Joe hadn’t cared what anyone else said about his sexual escapades or relationships in years. And now he was worrying about the reputation of a thirty-two year old divorcee and her near half-dozen kids! What a switch, he thought with a savage humor, attacking with unnecessary vigor some dried egg yolk in a mixing bowl.
What was he doing here, anyway? He should be in Vic Truro’s hot tub in L.A. musing over Vic’s new screenplay, or swimming laps in his own pool, or—he glanced at his watch—still sleeping in his water bed, one arm slung over Linda Lucas or Paulette or Candi or Sherry…
“Hell!” The knife skidded down the side of the bowl and sliced into his thumb. He dropped the bowl and sucked on his thumb, the warm, metallic taste of the blood touching his tongue.
“What have you done?” Liv’s voice came from behind him, and he spun around to see her come briskly into the room, all her earlier comfortable dishevelment gone. In formfitting, wheat-colored jeans and a bright orange halter, her hair pulled up into a tight knot on the back of her head, she looked every bit as brisk and efficient as the reporter he had first encountered. He knew very well, then, what he was doing here. His heart began racing again in his chest.
“I cut it,” he mumbled, his words garbled because his thumb was still in his mouth. Steve Scott never did things like this, he knew with unerring certainty, annoyed that she should see him do something so dumb.
“Let me see it.” She reached for his hand, and he took one last lick, hoping that that would stem the flow of blood, but it didn't. The blood ran down his hand and dripped on her jeans.
“Put it under the water,” she commanded, thrusting his hand into the sink and filling a bowl with cold water. “It’s pretty deep. How did you—”
“The knife slipped,” Joe said, looking away. The water was turning red and his stomach lurched. Liv flung open a cabinet door and rummaged around while he waited, then returned before he could worry about how long it would take for him to bleed to death on her kitchen floor. She removed his hand from the water and probed the cut, then deftly bandaged it.
“I think it’ll be okay without stitches,” she offered. “But I’ll take you to the hospital if you want.”
“No.” Not only did he not want stitches, he did not want the publicity that would come with it. And, he thought, neither would she. Some gossipy person would report that Joe Harrington was seen arriving in the early morning with reporter Olivia James, with whom he had obviously spent the night. No, Liv definitely did not need that!
What she needed, he had decided over the past two weeks, was somebody to be there for her, to make her life a bit easier, a bit more enjoyable, not someone complicating it or making it worse. And ever since he had met her, ever since she had flung his pass back in his face and had fed him birthday cake and chicken and rice, he had wanted to be that person. He wanted to share things with her—hence, the phone calls, and when they weren’t enough any more, he had had to come in person.
Now he stood silently watching her as she gently continued to wipe the blood from his hand. The cut didn’t hurt, yet, but her careful ministrations touched him to the core.
It was, he realized, the first time she had touched him that he could remember. When she had practically undressed him, he hadn’t known a thing—damn it. But his imagination had worked overtime since, picturing her touching him. He may have taken Linda to his bed in L.A., but it wasn’t Linda he saw in his mind, nor Linda’s hands moving over him, caressing, teasing, exciting. His hand lurched violently.
“Does it hurt a lot?” Liv asked sympathetically.
It wasn’t his hand that hurt. “No, not very much,” he managed, trying in vain to steady his voice. The flames in his loins were consuming him; surely she could tell. But he didn’t dare glance at her to know. Instead he forced his mind away from her, looking intently out past the curtains toward the sandbox where Theo and Jennifer and a neighbor boy were playing with some Matchbox cars and trucks. They were arguing about some road construction they had embarked upon, and if he strained he could make out what they were saying. So he strained, and didn’t look at Liv again until she released his hand and said, “I think you’ll live.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s all part of the job description.”
“As?”
“Mother.”
“Not mine.” He laughed, and was gratified when she blushed. But then, just as quickly, she was all business again.
“Tell me about this house you want and why.”
“I just don’t like living in L.A. all year,” he said, finding it easier to talk to her now that she wasn’t halfdressed and in bed. “And I like my privacy, as I’m sure you’ve heard. So I thought that Madison would be a good place to get away to for a while. All the Hollywood hype can get to a guy, you know?” He grimaced at the eyebrow she arched at him. “I know I ask for a lot of it, but just the same, I do like a respite,” he admitted, and was glad when she offered him a small smile.
“So you decided that this was as far into the back of the beyond as you could get?” Liv questioned, cocking her head and looking at him with a certain tolerant amusement.
“Partly. And I like being around water. Madison’s got a lot of that. I’d like to find a place on the water if I can. Isolated, if at all possible.”
“Ah, Joe Harrington, hermit,” she teased.
“No. Just Joe Harrington, exhausted. Joe Harrington in need of some space.”
“I’d like some of that too,” she said suddenly, and then stopped abruptly, as though the words had popped out unbidden, which, in fact, he guessed they had.
“I bet you would,” he said softly. “It must get to be a lot, five kids on your own.”
“I’m not complaining,” she said fiercely, looking like a mother tiger defending her cubs.
“I wasn’t implying that,” Joe said mildly, knowing instinctively that it was a sore point. “I just think you’ve got a hard job. You do it very well.”
