly a month since the night at the beach house. One whole month of working on the coffeehouse together, talking about plans for his mother’s gardens, stealing time to spend together not talking at all. At least, not talking in the conventional way. Or maybe it was conventional. Maybe scheduling time alone between work commitments and children was a very conventional means of communication between a man and a woman. It certainly had added an air of clandestine excitement to their rendezvous. And the knowledge that interruptions were the norm rather than the exception made her appreciate the moments when alone with Nate.
Yet, she had discovered the truth in what she’d told him, too. She loved the noisy minutes. The times when all four of his children were speaking at once about four different subjects at four different volumes. Those times with his children brought back memories of how she and her siblings had talked to and around one another, vying for attention, talking just to hear themselves talk, talking to see if anyone was listening.
Nate listened to his children. At least, he tried hard to do so. Often, she thought, he tried too hard. In his attempts to field their questions right and left, he missed the point more than half the time. He didn’t seem to remember at times that Will and Cate were thirteen and wanted to be treated like adults, but still needed to know there were boundaries. He forgot sometimes that Kali and Kori simply needed a lot of reassurance. Miranda had just been thinking of ways she cou
ld help him up his batting average, when Ainsley walked into her office.
Giving up her distraction with some reluctance, Miranda smiled at her sister, remembering somewhat belatedly that in just a little more than a week, Baby would be married and a wife. How was that possible? And yet, Miranda was ready for the wedding of the year to be over. It seemed as if she had nothing else on her mind for weeks and weeks. But now that she actually thought about it, she realized with a start that since the night at the beach house—no, since the day of the fire…or had it begun even before that?—she’d hardly given the wedding plans a thought. Which was not like her. Not in the least. Ordinarily, she’d have been on the phone, checking and double-checking to make sure everything was ready for the big event. Ordinarily, she’d have been a little stressed, but completely confident that all her careful planning was about to pay off. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have been spending even five seconds of her day doodling—doodling!—and daydreaming. Pulling herself up short, she made a mental promise to give this entire week to Ainsley and not let anything or anyone—Nate, in particular—distract her.
“What sort of problem?” she asked, sounding calm, amazed after a quick internal check to realize she was calm. “Are they going to have trouble getting the lobster, after all?”
“Mmm, yes and no.” Ainsley stood on the opposite side of the desk, lacing her fingers into an uncertain knot, rocking slightly back and forth on her heels. “But mainly, no. I mean, yes, no lobster.”
Miranda maintained her smile, knowing the dam would break in a minute and Ainsley would blurt out the problem. With its accompanying explanation. Ainsley always had an explanation.
“Maybe I’ll sit down,” Ainsley said, although she continued to stand.
It struck Miranda suddenly, irrelevantly, that she rarely saw any one of her siblings at her office unless they needed help. She was in Matt’s office at the Foundation almost daily for one reason or another, but he only came to her when trouble was brewing over a fund-raiser or among the volunteers and staff. Andrew often dropped by to get her opinion about set designs or which of several photos she liked best, but seldom, if ever, just to talk. Ainsley, well, she usually blew in and out in a matter of ten or fifteen minutes, leaving whatever problem she’d brought with her in Miranda’s capable hands.
Usually, Miranda waited for the delivery, but today she was too impatient. “So, we need to choose another entrée?” Miranda asked impatiently.
“Something like that,” Ainsley answered.
“Then we’ll choose a different entrée. I’ll call the caterer right now and straighten this out.” She didn’t quite understand why Ainsley hadn’t done that herself. It wasn’t that difficult, after all. But maybe this was her way of getting Miranda’s attention. Reaching for the phone, Miranda looked expectantly at her sister. “Do you have the phone number with you?”
Ainsley shook her head.
Miranda offered a slight smile, not truly surprised or dismayed by the information. Phone numbers for the various wedding contractors—all of them, with notes—were in a notebook in the middle-right-hand drawer of her desk. But she didn’t automatically reach for them. This was Ainsley’s wedding. It would be good for her to feel a little of the burden of planning it…even though it was a little late in the game for that.
“The problem with the caterer,” Ainsley explained, sinking finally into the chair, managing to barely sit on the edge of it, “is that we don’t, exactly, have one.”
Panic slid down Miranda’s spine and she had the drawer open and her own wedding notebook on the desktop in a flash. “Of course we have a caterer,” she said. “We hired Katherine Claiborne’s firm two months ago. Remember? I made the preliminary contact. We went together and talked to Katherine in person, and then you and Ivan followed up with an appointment to sign the contract.” But Ainsley had forgotten to make that appointment. Miranda inhaled a deep breath, hoping to bring patience in along with it. “You didn’t follow up with Katherine.”
It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t even need to see the look on Ainsley’s face to confirm this. “I meant to, Miranda, honestly. I even actually thought I’d taken care of it, but somehow, well, the contract just got overlooked.”
