by Nancy Warren
And, naturally, even the garbage sprang into flame at his touch. She ought to be pleased she’d have a fire to warm her, but perversely, his competence annoyed her.
As soon as it was obvious the wood had taken its part in the trash can conflagration, Rob eased away and sat on the bench.
Silence.
They had who knew how long up here, and the silence was deafening. It wasn’t as though there was anywhere to go, or anything to do.
The hell with it. “A phony,” she said. Already the shelter was warming. Outside the Christmas Eve storm continued to howl, but in here they were protected. The crackling flames sounded far too cheerful for the company. “You think it’s fake to be an optimist.”
The glance he shot her, devilish in the dancing red light, only irritated her more. “I meant that you’re light and frivolous. That’s
all.”
“Light and frivolous? I’m a journalist.”
He rolled his eyes so eloquently she was afraid his eyeballs would get stuck in reverse and he’d spend the rest of his life staring at the inside of his skull. “You’re the weather girl.”
“Meteorologist.”
“As well as the weather, you congratulate people on turning 100. And you announce community events.”
“What about my feature on single mothers?” she said in outrage.
He snorted. “You mean the one where they started their
own business, opened a coop baby-sitting service, and all lived happily ever after?”
“Okay, so it was. an uplifting story. Sue me.”
Silence reigned once more.
“I’m not saying being an optimist’s a terrible thing,” he said at last, surprising her by being the first one to speak. “But I’m a realist. Eternal optimism gets on my nerves.”
She tapped her gloved fingers against the tabletop. He leaned over and fiddled with the camera. His hood was still up over his head, even though the shelter was already warming. She suspected the hood was yet another barrier to prevent eye contact. “Then why don’t you refuse to work with me any more?”
“I’m assigned to you. It’s my job.”
Now it was her turn to snort in disbelief. “If you can’t stand me so much, you could be reassigned. In fact, I’ll help you do it. I’ll ask for a new camerameanie.”
He blinked, looking even more devilish. “What did you call me?”
Damn. Her private name for him had slipped out. There were times when dignified silence was the best course of action. This was definitely one of them.
“A camerameanie?”
So much for dignified silence. “You’re a camerameanie. I’m a phony. Clearly we should be reassigned.”
“Fine. Tomorrow morning we’ll get that done.”
“Tomorrow’s Christmas.”
“Consider it your present.”
He glanced up at her, a furtive, quickie glance, almost as though he were gauging how she’d taken his words, and in that second when their eyes almost but not quite connected, she had it.
The gleam deep in his eyes was one she’d seen often enough when a man looked at her, but never from him. Of course not! Now that the truth was before her, she wondered she hadn’t thought of it before. No wonder he wouldn’t make eye contact with her. How he must hate the truth.
“You’re attracted to me,” she said. Suddenly his unwilling crush was as clear to her as the flames in the rusted metal garbage can.
He gave a crack of laughter and turned his back on her. Okay, she could be wrong, which would be awfully embarrassing, but she could also be right and every instinct in her body was telling her she was. Her camerameanie had the hots for her. And if she was wrong she could always claim hypothermia.
She felt oddly breathless as she stared at the broad expanse of his back, so muscular and solid, as he tried to turn away from her and the truth.
“That’s why you won’t even look at me. You wish it wasn’t so, but it is. You have a crush on me.”
He didn’t answer. The glass panels of the shelter were steaming up, so she felt encased in a cloud, eerily remote from reality as though she weren’t even tied to the earth. The normal rules didn’t seem to apply.
Rob might try to turn his back on the truth, but he wasn’t turning his back on her.
She rose and walked around the picnic table, sitting on his other side so she was once again confronting him. He didn’t move, and the heat she saw blazing in his eyes confirmed her suspicions.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” she said, her voice a little husky. “You’re attracted to me. You wish it were some Amazonian woman who kayaks up the river to spear breakfast, but face it. You’ve got the hots for a weather-reporting, centenarian-birthday congratulating optimist.”
He opened his lips as though he’d say something, and then closed them.
She looked at him, really looked. His hood had fallen away, revealing his dark brown hair in its usual state of disarray.
The planes of his face were sharp, the jut of his chin pugnacious; even his nose was beaky, his cheeks stubbled as though all the hard angles and surfaces could protect him. But she had only to look into his eyes to see the longing and the kind of warmth that made their trash can fire pale in comparison.
And at the heat in his eyes, something caught fire inside herself.
How long had she been harboring a secret crush on the man who spent so many hours on the other side of the camera from her and not so much as a minute talking to her or smiling at her or even looking at her?
“You barely look at me, never talk to me, and you won’t even smile at me.”
He raised his brows as though she’d said something really stupid. “Not smiling at you is your evidence that I’m secretly in love with you?”
Her breath caught a little in her throat. “Who said anything about love? It’s a little crush. It’s okay. Lots of people get them.”
“Don’t you think if I had a ‘crush’ on you that I’d smile?” She’d seen his smile. It was a killer.
“You smile at the receptionist, even tell her jokes. You smile at our coworkers-even strangers on the street. But you never smile at me, or tell me a joke.”
