She hesitated, then folded the place mats into their drawer and went outside.
The night was dark and still, the only sound that of the gentle whisper of the surf below them. A crescent moon wandered lazily in and out of smoky royal-blue clouds, and the air was rich with the scent of clematis. She took a deep, luxurious breath and went to stand beside him, lifting her face to the cool night air.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said softly.
She nodded in silent agreement.
"Do you know the saying 'If I had two lives, I would spend one at home and the other traveling abroad'? Well, if I had two lives, I guess I would spend one on the seashore and one in the mountains."
She leaned on the rail, watching the foamy white-caps of the restless sea. "Seems like you already do."
"Have two lives?"
"Spend half your time in the mountains and half here on the coast."
He gave a small laugh. "Wish I could!"
"I believe a person can do anything he wants—if he wants to badly enough. So what's your excuse?"
"A very simple one," he replied. "Alimony."
She winced. She had unintentionally brought up the subject of his ex-wife again, and for some reason the prospect of discussing her seemed particularly distasteful standing here in the moonlight with him while the music of the surf sang in her ears and the gentle garden scents worked their subtle aphrodisiac magic on her senses.
As though reading her thoughts, he offered matter-of-factly, "I'm not still in love with Roseanne, by the way. I think I may have mentioned to you that I'm not sure I ever was. I don't hate her," he added in a moment, "but I certainly don't love her. I just wanted to get that cleared up."
"It doesn't matter to me in the least," she responded, keeping her gaze determinedly fixed on the repetitively disintegrating whitecaps.
His tone was faintly mocking. "I know it doesn't." Then he changed the subject. "And what about you? Are you doing exactly what you want to do?"
She sighed dreamily, soaking in the view and the gentle night air and the provocative floral scents. "Right now I am."
She knew that sounded like an invitation, and even though she had not meant it that way, she did not try to shrug away from the gentle caress of his hand on her shoulder. He said softly, "I'm glad to hear that."
The feel of his strong fingers through the light material of her blouse sent a light shiver of excitement down her spine, completely uncontrollable. He inquired, "Cold?"
She knew that to tell him she was not would be an admission of what his casual touch had done to her, so she said nothing and let him drape his arm around her shoulders and draw her a little closer, ostensibly for warmth. Then he said, "What I meant was, your work. Is that what you want to do?"
What she wanted to do was to relax completely in the crook of his arm, rest her head against his hair, let the warmth of his body flow through her and surround her. But she tried to put that thought out of her mind. Kyle's casual embrace was no more than a gesture of friendship to Kate's little sister, an action as natural to an open, unaffected man like him as breathing. She must learn not to forget that and to stop being so disturbed in his presence.
She answered noncommittally, "It's okay, I guess. I'm actually what you might call temporarily unemployed at the moment, but I was working in a record shop in Cincinnati before. It passed the hours."
"Doesn't sound very challenging."
"It wasn't."
"You were an editor on a music magazine before?"
She glanced at him. "How did you know that?"
"I asked Kate after she mentioned it at tea the other day."
She turned back to look out over the sea. That all seemed so far away. "Yes, I was."
"Why did you quit?"
She lifted her shoulders slightly. The movement caused a new awareness of the strong, warm protection of Kyle's arm. "I took a leave of absence when Daniel became ill. Afterward there just didn't seem much point in going back."
"Painful memories?"
"Maybe."
"And maybe," he suggested thoughtfully, "taking a menial, unsatisfying job seemed like a good way to punish yourself for continuing to live after your husband had died."
She jerked away from him, staring at him in shock and anger. Anger, perhaps because he had come too close to the truth? "What are you?" she demanded. "A psychiatrist or something?"
"No," he returned gently. "Just a student of human nature. Did I hit a nerve?"
She turned away from him with a jerky movement, trying to focus blurry eyes on the distant seascape. "It's none of your business."
"I've decided to make you my business," he responded softly, very close behind her. "Which makes everything about your past, present, and future my concern."
He was so close now that she could feel his breath brush across her cheek. She made herself go stiff as his hands touched her shoulders, but it was difficult to maintain her anger and her resistance toward him when her pulse was pounding in her ears and her lungs seemed to have diminished their capacity by at least fifty percent. She managed stiffly, "And suppose I don't care to have you meddling in my past, present, or future?"
"You haven't any choice." Whether he moved or it was the relaxation of her own body that caused the contact she did not know, but now they were touching at all points, the length of her back fitting into the warm envelope of his embrace as though they were designed to do so, his arms linked about her waist, his chin resting lightly atop her head. "There isn't much I can do about your past tonight," he continued in a low sensuously mesmerizing tone, "and for the future you already know my prescription—a new life, a new job, a new house… a new love. For the present…" He turned her around gently and looked deep into her eyes, his face very close.
"Don't," she whispered.
He did not move, nor lessen his light, caressing embrace. He said softly, "Don't what?"
She felt like putty in his hands, imagining that if he released her she would melt into a pool of helplessness at his feet. She could not even turn her head, to put a safe distance between her face and the soft warmth of his lips she remembered so distinctly from the morning. She managed, "Don't do what you were going to do."
