And she wouldn’t mind using his hot body. “Go ahead. I have to get back to work.” As Molly rushed toward the loft, she found herself remembering what Phoebe had once said to her.
When you’re raised as we were, Moll, casual sex is a snake pit. We need a love that’s soul-deep, and I’m here to testify that you don’t find it by bed-hopping.
Although Molly had never bed-hopped, she knew that Phoebe was right. Except what was a twenty-seven-year-old woman with a healthy body, but no soul-deep love, supposed to do? If only Kevin had acted shallow and stupid on their walk… but he hadn’t talked about football once. Instead, they’d talked about books, living in Chicago, and their mutual passion for This Is Spinal Tap.
She couldn’t concentrate on Daphne, so she flipped open her laptop to work on “Making Out—How Far to Go?” The subject depressed her even more.
By her junior year at Northwestern she’d grown sick of waiting for her Great Love Story to come along, so she’d decided to forget about soul-deep love and settle for soul-deep caring with a boy she’d been dating for a month. But losing her virginity had been a mistake. The affair had left her depressed, and she knew that Phoebe had been right. She wasn’t made for casual sex.
A few years later she’d convinced herself she finally cared enough about a man to try again. He’d been intelligent and charming, but the wrenching sadness following the affair had taken months to fade.
She’d had a number of boyfriends since then, but no lovers, and she’d done her best to sublimate her sex drive with hard work and good friends. Chastity might be old-fashioned, but sex was an emotional quagmire for a woman who hadn’t known love until she was fifteen. So why did she keep thinking about it, especially with Kevin Tucker in the house?
Because she was only human, and the Stars quarterback was a delectable piece of body candy, a walking aphrodisiac, a grown-up toy boy. She moaned, glared at her keyboard, and forced herself to concentrate.
At five she heard him leave the house. By seven “Making Out—How Far to Go?” was nearly done. Unfortunately, the subject had left her edgy and more than a little aroused. She called Janine, but her friend wasn’t home, so she went down-stairs and stared at herself in the small kitchen mirror. It was too late for the stores to be open, or she could have run out for hair color. Maybe she’d just cut it. That crew cut a few years ago hadn’t been so bad.
She was lying to herself. It had been horrible.
She grabbed a Lean Cuisine instead of the scissors and ate at the kitchen counter. Afterward she dug the marshmallows out of a carton of Rocky Road ice cream. Finally she grabbed her drawing pad and settled in front of the fireplace to sketch. But she hadn’t slept well, and before long her lids grew heavy. Kevin’s arrival sometime after midnight made her bolt up.
“Hey, Daphne.”
She rubbed her eyes. “Hello, Karl.”
He hung his coat on the back of a chair. It reeked of perfume. “This thing needs to air out.”
“I’ll say.” Jealousy gnawed at her. While she’d been drooling over Kevin’s body and obsessing about her own hangups, she’d ignored one important fact: He hadn’t shown the slightest interest in her. “You must have been busy,” she said. “It smells like more than one brand. All of them domestic, or did you find an au pair somewhere?”
“I wasn’t that lucky. The women were unfortunately American, and they all talked too much.” His pointed look said she did, too.
“And I’ll bet lots of the words had more than one syllable, so you probably have a headache.” She needed to stop this. He wasn’t nearly as dumb as she wanted him to be, and if she didn’t watch herself, he was going to figure out exactly how much interest she took in his personal life.
He looked more aggravated than angry. “I happen to like to relax when I’m on a date. I don’t want to debate world politics or discuss global warming or be forced to listen to people with unpredictable personal hygiene recite bad poetry.”
“Gee, and those are all my favorite things.”
He shook his head, then rose and stretched, lengthening that lean body vertebra by vertebra. He was already bored with her. Probably because she hadn’t entertained him by reciting his career statistics.
“I’d better turn in,” he said. “I’m taking off first thing tomorrow, so if I don’t see you, thanks for the hospitality.”
She managed a yawn. “Ciao, babycakes.” She knew he had to get back for practice, but that didn’t ease her disappointment.
