It was much more than a dance, she thought. It was two bodies brushing together. It was electricity arcing brightly. It was want and need and desire. It was everything but love, blast it.
And yet she couldn’t pull away.
His arm tightened around her waist. His left hand clasped her right. Her left arm encircled his neck and they danced. The music soared on, strings and horns and the soft ripple of a piano expertly played. He guided her around the patio in a series of slow, smooth turns. White tapers burning beneath the hurricane globes flickered bravely against the darkness and sparkled at the edges of her vision.
Kate looked up into his eyes and let herself believe, if only for this one, incredible special moment, that the shimmer in his eyes was the warm glow of love—not the pale light of duty.
The old, familiar feelings stirred within her.
Her stomach fluttered and her blood sizzled with the heat only he could spark. Caught by the desire in his eyes, Kate felt herself weakening, giving in to the need for him that crowded her days and haunted her dreams.
And God help her, she didn’t want to resist.
Strangely enough, it was that realization that gave her the courage to pull out of his grasp and take a much-needed step back. This was a mistake. She couldn’t risk being that close to him and still expect to keep from falling into his arms. Her heartbeat racing, her knees trembling, she faced him and whispered, “Don’t do this, Thomas.”
“Kate,” he said softly, “I want to make love with you. You want the same thing. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Of course I do,” she said, then held up one hand, palm up to keep him from coming any closer. If he took just one more step...if he so much as touched her again, her battle would be lost before it had really begun. “But I also want us to have a good marriage.”
“So do I,” he said, and shoved both hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out for her again.
“We agreed that a marriage has to be based on more than great sex, Thomas.”
“Great sex doesn’t hurt, Kate.”
“But it’s not enough,” she said, her voice nearly choking with desire. Pulling in a deep, hopefully calming breath, she went on. “I want more...for both of us...for all three of us. Don’t you?”
He yanked one hand free of his pants pocket and raked his fingers through his hair. “Naturally, but—”
“Then let’s try this my way, all right?” she asked. “At least for a while?”
He shot her a look. “How long a while?”
Everything inside Kate urged her to look at her watch and shout. “Okay, that’s enough time, let’s go to bed.” But she bit those words back and settled for, “I just don’t know, Thomas. But we have to try.”
He dragged air into his lungs and expelled it in a rush. Gazing up at the starlit sky for a long moment, he seemed to gather himself before looking at her again. Heat still burned in his eyes, and his voice was harsh with strangling need when he said, “All right, then. We’ll do it your way.”
Instinctively, she stepped forward and laid a hand on his arm. He sucked in another gulp of air as if he’d been branded. She let her hand drop to her side.
“Thanks, Thomas.”
Then, before she could lose her nerve, Kate turned and started across the patio toward the house.
“Kate?”
She stopped cold, hoping he wouldn’t tempt her again. Hoping her resolve was strong enough to survive another few minutes. Glancing back at him over her shoulder, she asked, “Yes?”
“Yours is the room across the hall from the master bedroom. Your bags are already there.”
Across the hall. Just a few short feet of carpet would separate her from the man she most longed to be with. And at that moment Kate wasn’t sure who this celibacy thing was going to be harder on.
Thomas... or her?
Nine
Tom woke up slowly, feeling as haggard and tired as he’d been when he went to bed the night before. Dreams of Kate had plagued him as they did every night. Haunting images of her in his bed, in his arms. So real they fed a hunger that couldn’t be assuaged, and yet he woke up each morning with empty arms and a heavy heart.
Dragging himself from the bed, he stumbled to the bathroom, turned on the shower and stood completely still, letting cold water pummel his body and force alertness into his eyes. It wouldn’t do for the colonel to fall asleep at his desk.
Once dressed for duty, he left his room and groaned quietly as the unmistakable smell of burned eggs reached him. He stepped into the hall and reluctantly turned toward the kitchen. Three weeks of marriage and he’d already consumed enough charcoal to fill a dozen barbecue pits.
Between the lack of sleep and his new wife’s cooking, he was in sad shape.
He wasn’t sure what Kate was trying to prove, but any time he offered to make a meal for the two of them, she shooed him out of the kitchen like she was June Cleaver or something. Buttoning his camouflage uniform shirt as he walked, Tom steeled himself for this morning’s sacrificial breakfast.
Three weeks married and he had to admit that Kate had been right. They didn’t know each other well at all. For example, he never would have guessed that beneath her ambitious, career-oriented breast beat the heart of a frustrated homemaker. Not that he minded. Heck, he wanted Kate to be happy. Whether that meant overseeing a battalion or bringing a high-gloss shine to her kitchen floor. He was just surprised, that’s all.
And a little concerned about the well-being of his stomach. Rubbing the flat of his hand across his abdomen, he realized that the only time he’d had a decent meal in the past three weeks was when he’d gone to the mess hall. And that was saying something.
In his years of bachelor life, Tom had become a pretty good cook. If Kate would only relax a little, he’d be happy to take over the kitchen duties. But she treated the sunshine yellow room as if it were her own private domain, despite the fact that she was a terrible cook.
