Daring Moves

by Linda Lael Miller

  Jordan was offended initially, but then his ire gave way to a sort of indignant resignation. “Okay,” he admitted, “you’ve got me. I wanted you to spend next weekend with us because I need moral support.”

  Amanda went back to the kitchen for plates and silverware, then began to set the small, round table in the living room. “You know my phone number,” she said. “If you want moral support, you can call me. But you don’t need somebody else in the way when you’re bonding with your kids, Jordan.”

  “Bonding? Hell, you’ve been reading too many pop psychology books.”

  “You have a right to your opinion,” Amanda responded, “but I’m not going to be there to act as a buffer. You’re on your own with this one, buddy.”

  Jordan gave her an irate look, but then his expression softened and he took her in his arms. “Maybe I can’t change your mind,” he told her huskily, “but I can sure as hell let you know what you’ll be missing.”

  Amanda pushed him away. “The chicken will burn.”

  Jordan chuckled. “Okay, Mandy, you win. For now.”

  Twenty minutes later they sat down to a dinner of fried chicken, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes and gravy. Amanda’s portable TV set was turned to the evening news, and the ambience of the evening was quietly domestic.

  When they were through eating, Amanda began clearing the table, only to have Jordan stop her by slipping his arms around her waist from behind. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked, his voice a low rumble as he bent his head to kiss her nape and sent a jagged thrill swirling through her system.

  “W-what?” Amanda asked, already a little breathless.

  Jordan slid his hands up beneath her shirt to cup the undersides of her breasts. “Dessert,” he answered.

  Amanda was trembling. “Jordan, the food—”

  “The food will still be here when we’re through.”

  “No, it won’t,” Amanda argued, following her protest with a little moan as Jordan unfastened her bra and rubbed her nipples to attention with the sides of his thumbs. “G-Gershwin will eat it.”

  His lips were on her nape again. “Who cares?”

  Amanda realized that she didn’t. She turned in Jordan’s embrace and tilted her head back for his kiss.

  While taming her mouth, he grasped her hips in his hands and pressed her close, making her feel his size and power.

  She was dazed when he drew back, pliant when he steered her toward the bedroom and closed the door behind them.

  The small room was shadowy, the bed neatly made. Jordan set Amanda on the edge of the mattress and knelt to slowly untie her shoes and roll down her socks. For a time he caressed her feet, one by one, and Amanda was surprised at the sensual pleasure such a simple act could evoke.

  When she was tingling from head to foot, he rose and pulled her shirt off over her head, then smoothed away the bra he’d already opened. He pressed Amanda onto her back to unsnap her jeans and remove them and her panties, and she didn’t make a move to stop him. All she could do was sigh.

  After the last of her garments was tossed away, Jordan began removing his own clothes. They joined Amanda’s in a pile on the floor.

  “Jordan,” Amanda whispered, entwining her fingers in his hair as he stretched out beside her, “don’t make me wait. Please.”

  He gave her a nibbling kiss. “So impatient,” he scolded sleepily, trailing his lips down over her chin to her neck. “Lovemaking takes time, Mandy. Especially if it’s good.”

  Amanda remembered their session in Jordan’s living room the day before. It had been fast and ferocious, and if it had been any better, it would have killed her. She moaned as Jordan made a slow, silken circle on her belly with his hand. “I can only stand so much pleasure!” she whimpered in a lame protest.

  Jordan chuckled. “We’re going to have to raise your tolerance,” he said.

  Two hours later, when both Jordan and Amanda were showered and dressed and the table had been cleared, he reached for his jacket and shrugged into it. Amanda had to fight back tears when he kissed her, as well as pleas for him to spend the night. On a practical, rational level, she knew they both needed to let things cool down a little so they could get some perspective.

  But when she’d closed the door behind Jordan, Amanda rested her forehead against it for a long moment and bit down hard on her lower lip. It was all she could do not to run out into the hallway and call him back.

  Slowly she turned from the door and went about her usual Sunday night routine, choosing the outfits she would wear to work during the coming week, manicuring her nails and watching a mystery program on TV.