“Thanks.” She smiled at him nervously, brushing a hand against her hair as though trying to make sure her mask was in place. “I—I guess I’m a bit defensive about it. Single parent and all that.”
Liv was looking at him with wide, gray eyes, like a stormy sea capped with a sunburst of blond hair. “Not defensive,” he said, scarcely above a whisper, drowning in her eyes. Her lips were soft, inviting, trembling slightly just inches below his own. Joe Harrington, super-star stud, wouldn’t have hesitated an instant, but Joe Harrington, scrupulous schoolboy with sweating palms, didn’t know if he dared.
She didn’t move, just stood immobile under his gaze until he could stand the temptation of her parted lips no longer, and bent his head, capturing her mouth with his own.
It was like riding a bicycle without brakes—helpless, frantic, out of control. How on earth could he stop, he wondered desperately. Every fiber of his being wanted to crush her against him, moulding her body to his and never letting her go. Reluctantly, gasping for breath, he tore his mouth away, clenching his fists against his sides and praying for self-control. He knew the kiss wasn’t going to be enough to satisfy. He knew, too, that if he wanted to see her again, there wasn’t going to be what he considered “enough” for a long time. The ache in him was definitely going to get worse before it got better.
Like a diver come to the surface after a long and arduous dive, he slowly reoriented himself, steadying his breathing and his heart, and opening his eyes. Wide gray eyes stared into his. My God, had she watched his whole struggle? Likely. She didn’t look flustered at all. Just indifferent. Or stunned.
But he doubted the latter, especially when she straightened up and said matter-of-factly, “Only twenty-five more. I’ll call George Slade about a house for you.”
Joe hardly heard the second part of the statement; he was still reeling from the first. Was that all she thought it was? One of those birthday kisses he’d purloined from her children? He stared at her, unable to disguise the hurt. Not
even he was that good an actor. She looked back at him from where she was dialing the telephone and suddenly set it back on the hook.
“I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly, a wistful smile touching her lips. “That wasn’t a nice thing to say.”
She looked genuinely sorry, which surprised him. None of the other women in his life, other than his mother and sisters, had ever cared much one way or another how he felt beyond how it affected what he could do for them. And they certainly never bothered to apologize, either, unless it was in their own best interests. But Liv seemed genuinely concerned that she had hurt him. And he wasn’t above agreeing with her. “No,” he said, “it wasn’t.”
She looked away in apparent confusion.
“Did you mean it?”
“What?” She looked really confused now.
“Is that all you really thought it was,” he persisted, needing to know. “Number twenty-five?”
“I don’t know what to think,” she snapped, like a kitten trapped in a corner. “I don’t know what you’re doing in my life, anyway!” It was almost a wail, and he could commiserate completely.
I could say the same thing about you, Joe thought ruefully. “I don’t know, either,” he said softly. “I don’t know.” He reached out and touched her cheek tentatively, needing some sort of contact and hoping that she wouldn’t draw away. He almost collapsed with relief when, instead, she turned her lips to caress his palm. “I want to find out, don’t you?” he asked.
Her lips moved against his hand. “Yes,” they said. “Heaven help me, yes.”
She must be out of her mind, Liv thought as they sped through tree-lined residential streets toward the shore of Lake Monona. How could she ever seriously consider getting involved with a man like Joe Harrington? It was one thing to allow herself to enjoy long-distance phone calls and entertain harmless fantasies about the man. It was quite another to be going house hunting with him on a Saturday in June.
She darted a quick glance at the man who was driving her car with such ease and familiarity. He was concentrating on driving, humming something indistinct but decidedly cheerful, the rugged lines of his face relaxed, giving him an air of content that she hadn’t seen on him earlier that morning. She looked away again almost instantly. Contemplating Joe Harrington was dangerous to her emotional health. As much as his movie-star image epitomized everything she despised about some men in general and her ex-husband in particular, Joe, the living, breathing man alongside her, was something else again. And she knew, against her better judgment, that she didn’t despise him at all. It would be infinitely safer if she did.
“Next street, I think,” he was saying now.
Ben, Theo, Stephen and Jennifer were bouncing on the back seats chanting, “There! No, there! Maybe there!” Liv would have throttled all of them if she had been driving, but Joe seemed oblivious to the noise. He seemed to know exactly what he was looking for, and noise, distractions, and other suggestions didn’t faze him in the least.
They had driven right past George Slade’s first recommendation without even stopping. “Not enough privacy,” Joe had said, scarcely giving the two-story white frame house a glance. “And I thought I mentioned water.”
There’s imperiousness for you, Liv thought. “George said it had a lake view,” she explained, but she was just as glad he hadn’t stopped. She didn’t care for the house either. “Turn here,” she said now, and felt a prickle of excitement when they turned onto a narrow street that ran along the edge of a creek that flowed through a heavily wooded park into the lake.
“Neato!” Stephen exclaimed. “Could I ever get lost in there!”
“Explorers!” Ben breathed. “We could be explorers!”
“Like Henry and Angus,” Theo chimed in, recalling his favorite story.