He insisted in a low half whisper, "And what was that?"
She dropped her eyes. "You were going to… kiss me."
Still he did not move, but when she glanced up, she imagined the trace of a faint, tender smile curving his lips. "What makes you think that just because I'm standing in the moonlight with the sound of the surf in the background and romance in the air and a soft, delectable girl in my arms that I'm thinking of kissing anyone?"
She tried to step miserably away. "Just… don't."
She knew that Kyle was not the type of man to ever force his attentions on any woman. Probably he had never had to. His arms made to release her, but one hand came up to gently cup her chin, raising her face so that she had to look at him. "Do you have any idea," he inquired softly, "how beautiful you look after you've been kissed? How soft and moist your lips are, how deep and starry your eyes get, how rosy your skin is? Do you have any idea—" one finger traced a lazy, sensuous pattern around the lobe of her ear, and she shivered "—how badly you need kissing tonight?"
He bent toward her, and her resistance melted. She longed again for the possessive warmth of his mouth on hers, for the feel of his fingers light and caressing on her back and her neck and her face, for the strength of his broad shoulders beneath her own hands.
But, to her surprise, all he did was drop a light kiss on her hair, and then he sighed heavily, his fingers lingering on her face. "Damn this cast."
In her confusion and, yes, disappointment, she said only the first thing that came to mind. "Why?"
"Because," he explained huskily, "it's keeping me from doing right now the thing that I want to do more than anything in the world."
A wild pulse began to race in her throat; she searched his face expectantly and breathlessly and managed,
"What is that?"
She saw his eyes crinkle with a smile, and he touched the tip of her nose lightly. "I want to walk with you on the beach, of course. What did you think I meant?"
It must have been obvious what she thought, even before she dropped her eyes, because he laughed. "Say good night, you little tease, before I start believing what your eyes say instead of what your mouth says. You're as transparent as glass, Bobbie."
She flared at him. "I am not a tease!"
"No," he agreed equitably, "you're just a little mixed up. But I can wait. I don't want you saying later that I took advantage of your momentary weakness, and this morning we agreed on a couple of weeks to think it over, didn't we?"
She stared at him, speechless and outraged. "Y-you," she stammered at last. "You're impossible!"
As she stalked past him she heard him laughing softly. "Good night, Bobbie," he called after her.
Chapter Four
For the first time in the week Barbara had been there, she had the day entirely to herself. Kate had gone out of her way to keep her younger sister occupied, taking her on sight-seeing tours along the coast or browsing the endless antique shops dotting the highway. They had gone on long walks on the beach and had engaged in marathon talking sessions that lasted well after midnight. Those heart-to-heart conversations had done more to bolster Barbara's spirits than anything else. They had a year of catching up to do, and for the first time Barbara was really able to share with someone her poignant memories of Daniel and her own deeply buried feelings about his loss, and it helped. She began to wish she had made this trip much sooner, for there was no substitute for the confidence between sisters.
Almost as though sensing Barbara's need for her sister's restorative company, Kyle made an effort to put himself in the background for a while. He made a great show of grumbling and complaining about having nothing better to do than work, before retreating to his room with his typewriter every day, but Barbara was really rather glad to have the breathing space. Kyle's company was invigorating, but it was also a little disturbing, and she needed the time to put a few things about her life in perspective without the additional confusion of outside intervention.
As a result of Kate's preoccupation, Michael announced that he was able to make real progress on his book and expected to have it wrapped up within a few days. And also as a result of the two sisters' self-involving reunion, the housework had fallen slightly behind, for Kate was always able to find something more exciting to do than chores now that she had a reason for taking a vacation. The house had an overall neglected, slightly dusty look—"lived-in," Kate called it—and Barbara decided to use her free time in pursuit of a craft she really enjoyed: housekeeping.
She was not really certain where Michael and Kate had gone, but her sister had told her not to expect them back for lunch. In the morning she made the beds with fresh linen, dusted and vacuumed the upstairs, and gathered up the laundry and took it downstairs to the washing machine. As she went about the dusting and straightening downstairs, she could hear Kyle grumbling and swearing under his breath as he pecked at the typewriter with painful slowness, and she smiled to herself every time she passed the half-open door of his room. What he really needs, she thought, is a good typist.
On her last sweep of the front room before going to check the laundry, she decided to offer him a break. She knocked lightly on the door and as it swung open she inquired, "Do you want some lunch?"
He was sitting at the small desk, glowering at the paper that protruded from the manual typewriter before him. On the desk and floor surrounding him were crumpled balls of discarded paper—he had made no effort whatsoever to hit the trash can. His notes and reference books were similarly scattered in a random display from floor to desk, with sheets of carbon paper and paper clips only adding to the general disarray. His bed was unmade, closet doors and drawers were open, and clothes spilled in a tangled litter across the room. Glasses and coffee cups were perched on every unlikely surface from the window-sill to the floor beneath the bed.
He hardly glanced up when she spoke, so she stepped in, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "This place is a mess," she announced.