  The bed was rumpled, and it still smelled of Jordan’s cologne and their fevered lovemaking. Forlornly Amanda remade it and crawled under the covers, the small TV she kept in her room turned to her favorite show.

  Two minutes after that week’s victim had been done in, the telephone rang. Hoping for a call from the real estate agent or from Jordan, Amanda reached for the receiver on her bedside table and answered on the second ring.

  “Amanda?”

  The voice was Eunice’s, and she sounded as though she’d been crying for a week.

  Amanda spoke gently to her sister, because they’d always been close. “Hi, kid,” she said, for she was the older of the two and Eunice had been “kid” since she was born. “What’s the problem?”

  “It’s Jim,” Eunice sobbed.

  Now there’s a real surprise, Amanda thought ruefully while she waited for her sister to recover herself.

  “There’s been someone else the whole time,” Eunice wept, making a valiant, sniffling attempt to get a hold on herself.

  Amanda was painfully reminded of what Madge Brockman had gone through because of her. “Are you sure?” she asked gently.

  “She called this afternoon,” Eunice said. “She said if Jim wouldn’t tell me, she would. He’s moved in with her!”

  For a moment Amanda knew a pure, white-hot rage entirely directed at her soon-to-be ex-brother-in-law. Since her anger wouldn’t help Eunice in any way, she counted to herself until the worst of it had passed. “Honey, this doesn’t look like something you can change. And that means you have to accept it.”

  Eunice was quiet for almost a minute. “I guess you’re right,” she admitted softly. “I’ll try, Amanda.”

  “I know you will,” Amanda replied, wishing she could be nearer to her sister to lend moral support.

  “Mom tells me you’ve met a guy.” Eunice snuffled. “That’s really great, Mand. What’s he like?”

  Amanda remembered making love with Jordan on the very bed she was lying in, and a wave of heat rolled over her. She also remembered the photograph of Becky and the white strip of skin on Jordan’s left hand ring finger. “He’s moderately terrific,” she answered demurely.

  Eunice laughed, and it was a good sound to hear. “Maybe I can meet him when I come home next week.”

  “I’d like that,” Amanda replied. “And I’m glad you’re coming home. How long can you stay?”

  “Perhaps forever,” Eunice replied, sounding blue again. “Everywhere I turn here, there’s another reminder of Jim staring me in the face.”

  Amanda spoke gently. “Don’t misunderstand me, sis, because I’d love for you to live in Seattle again, but I hope you realize you can’t run away from your problems. You’ll still have to find a way to work them out.”

  “That might be easier with you and Mom and Bob nearby,” Eunice said quietly.

  “You know we’ll help in any way we can,” Amanda assured her.

  “Yeah, I know. It means the world to know you’re there for me, Mand—you and Mom and Daddy Bob. But listen, I’ll get off the line now because I know you’re probably trying to watch that murder show you like so much. See you next week.”

  Amanda smiled. “You just try and avoid it, kid.”

  After that, the two sisters said their goodbyes and hung up. Amanda, having lost track of her TV show, switched off the se
t and the lamp on her bedside table and wriggled down between the covers.

  How empty the bed seemed without Jordan sprawled out beside her, taking more than his share of the space.

  Two days passed before Amanda saw Jordan again; they met for lunch in a hotel restaurant.

  “Did you ever hear from the real estate agent?” Jordan asked, drawing back Amanda’s chair for her.

  She sank into it, inordinately relieved just to be with him again. She wondered, with a chill, if she wasn’t letting herself in for a major bruise to the soul somewhere down the line. “She called me at work yesterday. The down payment is five times what I have in the bank.”

  Jordan sat down across from her and reached out for her hand, which she willingly gave. “Mandy, I can lend you the money with no problem.”

  “You must be loaded,” Amanda teased, having no intention of accepting, “if you can make an offer like that without even knowing how much is involved.”

  He grinned one of his melting grins. “I confess—I called the agency and asked.”