Overlooked. Because Ainsley had expected someone else to handle the details. Because she was accustomed to having someone else handle the details. Because, based on past experience, she knew someone else would handle the details. And Miranda had always encouraged her to believe that someone else would do it. And there it was, in a nutshell. Ainsley hadn’t followed through with the caterer because she had expected Miranda to remind her. That was their pattern. Ainsley dawdled, Miranda prodded, and eventually the little detail was handled. Occasionally by Ainsley. Most of the time by Miranda.
Except this time Miranda had allowed someone else to distract her…and the detail had now become a problem.
“I’m sorry, Miranda. Really. I know there’s no excuse for it, and Ivan’s been helping me this morning, trying to locate someone else. Only we haven’t had much luck. I realize it’s late notice and all, but I thought we’d be able to find someone. The Danville Foundation uses a lot of catering services and I know you like to spread the events around, so I was sure at least one of the caterers I called would recognize my name and try to accommodate us, but I seem to have left it a little late even for a Danville.” Her chin dipped for a moment and she pressed her lips together…a sign, Miranda had learned, that usually meant there was still more to the story. “Except…Ivan did find one caterer who could handle the reception.”
It was her tone of voice, more than anything else, that made Miranda’s heart sink. “Well,” she said, hoping she was wrong. “Fortunately, one is all we need.”
“You might not think so when I tell you who it is.”
Worst fear confirmed, Miranda thought with a sigh. “It’s Julian Morris, the caterer who ruined Scott’s wedding.”
“How did you know that?”
“Murphy’s Law.”
“He’s the only one we’ve found who’d even talk to us,” Ainsley said in self-defense.
“And there’s a reason for that, Ainsley. Think about it.”
Ainsley sighed. “I’ll cancel if you can think of a better option.”
“A better option?” Miranda was angry suddenly. At Ainsley for leaving something so important to the last minute. At herself for attempting to delegate some of the responsibility to the bride—who had said she was grown up. At their mother for not being here, for never being here. “If you and I did all the food preparation ourselves, it would be a better option than using Julian Morris. He doesn’t have a clue how to cater a big event. Honestly, Ainsley, how could you let this happen? Do you want your wedding to be a complete disaster?”
Tears pooled in the blue eyes staring back at her, and though Ainsley tried hard to blink them away, they had the desired effect. Miranda softened. As she always did. She accepted her share of the blame. As she always did. She began to think of how best to fix the problem. As she always did.
“I’ll call Katherine,” she said. “She’ll talk to me. That’s no guarantee she’ll take on your reception at the absolute last minute, but I’ll do what I can.”
Ainsley leaned forward and picked up a river rock, worn silky smooth by the tumbling water of the Amazon. It had been brought home by their parents from some long-ago mission trip and used ever since by Miranda as a paperweight. She had always considered it an appropriate symbol of her role in the family. The rock. The one who held firm while the others’ lives flowed over and around her.
“Oh, don’t be modest, Miranda. You’ll manage to convince her she’s been waiting for your call and that catering my wedding reception at the last minute is the opportunity she’s been waiting for all her life.”
“Don’t count on it. There’s a good chance she has other commitments and simply can’t do it. It was probably iffy two months ago when I first called her, but now…”
“Bu
t now, I’ve made it impossible.” Ainsley turned the rock in her hand, then returned it abruptly to the desk. “I did say I was sorry.”
“Yes, you did. Maybe it’s my turn to apologize to you.”
Ainsley looked up. “For what?”
“I haven’t been…myself lately.”
“You haven’t?” She seemed genuinely surprised by the thought and a little amused. “Who have you been?”
“Very funny. But you know as well as I do that I’ve been somewhat preoccupied for the past few weeks and I do intend to make it up to you, Baby. I will.”
Dual creases formed a cute little frown between Ainsley’s eyebrows. Now that she’d confessed her sin of omission and been absolved of responsibility, her bouncy good humor had returned like the sunlight after a summer shower. “Goody,” she said. “I know just how you can do it, too.”
It was Miranda’s turn to frown…except not so cutely. “I was thinking we’d spend a lot of time together this week, making sure no other neglected details turn into problems.”
“And I was thinking you’d tell me all about you and Nate, right here, right now.”
Miranda should have expected that. “Nothing to tell,” she replied blithely. “Except that the coffeehouse is coming along nicely and will open next Friday, as planned. It’s turned out to be a very…interesting project.”
“I wouldn’t call Nate Shepard a project.”
“His coffeehouse, on the other hand, clearly is.”
Ainsley sat back in her chair, smiling like the Cheshire cat. “Come on, Miranda. Give me details. I want all the romantic details.”
“It would be more beneficial if we talked about your wedding, instead. And more interesting.”
“No, it wouldn’t. I don’t care about the wedding, Miranda. Well, of course, I do care, but only about the marrying-Ivan part, not about the rest of it. I care about you. I’m your sister. And a matchmaker. You can talk to me. I mean, I know what’s going on, anyway.”
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