He smiled. “Night, Daphne.”
She watched him mount the stairs, the denim tightening around those lean legs, molding his narrow hips, muscles rippling beneath his T-shirt.
Oh, God, she was drooling! And she was Phi Beta Kappa!
She was also aching and restless, blazingly dissatisfied with everything in her life.
“Damn it!” She knocked her sketch pad to the floor, jumped to her feet, and made a beeline for the bathroom to stare at her hair. She was going to shave it off!
No! She didn’t want to be bald, and this time she wouldn’t let herself act crazy.
She moved purposefully to the video center and pulled out the remake of The Parent Trap. Her inner child loved watching the twins get their parents back together, and her outer child loved Dennis Quaid’s smile.
Kevin had that same crooked smile.
Resolutely, she took his game film from the VCR, put in The Parent Trap, and settled back to watch.
By two o’clock in the morning, Hallie and Annie had reunited their parents, but Molly was more restless than ever. She began surfing through old movies and infomercials, only to pause as she heard the familiar theme song of the old show, Lace, Inc.
“Lace is on the case, oh yeah… Lace can solve the case, oh yeah…” Two beautiful women ran across the screen, the sexy detectives Sable Drake and Ginger Hill.
Lace, Inc. had been one of Molly’s favorite shows as a child. She’d wanted to be Sable, the smart brunette, played by actress Mallory McCoy. Ginger was the redheaded sexpot karate expert. Lace, Inc. had been a jiggle show, but Molly hadn’t cared about that. She’d simply enjoyed watching women beat up the bad guys for a change.
The opening credits showed Mallory McCoy first, then Lilly Sherman, who’d played Ginger Hill. Molly sat up straighter as she remembered a fragment of conversation she’d once overheard at Stars headquarters indicating that Lilly Sherman had some sort of connection with Kevin. She hadn’t wanted anyone to know she was interested, so she didn’t ask any questions. She studied the actress more carefully.
She wore her trademark tight pants, tube top, and high heels. Her long red hair curled around her shoulders, and her eyes batted seductively at the camera. Even with a dated hairstyle and big gold hoop earrings, she was a knockout.
Sherman must be in her forties by now, surely a little old to be one of Kevin’s women, so what was their connection? A photograph she’d seen of the actress a few years ago showed that she’d gained weight since the television show. She was still a beautiful woman, though, so it was possible they’d had a fling.
Molly stabbed the remote, and a cosmetics commercial came on. Maybe that’s what she needed. A complete makeover.
She flipped off the TV and headed upstairs. Somehow she didn’t think a makeover would fix what was wrong with her.
After a hot shower she slipped into one of the Irish linen nightgowns she’d bought when she was rich. It still made her feel like a heroine in a Georgette Heyer novel. She carried her notepad to bed so she could think more about Daphne, but the surge of creativity she’d experienced that afternoon had vanished.
Roo snored softly at the foot of the bed. Molly told herself she was getting sleepy. She wasn’t.
Maybe she could finish polishing her article, but as she made her way to the loft to get her laptop, she glanced into the guest bathroom. It had two doors—the one she was standing in and a second one across from it that led directly into the bedroom where he slept. That door was ajar.
She saw a Louis Vuitton shaving kit sitting on the counter. She couldn’t imagine Kevin buying it for himself, so it must have been a gift from one of his international beauties. She moved closer and saw a red toothbrush with crisp white bristles. He’d put the cap back on the tube of Aquafresh.
She brushed her fingertip over the lid of a column of deodorant, then reached for a frosted glass bottle of very expensive aftershave. She unscrewed the stopper and drew it to her nose. Did it smell like Kevin? He wasn’t one of those men who drowned himself in cologne, and she hadn’t gotten close enough to know for sure, but something familiar about the scent made her close her eyes and inhale more deeply. She shivered and set it down, then glanced into the open shaving kit.