If it weren’t for frozen, microwave meals and hamburger stands, she probably would have starved to death herself years ago.
As he neared the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining room, he paused to listen. A small smile crooked one side of his mouth. As usual, his wife was muttering curses at the stove, the pans, the billowing smoke and her own ineptitude.
Now, this Kate, he knew.
Stubborn, determined. Never a woman to know when to quit. That was his Kate. Unfortunately for his stomach, she seemed bent on conquering the intricacies of a cookbook.
He pushed the door open and stepped into what looked like a battle zone. Early-morning sunlight flooded the room, detailing the mess. Flour sprinkled the counters and lay across the tile floor in a wide pattern. Cupboards hung open, dirty bowls and plates crowded the sink, and a tower of black smoke rose eerily from a black skillet.
Kate, a white apron over her uniform, was standing over the trash can, shoveling a pile of what looked like blackened frisbees into the garbage.
He gave a silent prayer of thanksgiving for being spared having to try and chew the disks that were thudding to the bottom of the can.
“What’s that?” he asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.
She shot him a look that dared him to comment as she answered, “Blueberry pancakes.”
He raised eyebrows and leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. Studying her, he told himself that it was just his imagination, but she seemed to be getting prettier every day. Even in her uniform she was enough to cause his heartbeat to stagger and his groin to ache.
Dreaming or awake, she had the same damn effect on him.
She sniffed, and his gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “Kate?” he asked. “Are you crying?”
Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she shook her head and turned away from him. Disgusted, she practically threw the now-empty plastic platter onto the countertop. “Of course I’m not crying. It would be stupid to cry over a batch of ruined pancakes.”
�
��Then what’s wrong?” he asked, ignoring the stillcurling spiral of smoke lifting up from where two black eggs rested in the iron skillet.
She laughed shortly, but it was a laugh with no humor in it. Lifting her head, she surveyed the room, then slowly shifted her gaze to his. “What’s wrong?” she repeated as she reached behind her to tear at the apron strings. “Are you blind? Look at this place!”
He had, and it didn’t look any different than it had been every morning for the last three weeks. Why she kept beating her head against a stone wall, he couldn’t figure out. Even Kate should be able to admit defeat occasionally. But he said only, “It’ll clean, Kate. What’s really bothering you?”
She snatched the apron off and flung it onto the table. It half landed in a bowl of batter. Groaning, she threw her hands high and let them slap down against her sides. “This. Work. The baby. You,” she added, glaring at him.
“Me?” He straightened up and took a step toward her. “What did I do?” Besides try to choke down every last one of her inedible meals. In the next instant she spoke as if she’d been reading his mind.
“You’ve eaten everything I cook, without a word of complaint.” She started pacing, walking a tight circle around the kitchen table, skirting past him without even slowing down. “Doesn’t matter how inedible. Doesn’t matter how burned. How black and charred. You gulp it down and thank me politely.”
Did she think it had been easy?
Completely confused now, he gave in to the spurt of irritation riding him and snapped, “Well, hell. Arrange for the execution, Major. Tomorrow works for met.”
She stopped dead, spun around and stared icicles at him. God, she was really magnificent. Especially when she was mad.
“Don’t you get it?”
“No, Kate, I don’t. Explain it to me.”
She’d be happy to, she thought. If only she could figure it out herself first. Kate shot a quick glance around the rubble-strewn kitchen and somehow managed to stifle a groan. Every blasted day, she told herself. Every day, she had come into this miserable room and pitted her meagre talents against that damn stove. And every darn day, the stove had emerged victorious.
So far she was losing every skirmish in her campaign to convince Thomas that he loved her. Her battle plan obviously stunk, because she couldn’t do something simple like make an edible pancake! Why wasn’t she being called on to do something that she was good at? Like score ten out of ten on the rifle range. Throw a grenade. Drive a jeep. Keep hundreds of enlisted men’s files straight and at her fingertips.
But, no. This war would be waged in a kitchen. A room that was as foreign to Kate as life in a grass hut on a deserted island.
She’d tried reading recipe cards. At work, she’d talked to some of the other women, trying to understand the mystifying secret of how to arrange for the meat, vegetables and pasta to be ready all at the same time. She’d called Donna for hints on Thomas’s favorite foods, but when she’d attempted cooking them, they’d been unrecognizable. She’d used timers and oven thermometers. She’d tried cooking bags and roasting pans. Skillets and griddles. Broilers and barbecues. Nothing worked. No matter what she tried—from grilled cheese sandwiches to a standing rib roast—it always turned into a disaster.
Even the rice that promised to come out perfect every time had defeated her.
A slow simmer of anger built inside her as she lifted her gaze to look at her husband. For three weeks she’d tried everything she could to impress him with her “wifely” skills.
But nothing seemed to matter to him.
He ate what she served him. He wore shirts that she’d ironed—badly. He quietly fixed the vacuum cleaner after she’d broken it. All without saying a word.
Didn’t he realize what she was doing? Couldn’t he see that she was trying to prove to him how good it was to be married? He seemed to be oblivious to the disasters that followed her around like a big dog on a frayed leash.
