“No, but you could have put on…I don’t know, something more…something less….”
Suddenly Victoria chuckled. “Which do you want?” she teased softly. “More or less?”
Tate glared at her. “Never mind. Wear whatever the hell you want.”
“If I’m bothering you, I’ll go back upstairs and change.”
“You’re not bothering me,” he denied.
She took a step closer to him. “Are you sure?”
She smelled like a summer garden, Tate thought idly, his senses reeling. Troubled brown eyes looked up at her.
“Damn you,” he muttered helplessly. “Come here.”
Victoria stood perfectly still. The laughter that had filled her eyes only a moment before had died, replaced with a smoky desire. She shook her head slowly, a soft, knowing, entirely feminine smile tilting the corners of her mouth.
“You come here,” she taunted.
Suddenly, with an agonized groan, Tate was out of his chair and pulling her into his arms. His lips burned against hers, demanding that they part, his tongue urgent in its quest for the tender, tentative touch of hers. His hands sought the bare skin at her waist and molded her body into his, relishing the way silk had turned to fire under his touch. Her hips instinctively tilted forward into the cradle of his, driving him nearly mad with longing. He wanted to take her right here in the middle of her kitchen. He wanted to rip that ridiculous outfit away from her body and expose every inch of flesh beneath it to his passion-sharpened gaze, to his hungry lips. He wanted to know that she was as crazy with this driving need as he was, to feel her responding to his lightest touch, crying out when the white-hot urgency of her arousal and desire matched his. He wanted…. Oh, Lord, he thought with a shuddering moan, he wanted her. He needed her.
“Victoria.” Her name was uttered as half groan, half sigh as his lips burned against her neck, his tongue a moist brand that seared her. Her fingers danced through the thickness of his hair, skimmed the tight, muscled flesh of his shoulders, setting off a trembling in him that excited her beyond belief. Gone was Tate’s intimidating self-control. Gone was that awesome straitlaced creature of habit, who seemed so far beyond her reach, so rigidly superhuman. This Tate was yielding, touchable and very, very human. In his arms, Victoria felt every inch a woman, a sensual, attractive woman who was all softness to his strength, all silk to his rougher denim.
Her skin was alive and tingling where his touch had branded her. Her lips burned against the hard, hair-roughened wall of his chest, and her tongue tentatively tasted flesh that was hot and damp from the fever of a passion she still couldn’t quite believe. Her probing fingers, her thrusting hips, her thirsting mouth urgently sought to bring him beyond the point of denying her what she wanted so desperately. She knew instinctively that there might come a point when reason would return, when Tate’s sensible nature would again seize control, and he would push her away, fighting against the pleasure they both wanted. She had to keep that from happening.
In the days they had been apart, she had made her decision. She knew that, if given another chance, she would take all that Tate had to offer for however long it lasted. She had forged a new strength to withstand any attempt he might make to change her. She believed with all her heart that she could have Tate, if she wanted him, without losing herself. If she wanted him…the words echoed distantly in her mind. Oh, yes, she wanted him, with every fiber of her being.
Her bare legs brushed against his thighs, against the hard evidence of his desire for her. She had worried that she might be a little frightened, a little tentative, when this moment finally came, but she wasn’t. She was ecstatic, aggressive. Her heart was filled with so much joy, she thought she might burst, and she seemed to know exactly what to do, exactly how to excite him.
“Tate…”
“Hmmm.” The low murmur barely interrupted the nearly unbearable, utterly sweet assault of his tongue on her aroused breast.
“Let’s go upstairs.”
“What’s upstairs?” he mumbled from a daze of sensual delight.
Victoria smiled softly at his bemused state. “The bedroom.”
“Bedroom?” He raised his head and his eyes widened, as though he had just realized where all of this was leading.