  Amanda shook out her napkin and placed it neatly on her lap. It was time to change the subject. “Who’s going to take care of the kids while you’re working?” she asked.

  “Much to the consternation of Striner and Striner,” said Jordan, “I’m taking two weeks off. I figure I’m going to need all my wits about me.”

  Amanda laughed. “No doubt about that.”

  Jordan leaned forward in his chair with a look of mock reprimand on his face. “I’ll thank you to extend a little sympathy, here, Ms. Scott. You’re looking at a man who has no idea how to take care of two little girls.”

  “They need to eat three times a day, Jordan,” Amanda pointed out with teasing patience, “and it’s a good idea if they have a bath at night, followed by about eight hours of sleep. Beyond that, they mainly just need to know they’re loved.”

  Jordan was turning his table knife from end to end. “You’re sure you won’t come out for the weekend?”

  “My sister is arriving on Friday night—in pieces, from the sounds of things.”

  “Ah,” Jordan answered as a waiter brought menus and filled their water glasses. “The recipient of Gathering Up the Pieces, the pop psychology book of the decade. I’m sorry to hear things haven’t improved for her.”

  Amanda sighed. “They’ve gone from bad to worse, actually,” she replied. “But there’s hope. Eunice is intelligent, and she’s attractive, too. She’ll work through this.”

  “Maybe she could work through the first part of it—say next Saturday and Sunday—without you?”

  Amanda shook her head as she opened her menu. “Don’t you ever give up?”

  “Never,” Jordan replied. “It’s my credo—keep bugging them until they give in to shut you up.”

  Amanda laughed. “Such sage advice.”

  They made their selections and placed their orders before the conversation continued. Jordan reached out and took Amanda’s hand again when the waiter was gone.

  “I’ve missed you a whole lot.”

  “Then how come you didn’t call?”

  “I’ve been in meetings day and night, Amanda. Besides, I figured if I heard your voice, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from walking into your office and taking you on your desk.”

  Amanda’s cheeks burned, but she knew her eyes were sparkling. “Jordan,” she protested in a whisper, “this is a public place.”

  “That’s why you’re not lying on the table with your skirt up around your waist,” Jordan answered with a perfectly straight face.

  “You have to be the most arrogant man I’ve ever met,” Amanda told him, but a smile hovered around her mouth. She couldn’t very well deny that Jordan could make her do extraordinary things.

  The waiter returned with their seafood salads, sparing Jordan from having to answer. His reply probably would have been cocky, anyway, Amanda figured.

  The conversation had turned to more conventional subjects, when Madge Brockman suddenly appeared beside the table. There was a look of infinite strain in her face as she assessed Amanda, then Jordan.

  Amanda braced herself, having no idea whether to expect a civil greeting or violent recriminations. “Hello, Mrs. Brockman,” she said as Jordan pushed back his chair to stand. “I’d like you to meet Jordan Richards.”

  “Do sit down,” Madge Brockman said when she and Jordan had shaken hands.

  Jordan remained standing. “How is your husband?” he asked, knowing Amanda wouldn’t dare ask.

  “He’s recovering,” Madge replied with a sigh. “And he’s adamant about wanting a divorce.”

  “I’m sorry,” Amanda said softly.

  The older woman managed a faulty smile. “I’ll get over it, I guess. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m supposed to meet my attorney, and I see him sitting right over there.”

  Jordan dropped back into his chair when Mrs. Brockman had walked away. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Amanda pushed her salad away. Even though she’d done it inadvertently, she was partly responsible for destroying Mrs. Brockman’s marriage, and the knowledge was shattering. “No,” she answered. “I’m not okay.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Amanda.”

  There it was again, that strange clairvoyance of his.

  “Yes, it was—part of it, at least. I didn’t even bother to ask if James was married. And now look what’s happening.”

  Jordan gave a ragged sigh. Apparently his appetite had fled, too, for he set down his fork and sank back in his chair, one hand to his chin.

  “The man’s marital status wouldn’t have made a difference to a lot of women, you know,” he remarked. “For instance, you’re the first one I’ve dated who’s asked me whether I was married.”