Lying next to a bottle of ibuprofen and a tube of Neosporin was Kevin’s Super Bowl ring. She knew he’d earned it in the early days of his career as Cal Bonner’s backup. It surprised her to see a championship ring tossed so carelessly in the bottom of a shaving kit, but then everything she knew about Kevin said he wouldn’t want to wear a ring that had been earned when someone else was in charge.
She began to move away, only to pause as she saw what else lay in the shaving kit.
A condom.
No big deal. Of course he’d carry condoms with him. He probably had a whole crate of them. She picked it up and studied it. It seemed to be an ordinary condom. So why was she staring at it?
This was insane! All day she’d been acting like a woman obsessed. If she didn’t pull herself together, she’d be boiling a bunny just like crazy Glenn Close.
She winced. Sorry, Daphne.
One peek. That was it. She’d just take one peek at him sleeping and then she’d leave.
She moved toward the bedroom door and slowly pushed it open.
Chapter 3
Late that night Daphne sneaked into Benny’s badger den with the scary Halloween mask fastened around her head…
Daphne Plants a Pumpkin Patch
A dim wedge of light from the hallway fell across the carpet. Molly could make out a large shape beneath the bedcovers. Her heart hammered with the excitement of the forbidden. She took a tentative step inside.
The same dangerous energy shot through her that she’d felt when she was seventeen, right before she’d pulled the fire alarm. She moved closer. Just one look and then she’d leave.
He lay on his side, turned away from her. The sound of his breathing was deep and slow. She remembered old Westerns where the gunslinger woke up at the slightest sound, and she envisioned a rumple-haired Kevin pointing a Colt .45 at her belly.
She’d pretend she was sleepwalking.
He’d left his shoes on the floor, and she pushed one of them aside with her foot. It made a slight rustle as it brushed over the carpet, but he didn’t move. She pushed aside its mate, but he didn’t react to that either. So much for the Colt .45.
Her palms grew damp. She rubbed them on her gown. Then she bumped ever so gently against the end of the bed.
He was dead to the world.
Now that she knew what he looked like asleep, she’d leave.
She tried to, but her feet took her to the other side of the bed instead, where she could see his face.
Andrew slept like this. Fireworks could explode next to her nephew, and he wouldn’t stir. But Kevin Tucker didn’t look at all like Andrew. She took in his amazing profile—strong forehead, angled cheekbones, and straight, perfectly proportioned nose. He was a football player, so he must have broken it a few times, but there was no bump.
This was a terrible invasion of his privacy. Inexcusable. But as she gazed down at his rumpled dark blond hair, she could barely resist brushing it back from his brow.
One perfectly sculpted shoulder rose above the covers. She wanted to lick it.
That’s it! She’d lost her mind. And she didn’t care.
The condom was still in her hand and Kevin Tucker lay under the blankets—naked, if that bare shoulder was any indication. What if she crawled in with him?
It was unthinkable.
But who would know? He might not even wake up. And if he did? He’d be the last person to tell the world he’d been with the owner’s oversexed sister.
Her heart was beating so fast she was lightheaded. Was she really thinking about doing this?
There’d be no emotional aftermath. How could there be when she didn’t harbor even the illusion of a soul-deep love? As for what he’d think of her… He was used to having women throw themselves at him, so he’d hardly be surprised.
She could see the fire alarm hanging on the wall right in front of her, and she told herself not to touch it. But her hands tingled, and her breath came fast and shallow. She’d run out of willpower. She was tired of her restlessness, her twitchy feet. Tired of mutilating her hair because she didn’t know how to fix herself. Fed up from too many years trying to be perfect. Her skin was damp with desire and a growing sense of horror as she watched herself slide off her bunny slippers.
Put those right back on!
But she didn’t. And the fire alarm clanged in her head.
She reached for the hem of her nightgown… pulled it over her head… stood naked and trembling. Appalled, she watched her fingers curl around the covers and tug. Even as the blankets fell back, she told herself she wasn’t going to do it. But her breasts were tingling, her body crying out with need.
She set her hip on the mattress, then slowly slipped her legs beneath the covers. Oh, God, she was really doing this. She was naked, and she’d climbed into bed with Kevin Tucker.