Sensing his slow return to sanity, Victoria stood on tiptoe and kissed him, dueling his tongue with her own, battling his sudden resistance. For a woman who’d never before seduced or been seduced—at least not successfully—she knew precisely how to work her will on him. In a matter of seconds, he was again moaning softly, holding her so tightly that her breasts crushed against his chest, her hips firmly in place against his seeking manhood. Even through two layers of clothing, hers and his, she could feel the heat, the throbbing need. There was no possible way he could pull away from her now.
Then the phone rang, and rang again, splintering the thick, passion-filled silence, shattering the moment of breathless insanity.
Chapter Eight
The phone is not ringing,” Tate mumbled determinedly, nibbling on Victoria’s ear.
She gasped as the moist, feather-light touch sent a series of shock waves tripping along her spine. She’d never before realized that an ear was sensitive to anything more than sound. To her utter amazement and delight, it turned out that hers seemed to be a highly excitable erogenous zone. Unfortunately, it could also still enable her to hear the phone ringing.
“Yes, it is,” Victoria countered, unable to keep a sigh of disappointment out of her voice. She’d been hoping to discover if her other ear was nearly as responsive as this one, and now she wouldn’t find out…at least not this morning. She might be a romantic, but she could also be realistic. Tate’s eyes might be glazed with passion right now, but his innate good sense was probably fluttering back to life. Passion could not stand up to a ringing phone, not after the fifth or sixth ring.
“Don’t answer it,” he urged, though his voice contained more hope than conviction.
Victoria gazed at him in feigned astonishment. “You actually want me to allow the phone to go on ringing? Shouldn’t you be lecturing me on being responsible? It might be a problem at the shop. It could be your office. Someone might be sick. I might have won a sweepstakes. The sky might be falling.”
“Or it could be your father has ESP.”
She patted his hand consolingly. “If he did, he’d be offering up a prayer of thanksgiving right now. You’re falling right in with his plans.”
“I doubt that. Unless he’s anxious to try out his shotgun.” Tate muttered, running his fingers through his hair. “Oh, answer the damn thing. The ringing is getting on my nerves.”
“Don’t get testy. I’m sure it’s not anything personal. Whoever’s calling couldn’t possibly know that we were about to,” her voice faltered and she blushed. “Do whatever it was we were about to do.”
He chuckled at her sudden confusion.
“Don’t laugh at me,” she grumbled, as she snatched up the receiver. “I’m not in the habit of doing this.”
“Thank goodness,” he said fervently, sighing and pulling her back into his arms.
Victoria scowled at him as she muttered into the phone, “Hello.” She winced at her tone; it was not her most pleasant. Not that it seemed to faze her caller, who hit her with a barrage of interested questions, then didn’t even pause long enough for answers. It was just as well. With Tate’s fingers now doing an erotic little dance across her stomach, Victoria was swept right back into a sensual daze that excluded the world and more mundane sensations. She barely heard the questions.
“What took you so long? You weren’t still asleep, were you? Were you taking a bath? Oh, never mind. I just wanted to let you know I’d be by to pick you up in ten minutes.”
There was a pause, and Victoria finally realized some sort of response was expected. She murmured distractedly, “Who is this?”
“What do you mean who is this?” The voice was thick with righteous indignation. “It’s Je
annie. What’s the matter with you?”
“Jeannie?”
“Jeannie?” Tate echoed, his brows lifting. “I should have known.”
“Hush,” Victoria hissed.
“What’s going on over there, Victoria Marshall? Tell the truth. Remember, this is Jeannie. Your best friend. The friend who has read your diary and knows every one of your innermost secrets.” She paused for added emphasis, then added significantly, “The friend who can read your mind.”
I hope not, Victoria thought, suddenly tugging her blouse closed and trying to wriggle out of Tate’s grasp. It seemed indecent somehow to have him kissing her, touching her so intimately, while her best friend was on the other end of the phone. Jeannie might not yet know this particular innermost secret, but she would definitely know something very peculiar was going on.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized quickly. “I was just, umm, a little preoccupied.” Tate drew her right back onto his lap and brushed his lips across the swell of pale skin revealed by the plunging V neck of her still-unbuttoned blouse. Tiny sparks sizzled straight through her, all the way down to her toes and Victoria couldn’t help it: she gasped and then blushed furiously.