  “Okay, so infidelity is widespread. So is cocaine addiction. That doesn’t make either of them right.”

  Jordan raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t saying it did, Mandy. My point is, you’re being too damn hard on yourself. So you made a mistake. Welcome to the human race.”

  Amanda met Jordan’s gaze. “Were you faithful to Becky?” she asked, having no idea why it was suddenly so important to know. But it was.

  “That’s none of your damn business,” Jordan retorted politely, making a steeple under his chin with his hands, “but I’ll answer, anyway. I was true to my wife, and she was true to me.”

  Amanda had known, in some corner of her heart, that Jordan was a man of his word, and she believed him. “Were you ever tempted?”

  “About a thousand times,” he replied. “But there’s a difference between thinking about something and doing it, Mandy. Now, do you want to ask me about my bank balance or my tax return? Or maybe how I voted in the last election?”

  Amanda smiled. “You’ve made your point, Mr. Richards. I’m being nosy. But I’m glad you were faithful to Becky.”

  “So am I,” Jordan said, as by tacit agreement they rose to go. “When am I going to see you again, Mandy?”

  Amanda held off answering until the bill was paid and they were walking down the sidewalk, wending their way through hordes of Christmas shoppers. “When do you want to see me?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “You could come to dinner tonight.”

  “Amanda Scott, you have a silver tongue. I’ll bring the wine and the food, so don’t cook.”

  Amanda’s smile was born deep inside her, and it took its time reaching her mouth. “Seven?”

  “Eight,” Jordan said as they stopped in front of the Evergreen Hotel. “I have a meeting, and it might run late.”

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss him briefly. “I’ll be waiting, Mr. Richards.”

  He grinned as he rubbed a tendril of her hair between his fingers. “Good,” he answered.

  His voice made Amanda’s knees quiver beneath her green suede skirt.

  When Amanda reached her desk, there was a message waiting for her. In a flash, work—and Jordan—fled her uppermost thoughts. The hospital
had called about James, and the matter was urgent.

  Amanda’s fingers trembled as she reached for the panel of buttons on her telephone. She punched out the numbers written on the message slip and, when an operator answered, asked for the designated extension.

  “Intensive Care,” a sunny voice said when the call was put through. “This is Betsy Andrews.”

  Amanda sank into her desk chair, a terrible headache throbbing beneath her temples. “My name is Amanda Scott,” she said in a voice that sounded surprisingly crisp and professional. “I received a message asking me to call about Mr. Brockman.”

  There was a short silence while the nurse checked her records. “Yes. Mr. Brockman isn’t doing very well, Ms. Scott. And he’s constantly asking for you.”

  Amanda closed her eyes and rubbed one temple with her fingertips. She’d broken up with James long ago, and had refused his gifts and his requests for a reconciliation. When was it going to be over? “I see.”

  “His wife has explained the—er—situation to us,” the nurse went on, “but Mr. Brockman still insists on seeing you.”

  “What is his doctor’s recommendation?”

  “It was his idea that we call you. We all feel that, well, maybe Mr. Brockman would calm down if he could just have a short visit from you.”

  Amanda glanced at her watch. Her headache was so intense that the numbers blurred. “I could stop by briefly after work.” James had won this round. Under the circumstances, there was no way she could refuse to visit him. “That would be about six o’clock.”

  Betsy Andrews sounded relieved. “I’ll be off duty then, but I’ll make a note in the record and tell Mr. Brockman you’ll be coming in.”

  “Thank you,” Amanda said with a defeated sigh. Once she’d hung up, she reached for the phone again, planning to call Jordan, but her hand fell back to the desk. She was a grown woman, and this was her problem, not Jordan’s. She couldn’t go running to him every time some difficulty came up.

  Pulling open her desk drawer, Amanda took out a bottle of aspirin, shook two tablets into her palm and swallowed them with water from the tap in her bathroom. Then she rolled up her sleeves and did her best to concentrate on her work.