Who let out a soft snore and rolled over, taking most of the covers with him.
She stared at his back and knew she’d just been given a divine sign telling her to leave. She had to get out of his bed right this minute!
Instead, she curled around him, pressed her breasts against his back, breathed him in. There… that whiff of musky aftershave. It had been so long since she’d touched a man like this.
He stirred, shifted, muttered something as if he were dreaming.
The shriek of the fire alarm grew louder. She slid her arm around him and stroked his chest.
Only for a minute, she told herself. And then she’d leave.
Kevin felt his old girlfriend Katya’s hand on his chest. He’d been standing in his garage with the first car he’d ever owned and Eric Clapton. Eric had been giving him a guitar lesson, but instead of a guitar, Kevin kept trying to play a leaf rake.
Then he looked up, and Eric was gone. He was in this weird log room with Katya.
She kept stroking his chest, and he realized that she was naked. He forgot about Eric’s guitar lesson as blood rushed to his groin.
He’d broken it off with Katya months ago, but now he had to have her. She used to wear bad perfume. Too strong. It was a stupid reason to break up with a woman, because now she smelled like cinnamon rolls.
Good smell. Sexy smell. Made him sweat. He couldn’t remember being this turned on by her when they were together. No sense of humor. Too much time putting on makeup. But now he needed her right away. Right that moment.
He rolled toward her. Curled his hand around her bottom. It felt different. Fleshier. More to squeeze.
He ached, and she smelled so good. Like oranges now. And her breasts were full against his chest—warm, soft, juicy oranges—and her mouth was on his, and her hands were all over him. Playing. Stroking. Finding their way to his cock.
He groaned as she caressed him. He smelled her woman’s smell and knew he wouldn’t last long. His arm didn’t want to move, but he had to feel her.
She was slick, wet honey.
He moaned and rolled over. On top of her. Pushed inside her. It didn’t happen easily. Strange.
The dream began to fade, but not his lust. He was feverish with it. The smell of soap, shampoo, and woman enflamed him. He thrust again and again, dragged open his eyes, and… couldn’t believe what he saw!
> He was buried inside Daphne Somerville.
He tried to say something, but he was long past talking. His blood pounded, his heart raced. There was a roaring in his head. He exploded.
At that moment everything inside Molly went cold. No! Not yet!
She felt his shudder. His weight crushed her, driving her into the mattress. Much too late, her sanity returned.
He went slack. Dead weight on top of her. Useless dead weight.
It was over. Already! And she couldn’t even blame him for being the worst lover in history because she’d gotten exactly what she deserved. Nothing at all.
He jerked his head to clear it, then pulled out of her and erupted from the covers. “What in the hell are you doing?”
She wanted to yell at him for being such a disappointment, wanted to yell at herself even more. Once again she’d been caught pulling the fire alarm, but she wasn’t seventeen any longer. She felt old and defeated.
Humiliation burned through her. “S-s-sleepwalking?”
“Sleepwalking, my ass!” He vaulted out of bed and stalked toward the bathroom. “Don’t you dare move!”
Too late she remembered that Kevin had a reputation for holding grudges. Last year it had turned a rematch against the Steelers into a bloodbath, and the year before that he’d gone after a three-hundred-pound Viking defensive tackle. She scrambled from the bed and looked frantically for her nightgown.
A stream of obscenities erupted from the bathroom.
Where was her gown?
He shot back out, naked and furious. “Where the hell did you get that condom?”
“From your—your shaving kit.” She spotted her linen gown, snatched it up, and clutched it to her breasts.
“My shaving kit?” He rushed back into the bathroom. “You pulled it from my—Shit!”
“It was… an impulse. A—a sleepwalking accident.” She edged toward the hall door, but he reappeared before she could get there, charging across the carpet and grabbing her arm, giving her a shake.
“Do you know how long that thing was in there?”
Not nearly long enough! And then she realized he was talking about the condom. “What are you trying to say?”
This Heart Of Mine Page 5