“Victoria Ann Marshall! Is someone with you? Is that what this is all about?” Jeannie was obviously too perceptive for her own good. She sounded pleased and very smug about her guess.
“If you’ve got something better to do, we can forget about the fair,” she offered generously with a low, significant chuckle in her voice. Victoria wanted to strangle her. Or Tate. Or maybe both of them.
“Tell her yes,” Tate was saying.
“Yes.” She glared at him. “I mean no. What fair?”
“Never mind. Why don’t I call you tomorrow?”
“No,” she repeated adamantly, ignoring Tate’s dismayed groan. It was ironic that her good sense had returned long before his had. She’d never even been aware that she had any. “What fair are you talking about?”
“The crafts fair,” Jeannie explained patiently. “But don’t worry about it. I can handle it alone.”
“No. I’ll help. I promised,” Victoria said stoutly, a twinge of regret evident in her voice.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Maybe it was better this way, she thought, though at the moment she couldn’t quite convince herself of that. Even if making love with Tate would be the mistake of a lifetime, she wanted to experience it. She had this awful feeling deep down inside that if they took more time to think about it, it would never happen. They’d both realize that there was no future for two people who were so incredibly mismatched. Her head believed that. Her heart wanted like crazy to believe that her head was wrong.
“Ten minutes then?” Jeannie was saying.
Tate’s relentless fingers captured a nipple and a flash fire of blazing heat tore through her. “Make it a half hour,” she said breathlessly.
Tate shook his head. “Not nearly enough,” he whispered, as she hung up the phone.
“That’s all we have, and I’m going to spend most of it taking a bath,” she said briskly, absolutely amazed that she was apparently going to go upstairs, get dressed and walk right out of this house, when what she really wanted to do was throw herself straight back into Tate’s arms. She must have a screw loose, just as he—and everyone else with the possible exception of her parents—seemed to think.
“With me?” he asked hopefully.
She grinned and shook her head sadly. “Not a good idea.”
“Then you’d better make it a cold shower.”
“Very funny.”
Tate followed her up the stairs and sat down on the edge of her bed. Strangely, Victoria didn’t feel the least bit uncomfortable about having him sitting there watching her as she got her clothes together. It was as though he belonged in this room, as though he’d been doing just this for years and years…as though they were married? The unexpected and all-too-pleasant thought sent a little tingle of excitement rippling through her. It was followed by a sharp stab of disappointment. It will never happen, she told herself. Be honestly realistic for once in your life, even if it hurts like hell. Tate McAndrews might be willing to have a fling with you because you’re an attractive oddity in his life, but that will be the end of it. He’ll marry a member of some country club who wears a cashmere sweater set, a double strand of pearls and a tiny hat with a little veil as she struts off to spend the afternoon analyzing the stock market.
“What am I supposed to do, while you’re at this crafts thing?” He sounded exactly like a kid left alone on a rainy day.
“You could come with me.”
“And spend the day checking out pot holders and carved hunting decoys? No way.”
“Then you can stick around and fix the window or do whatever it was you planned on doing when you came up here with all that stuff.”
“I’m not sure I like the options.”
“You’re the one who showed up without calling first.”
“I thought you wanted me to learn to be more impulsive.”
“I do,” she said, brushing a kiss across his lips as she passed by on her way to the bathroom. “One of the first things you learn when you do the unexpected is that it may not turn out exactly the way you expected.”
Tate blinked at her uncomprehendingly. “What? How can you use those words in the same sentence like that? No wonder you never make any sense.”
“I make perfect sense. You just haven’t figured out how to listen to me.”