“You wouldn’t think my jokes were funny.”
“See? That’s another defense.”
“You are really starting to get annoying.”
Maybe he wouldn’t smile at her, but she could smile at him, and she did, a woman’s smile that would drive him nuts. “I’m annoying because I’m right. Admit it,” she said. “You want me.”
For a long moment he said nothing. The fire popped and shushed itself, but she barely heard it. For a guy who’d never looked at her, he was making up for it now, staring deep into her eyes. “And if I do? If I admit I want you?”
She drew in a shuddery breath and for a second wished she’d kept her mouth shut.
He leaned a little closer. “What then?”
Chapter 3
If he sat here one more second, Marisa was going to kiss him. She broadcast her intent by the darkening of her eyes, the way her lips slipped apart and she leaned closer.
Every fiber of his being tingled with wanting. But if he tasted her, it would only make his problem worse.
He stood so abruptly he nearly lost his balance. Behind him a small groan told him his companion was as frustrated as he. “What do you want, Marisa?” he asked in desperation, poking around at the fire in a lame attempt to pretend the blaze needed his attention.
“I thought that was obvious,” she said.
“I mean professionally. What do you really want? More features? Your own talk show? To report hard news? Be the next Diane Sawyer? What?”
She paused long enough that he wondered if he’d answer at all. Finally she said, “I want to be visible.”
“Visible?” No wonder she drove him nuts. He tried to have an actual conversation, and she said something ditzy. “You’re on TV. How much more visible can a person get?”
“I report the wea
ther. No one ever sees me. Not really. They see the perky blonde who gets rained on a lot.”
“I see you,” he said, realizing he was already lost. Maybe he could have stayed away from her as he’d planned if fate hadn’t thrown them together like this and she wasn’t sharper than he’d realized-or his unwanted obsession were less obvious.
She leaned her head to one side. “You see me because you’re paid to look through your camera lens and make sure I’m in focus. Big deal.”
“No,” he said, feeling as if he was battling whitewater and it was winning. “I see you.”
She looked at him, long and steady, and he got the feeling his opinion mattered to her. “What do you see?”
He smiled as though this were a quiz show and he had the answer before the buzzer. “I see you. I watch your face, all the moods and expressions. You may be interviewing someone or reporting the weather, but I’m always there, watching.”
She looked at him as though she were really seeing him for the first time. “What do you see?”
Oh, hell. She’d already figured it out. He might as well admit the truth. “I see a desirable, warm, and fascinating woman I want to make love to.”
She choked, torn between a laugh and a moan.
“Really,” he insisted. “Go ahead and test me.”
“Test that you want to have sex with me? No. Thanks. I’ll take your word for it.”
“Not that,” he said. “Test that I really am watching you. Ask me anything about what you’ve done or said or worn in front of the camera since the day you started.” He’d never have believed in love at first sight. It was the sort of soft, romantic notion that a perky, good-news-only gal like Marisa would fall for. Not a man who’d seen and done the things he had.
It had happened, though. Maybe not the very first time he’d seen her, but he still remembered the way he’d felt, as though he’d been hit in the chest with a cannonball when they were introduced. The way her blue eyes had sparkled at him as clear and sunny as a summertime brook. Her hair was as richly blond as sunshine. Her teeth whiter than snow. Her whole appearance was a goddamn weather report.
Even in his irritation at her sunny beauty he’d known deep down that he was in trouble. Months of staring at her through a camera lens had only deepened his awkward and wholly unwelcome infatuation.
Maybe he was tired of hiding from the truth. Maybe he was hoping she’d slap him for his impertinence, or sleep with him so he could get her out of his system, but something had to change, and tonight change was in the air.
“Okay,” Marisa said, responding to his challenge, but with no idea how to go about this. She glanced at him, glanced at the camera that chaperoned them still, and pulled a date at random. “Last Friday.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, so darkly green she was reminded of the rain forests he loved to hike. “Last Friday,” he said. “You wore black pants and the same red coat you’re wearing now. You had a silver pin in the lapel shaped like an angel. On the evening news you forecast sunshine.”
How was she supposed to know whether he’d guessed correctly? Even she couldn’t remember what she’d worn, or what weather she’d forecast. When they got off this roof, though, she was going to check.
“Was I right?”
He smiled at her. For the first time he actually smiled right at her, and she knew what she’d been missing. When she caught him grinning at other women, she’d seen the warmth and attractiveness, but when he turned it on her, she felt the warmth of that grin right down to her toes. “Thirty percent right. There was a little sun mixed in with the rain and the wind.”
Since she couldn’t check whether he was making this stuff up or not, she allowed herself to feel flattered. This was either the biggest con since Orwell told America they were being invaded by extraterrestrials or one of the most effective come-ons she’d ever experienced.
Because just thinking of him watching her that intently from behind his camera, and with carnal thoughts on his mind, made her feel kind of flustered. No. Not flustered. Warm. Damn it, the very idea made her hot.
And right now, anything that made her hot was a good thing.