Liv turned to hush them, when she caught a glimpse of the same starry-eyed enthusiasm on Joe’s face. He looks as young as they do, she thought suddenly. And when she saw the house almost at the water’s edge, she breathed, “That’s it,” before she could stop herself.
Joe didn’t say anything, but he stopped the car immediately and bounded out even faster than the kids. It wasn’t a pretentious house by Madison’s standards, certainly not the majestic modern glass palace that Liv would have associated with a movie star who liked privacy, or one of the gingerbread Victorians that abounded hereabouts. Low-slung and rambling, it sprawled beneath the trees like a contented cat. Rough, weathered wood and a huge stone chimney allowed it to blend into the surrounding forest. Liv had heard about houses designed to fit in with their surroundings, but a lifetime of tract houses and unimaginative boxes designed for the most mechanical of human existences had left her unprepared for this.
“Joe!” Theo yelled from halfway across the yard, “Look, here’s a boat house! Joe!”
“Can we go see, Joe?” Jennifer asked, halfway between the boys, who were racing for the water’s edge, and her mother, who was standing by the car, feeling that if she took one step into that house she would be lost forever.
“Go ahead,” Joe hollered back from the front porch. He fumbled with the key in his hand, then inserted it into the lock, but before he turned it he stopped and looked over his shoulder.
“Liv?” he said, an almost imperceptible roughness in his voice. “Coming?”
He held out his hand, waiting, and Liv thought helplessly, I can’t.
It was more than a house, it was a dream house. The one she had envisioned in her fantasies since she was a child. She hadn’t actually seen this one specifically, but it had everything she’d ever wanted—a fireplace, pine trees, homey warmth. How could she go in and walk around saying politely, “How nice,” and then go home to her bland box, leaving Joe Harrington in possession of her dreams? She glanced up at him.
He wasn’t waiting by the door anymore, but had walked back across the yard, stopping beside her, so close she could touch him. “What’s wrong?” His voice was low and curiously gentle for a man who had been consumed by enthusiasm moments before.
“N-nothing,” she stammered, unable to look at him. It’s envy, idiot, she told herself disgustedly. If it were going to be yours, you’d be running in, too.
“I know you like it,” he said. “So do I.”
Of course he did. That was another part of the problem. Knowing that he shared her dreams was making her even more vulnerable to him. And she couldn’t tell him that. Nor could she say how much she envied him. How childish that would seem. Grow up, she told herself sharply, the way she might snap at Noel for whining about something far beneath him, and dredged up a wavering smile. “Let’s go.”
The inside was all she had hoped—and feared—it would be. Natural oak woodwork, room-sized braided rugs and comfortable, slightly lumpy furniture about two generations out of date. It had been the home of an architect and was now in the hands of his estate; hence its completely furnished rental state, George had told her when she had called to say she had a friend looking for a house for a few months.
Joe led her from room to room as proudly as though he were the architect himself or a magician who had conjured the house up out of thin air, as well he might have, Liv thought, for she had never had an inkling that such a perfect house existed, especially near here.
“I think,” Joe said, when they had done the whole tour through the four bedrooms, the spacious living-dining room, the den and the recently modernized kitchen, “that we’ll take it, don’t you?”
It was a slip of the tongue, Liv thought, moistening her lips. He meant “I”, not “we”, but he was looking at her as though he expected her response.
“Yes,” she croaked, and felt her cheeks burn at his smile.
“Good. Then will you call this Slade guy from your place and tell him I’m moving in today?”
“Today?”
Joe grinned “Why not?” He leaned against the gleaming yellow kitchen counter and regarded her with mischief in his eyes. “Or were you planning to offer me space in your bed tonigh
t?”
He was teasing, Liv knew, but she wished he wouldn’t. It made it even harder to keep thinking of him as a “friend.” And there was no sense in thinking of him as anything else. Joe would not be in Madison for long, she was sure, and he wasn’t the type who made commitments. Just as she wasn’t given to having affairs, no matter how brief or wonderful they might be.
“No answer to that?” Joe teased when she looked at the floor without responding. His hand reached out and loosened the knot of her hair, letting it cascade around her shoulders, and she looked up at him with wide, nervous eyes. He’s just a friend, she reminded herself again.
“I like it up,” she said, trying to brush his hand away.
He wound his fingers in her hair. “So do I,” he confided with a gleam in his eyes. “But I like it down better. I like to wrap my fingers in it.” He moved closer till their bodies were almost touching. His breath was fanning her cheek, moving the strands of hair on her neck, and she shivered. “And I’d like to—” He broke off suddenly and stepped back, his hand dropping to his side. “Oh, Liv,” he murmured, his mouth twisting. He jammed his hands into his jeans’ pockets and stared at the toes of his shoes.
Liv, taken aback, stared helplessly at him. What kind of line was this? Expecting to be swept off her feet by the experienced man-about-town, she couldn’t make sense of these advance-and-retreat tactics. Keep ’em off balance, she thought wryly. Maybe that’s how he does it. Whatever he was doing, she acknowledged, it worked. If he had come on strong with her, like the playboy everyone said he was, she could have resisted him easily. But this… how could she resist this?
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