Tate stared at the bathroom door, then stood up and began absentmindedly straightening out the sheets. “There’s a special way I have to listen, too?” He shook his head as he fluffed the pillows and put them neatly into place. “I’ll never figure this out.”
“Of course you will.” Victoria opened the door and poked her head out. “But you’re too analytical. You need to listen with your heart.”
“Right now my heart is telling me that it would give anything to be behind that door with you.”
“That’s not your heart. That’s your hormones.”
“Maybe you ought to come back in here and give me a lesson in anatomy.”
“Forget it, McAndrews. I gave up being a teacher,” she retorted tartly. “Buy a book.”
“I don’t think a book will teach me the same lessons.”
“Sure it will,” she said, coming back into the room in another of her long skirts, this one a soft, silky green, and a scoop-necked blouse edged with multicolored rows of embroidery. “It just won’t be as much fun.” She looked from him to the bed, her eyes widening in surprise. “You made the bed.”
Tate shrugged. “I needed to do something with my hands, since you weren’t around.”
“If you get bored while I’m gone, you could do the ironing,” she suggested dryly, giving him a dazzling smile as she picked up her brush and drew it through a tangle of red hair.
“I didn’t drive up here to play maid for you,” he grumbled.
Victoria stopped brushing her hair and turned around and faced him, her expression puzzled. “Tate, why did you really come up here?” she asked slowly.
“I told you. I wanted to help you fix this place up.”
She studied him intently. “Maybe,” she said thoughtfully.
“What does that mean?”
“That might be part of it, but it’s certainly not all.” She shook her head sadly. “You still can’t admit it, can you?”
“Admit what?” His expression was thoroughly bewildered.
“That you wanted to see me.”
He coughed at her outspoken, thoroughly accurate remark. “Well…”
“Why is it so difficult for you to say it? Is it because you know as well as I do that this thing that seems to be happening between us is absurd?”
“It’s true,” he admitted regretfully. “We’re not very well suited.”
“No. We’re not,” she agreed candidly.
“Then why do I want to go on seeing you?” He so
unded so confused and forlorn, Victoria almost wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him, but she knew exactly where that would lead. Suited or not, the chemistry between them was so volatile it made dynamite seem tamer than a Fourth of July sparkler. It could flare up with a mere look, much less an intimate caress.
“Because you want to get me into bed?” she suggested, watching his reaction in the mirror.
For a minute, Tate looked absolutely horrified. Then he looked guilty. Then he grinned. “Maybe you’re right.”
And wouldn’t it be wonderful if she were? he thought. Maybe all it would take to stop this obsession would be one simple act of passion. He gazed at Victoria and recalled exactly how he had felt when she’d been in his arms. He’d been excited, yes, but more than that he’d wanted to hold her, protect her, cherish her. He’d never felt that way about a woman before. Most of the women he knew could take perfectly good care of themselves. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew those unexpectedly protective feelings he had about Victoria wouldn’t go away once they’d made love. If anything, they’d deepen until he was caught up in a tangled web of desire and caring.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Victoria was saying triumphantly, and he wanted to warn her that she didn’t have the vaguest idea what she was talking about, that this wasn’t nearly as simple as she wanted to believe. This was no time to be starting a serious discussion like that, though, not with Jeannie—of the big heart, rotten cash flow and even lousier timing—about to pull into the driveway at any moment.
“Looks to me like we’re not getting anywhere,” he retorted, trying to keep his tone lightly teasing. “You’re leaving.”
“But I’ll be back.”
“And then?”
She sighed. “And then…I don’t know.” She looked him squarely in the eye and added softly, “Maybe we should both do some thinking about that, while I’m gone.”
When she walked out of the bedroom, Tate stared after her in disbelief. Apparently, she did understand after all. She had realized that there were a lot of unanswered questions for the two of them, and she was as confused as he was about where or how to find the answers. Somehow that tiny sign of her own struggle with all of this reassured him tremendously. Not that he had the slightest idea why, he thought with a sigh.
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