For a guy who’d had trouble making eye contact before, he now seemed unable to tear his gaze away. And she was as bad. “Then you were off for the weekend,” he said, moving closer. “Monday, you predicted a cold front. You had a black coat on and a yellow scarf that kept flapping in the wind.”
“You snarled at me and tucked it into my lapel,” she recalled. His hands had barely touched her, but she’d felt their strength.
“Tuesday you had a big blue sweater on and big blue ear rings.”
“I was freezing in that sweater,” she said, recalling how the wind had whipped through to her very bones.
“It was the exact color of your eyes.” He looked suddenly embarrassed, as though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “And your forecast was bang on accurate.” He gestured to the thickly falling snow. “The cold front came in, along with the snow.”
She shivered, and not from cold. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because you asked. I thought it would pass,” he said, stepping toward her. Instinctively she rose. “We’ve been working together for three months now, and I want you more every day.”
She couldn’t help the smile that pulled at her lips. “You have a funny way of showing it.”
“I didn’t want to want you. I still don’t, but you’re like malaria: Once you get hold of a man, you don’t let go.”
She blinked, then crossed her arms across her chest in a gesture even he ought to figure out meant stop right where you are. “Malaria? I’m like malaria? First I’m a phony, which I still don’t completely understand; now I’m like a tropical disease?”
“Don’t kid yourself. I’m not happy about this. If a dose of quinine would get you out of my system, I’d be guzzling the stuff.” Then, before she could protest, or even unfold her arms, he pulled her to him and kissed her.
Soft down seemed to envelop her as he wrapped his arms around her, but it was the only part of him that was soft. His body was muscular and taut; even his lips were firm. He had the kind of mouth that demanded rather than requested. Yet something about the way he kissed and the way he held her made her want to give in to his demands.
She opened her mouth to him, slipped her arms out of their locked position and around him.
If he’d been resisting her for months, he no longer was. His tongue was hot and insistent in her mouth, dragging a response from her, making her weak at the knees. So weak at the knees she’d fall if he let her go.
His hands ran down her back; hers did the same to his. He left her mouth long enough to trail kisses along her cheeks, to her ear, down her throat to where her coat was buttoned to the neck, and back up to her lips.
She whimpered as lust slammed through her as potent and sudden as any storm she’d ever forecast. They were all over each other. With so many layers of clothes between them they were like two suited-up astronauts going at it.
“Why couldn’t we have been trapped in the elevator or a broom closet or something?” he whispered with frustrated urgency. “Somewhere where I could undress you and make love to you properly.”
She’d caught .his excitement and shared his urgency.
“I want you, too,” she gasped. “So much.” She was astonished how strong her desire. She wanted to be naked and wrapped around him so much she could hardly bear the suspense of waiting.
His thoughts seemed to be keeping track with hers, for he chuckled softly. “We’d freeze our asses off if we got naked.”
Right. Not naked, but maybe . . .
She felt his hand fumbling at the buttons that covered her chest. He pulled off a glove with his teeth and then slipped that hand into the opening he’d made in her coat. He hit sweater.
“Today, you dress for warmth,” he grumbled, tugging the thing upward.
“As you’ll recall,
I forecast that the frigid temperatures would continue until Christmas day,” she reminded him snootily. “You were obviously listening.” Him in his parka, she thought jealously.
She didn’t have the heart to tell him there was more than sweater he’d have to contend with. She loved his eagerness. Sure enough he made his way under the sweater pretty fast, and she felt his fingers moving around.
“What is this? Thermal underwear?”
“T-shirt.”
He grunted.
“The thermal underwear’s underneath . . . then bra, then me.”
“This is like searching for the Holy Grail,” he complained, though he didn’t slow any.
After a little more burrowing, she heard his grunt of satisfaction and her own soft sigh of pleasure as his fingers finally hit her flesh. They were a little rough, a little hard. The hands of a man who climbed mountains and kayaked oceans. The hands of a man who didn’t love easily, she sensed, or casually. That’s why he’d tried so hard to fight his attraction.
“Are you sure about this? “ she whispered, even as his hand closed over her breast, and she knew there was no turning back, not when he could make her feel like this under the least romantic circumstances in which she’d ever been seduced.
“No, I’m not sure about this. I already told you. I don’t seem to have a choice.”
She stifled a chuckle. “You are such a sweet talker.”
“Hey,” he said, so she tilted her chin and looked up at him. “I’ll never lie to you. Or play word games. I want you so much it’s killing me. But I wish I didn’t.”
She ought to be angry, but she understood. Frankly, she felt the same way.
Still, they didn’t have to get married. They were both young, both single. So they had different beliefs and ideas about life. So she was an optimist and he was a card-carrying pessimist. So what?
This was sex. Uncomplicated, well, marginally uncomplicated, healthy sex between two consenting adults.
In a snowstorm, on a roof, during a power outage.
Okay, so it was wildly complicated. And one of the main complications hit her now.
“I’m not trying to spoil the romantic mood, but I don’t suppose you carry condoms on you?” she asked.