Didn’t he care at all?
“Thomas,” she said, taking a deep breath. “For three weeks, I’ve been killing myself around here, and for all you’ve taken notice, I could have been sitting on my rear, eating bonbons.”
“What?”
She shoved one hand through her hair, sweeping the mass back from her face. Her stomach twisted, but she fought it back into line. “It’s like you’re not even here. Don’t you even notice what’s going on around you? Are you so removed from this marriage that nothing interests you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded. “Haven’t I been here every day? Haven’t I tried to help, only to have you push me out of the way?”
“I didn’t want your help, I wanted to do it myself.”
“Kate—”
His voice was a low rumble of discontent. But she was beyond caring. She’d worked her butt off for three weeks and he’d hardly commented. Now it was her turn. “No, really,” she said, beginning to warm to her theme. “You must be able to see that I’m no good at this, but you haven’t said a word. Do you just not give a damn?”
“Of course I don’t care,” he snapped.
She sucked in a gulp of air and jerked her head at him. Well, there was her answer. Hadn’t her mother always said, Don’t ask the question if you won’t like the answer? “Fine. If you’ll excuse me...”
She tried to slip past him, but Thomas grabbed her arm, holding her in place beside him. “Why the hell would I care if you can cook or not?” he demanded.
“I’m your wife,” she reminded him—unnecessarily, she thought. “Shouldn’t that at least interest you?”
“I didn’t marry you to gain a cook.”
“Fortunately for you.”
“Kate, you’re misunderstanding.”
“On the contrary,” she snapped. Every nerve in her body went on full alert. She felt as though she was going to snap in two, and she wasn’t even really sure why. Hormones, again? My God, would it never end? “I think I understand perfectly well. You don’t care. See? I get it.”
His chin hit his chest, and he stood that way for a long moment. Long enough for the grip of his fingers on her arm to begin sending streaks of warmth shooting along her shoulder and down into the pit of her already unsteady stomach.
The tears that were always too close to the surface lately sprang up into her eyes, and she blinked them back. Damn it, she wouldn’t cry. No matter what, she wouldn’t give in to tears.
Marines don’t cry, she reminded herself. Marines persevere. Marines carry on. They damn well do not break down and sniffle.
And certainly not over some lousy blueberry pancakes.
“Kate.” He said her name again, but this time, there was no irritation coloring his tone. If anything, he sounded deliberately patient As if he was dealing with a recalcitrant three-year-old. “I tried to help with the cooking right at the beginning. You were the one who threw me out of the kitchen.”
True. But she’d been so desperate to start proving to him how good married life could be, she’d wanted to do it all herself. So much for her first battle plan.
“I wanted to do this right,” she said, and hated the whine she heard in her voice. Deliberately trying to mask it, she went on. “Darn it, I hold the record for push-ups in my unit. You’d think I could fry one stinking egg without setting off the smoke alarms.”
“That reminds me,” he said, glancing around at the still-heavy pall of smoke. “Why didn’t they come on this time?”
This time, she repeated silently, sullenly. “Because I disconnected them, that’s why. The only thing worse than failure is having trumpets blare to announce it.”
He chuckled, damn him, anyway.
One tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and before she could reach up to brush it aside, Thomas did it for her.
One soft, tender stroke of his thumb against her cheek and the tear was gone, replaced by a deeply felt warmth that closed around her heart and squeezed.
“I thought you were doing all of this�
�” he waved one hand at the wreck of a kitchen “—because you liked it.”
She laughed shortly. Liked it? The woman who had spent her entire adult life haunting take-out restaurants and dry cleaners? The woman whose first mission, on being transferred to a new base, was to find a local maid service? No, Kate hated housework. Always had. Mainly because she was so hopeless at it. But she’d so wanted to impress him with her home-making skills.
How did other women do it? How did they manage to work and raise kids and keep their houses from exploding around them? And why couldn’t she do it, too?
“I hate it,” she admitted on a groan, then added, “Oh, Thomas. I’m pathetic.”
He laughed again and drew her up close to him. Wrapping his arms around her, he whispered to her bent head. “No, you’re not. You’re just good at other things, that’s all. No shame in that.”
Maybe not, but it was hard to see her plan fall apart.
God, but it felt good to be in his arms. To hear his heartbeat beneath her ear. To feel the warm, solid strength of him aligned against her. She’d missed him so much.
Sleeping right across the hall from him was pure torture. Every night, she lay in her bed, alone in the dark, and listened to him moving about his room. If she strained her ears, she could hear his bed frame creak and groan when he lay down, and all she wanted to do was go to him. To join him in that big bed and make the wood frame shriek all night.
But no. She had to insist on celibacy.
Another brilliant battle maneuver.
“Kate?” His hands stroked up and down her back, and even through the fabric of her uniform, she felt the power of his touch. Tendrils of heat, expectation, twirled through her body. Low inside her, she felt the restless, urging need building within.
“Kate—” he said again. His voice rippled along her spine and sent shivers of anticipation darting deep in her abdomen. “I want you, honey. I want you so badly, you’re all I think about anymore.”
Colonel Daddy Page 9