"So I'm not much of a housekeeper," he grumbled, jerking the paper out of the typewriter. "I always clean it up before I leave."
"If the rats don't beat you to it," she returned, bending to scoop some of the crumpled papers into the trash can. Automatically she began to gather up his clothes from the floor. "Do you want these washed?"
"I don't know," he replied absently, rolling a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter. "Are they dirty?"
She looked at him in exasperation. "Now, how in the world would I know?" she demanded. "They're your clothes!"
He looked at her, as though for the first time noticing she was there. Slowly his brow cleared as he took in her jeaned figure covered by Kate's denim work apron and topped with a blue bandanna over her curls, and he commented, "Say, you look kind of cute—the picture of domesticity. Do you do windows?"
She made a face at him and turned to go.
"Bobbie, wait."
When she turned again, the preoccupied scowl was back on his face, and he was studying a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Put those things down," he commanded. "The laundry can wait. Take a look at this."
As she hesitated he thrust the papers toward her. She dumped the clothes on a nearby chair and came over to him slowly, a doubtful frown disturbing her face. One thing she had learned from the years of living with Daniel and associating with his friends was never criticize a creative effort, no matter how much the artist begged, not if you wanted to keep a friend. She began, "Kyle, I don't really want to—"
But he insisted. "Just look at it," he demanded shortly. "That's all I ask. Just look."
Cautiously she took the papers and scanned them with a growing dread in the pit of her stomach, ever aware of his glare boring into her. She deliberately played for time, although she knew the project was hopeless after glancing over the first page. Filled with typographical errors, strike-throughs, inconsistencies, grammatical errors, and unfinished sentences, it made no sense whatsoever. She swallowed hard, twice, before returning the pages to him hesitantly.
"Well?" he demanded, glowering.
"Well…" She avoided his eyes. But she couldn't lie about something that bad. What did he expect from her, after all? He had written that mess, not she! "It's pitiful," she announced, and then quickly wished she had made a better choice of words. She could only add, "I'm sorry," and she turned quickly to make her escape, knowing Kyle would never forgive her and hating herself for being so cruel and the necessity for it.
But he stopped her with an impatient, "No, I mean, what do you think?"
She stared at him. His brows were still drawn together ominously, his lips tight, but now his frustration was directed at her, and not at the papers. She felt her own impatience mount. Could he possibly be so thick-headed? What did he want from her? Michael would have told him exactly the same thing.
"I mean," he clarified with an angry tone to his voice, "can you fix it?"
Her eyes widened in astonishment. "Fix it?" she demanded. "I don't even know what it's about!"
He made a sharp gesture that threatened to spill the papers on the floor; she stepped forward quickly to rescue them. "It's about houses," he explained shortly. "That is, not houses specifically, but designs and structure, more or less."
"No wonder your manuscript doesn't make any sense," she told him dryly. "Apparently even you don't know what you're talking about."
He glared at her. "Will you sit down and let me explain this to you?"
The corners of her mouth turned down as she debated. Then she decided, "It's your problem, okay? Just leave me out of it." She had already gotten herself into enough trouble by offering an unflattering opinion—no matter that it was asked.
"Get off your high horse and listen for a minute," he retorted. "It so happens that I am offering you a job."
Sh
e gaped at him in astonishment, and then decided to make light of it. "As what?" she retorted. "Your mistress or your housekeeper?"
That caused the perpetual frown on his features to smooth out into more relaxed lines. "I mean a paying job," he specified.
"Well," she returned thoughtfully, "I understood housekeepers made pretty good wages."
"My housekeepers," he returned, a mischievous spark in his eyes, "like my mistresses, have always been more interested in the fringe benefits."
She gave him a superior smile. "Your fringe benefits don't interest me in the least. And neither does your job. So if you'll excuse me…"
"Bobbie, I'm serious." He reached out a hand to detain her, the bantering smile replaced by the familiar worried scowl. "This thing is driving me up a wall. I know what I want to say, but I just don't have the patience to put it into words. If you'll just stay and let me outline it for you, then you can decide whether you're interested or not."
But she already knew she was not interested in working for Kyle—or with him. She silently cursed her sister for ever suggesting it. She said, as she hesitated in the doorway, "I don't want a job, thanks. I'm on vacation."
"Oh," he retorted. "Kate didn't mention her sister was independently wealthy."
Now it was her turn to frown. "That's not the point and you know it. I just don't want your job."
"How can you say that when you don't even know what it is?" he demanded. He added, "Ten percent of my royalty on every copy sold, or a cash fee in advance roughly equivalent. Take your pick. You couldn't ask for a fairer deal."
She hesitated, biting her underlip. He was really serious, and he seemed a little desperate. Then she suggested dryly, "Plus a cut on the movie rights?"
He grinned. "Plus movie rights. Now will you sit down?"
With his foot he hooked the rung of a chair and drew it up near the desk. After a moment she sat down.
"You told me the book was about your work," she said. "But you never told me what your work was. So far the only thing I know for sure is that you're not a writer."
"I'm an architect."
Twice in a Lifetime Page 6