Alex put a hand to her chest. "Thank goodness, you're back."
"Where's Annette?" Lana asked as she automatically grabbed an apron and slid behind the counter.
"Her ankle swelled up like a balloon. She called me, thinking I might know where you'd gone, and I told her I'd fill in." She blew her bangs straight up. "I hope I didn't scare away any customers."
"Don't be silly. Thanks, Alex. I should've told Annette where I'd be."
"And where were you?" her friend asked, her voice low and laced with innuendo as she glanced toward Greg, then back. "Working the man into a lather?"
"Shh. Here he comes." She smiled at him, struck anew by his dark good looks. "Greg Healey, meet my best friend, Alex Stillman."
"Nice to meet you," he said smoothly. "Weren't you at the council meeting last night?"
"Yes," Alex said, then smacked Lana on the back. "Wasn't Lana great? She's very smart, you know. She's a member of Mensa—ow!"
Lana patted the skin where she'd just inflicted a pinch on her friend's arm. "Thanks, Alex. I'm sure Jack is wondering where you are."
The corners of Greg's mouth twitched. "You're the one who married Jack the Attack Stillman. I remember him from UK."
"He remembers you, too," Alex said in a saccharine-sweet tone. "Except he used other letters when he talked about you—ow!"
Lana pasted on a smile and jerked her head toward the door. "Say good-night, Alex."
Her friend smirked and removed her apron. "Good night. Call me when you get a chance?" Alex's voice was high and unnatural.
She shot her an exasperated look. "Yes. Don't worry about me."
"Oh, I won't," Alex said loudly as she walked from behind the counter. "Because I know you have a black belt and you can take care of yourself."
Lana could only stare at her lying friend until Alex had walked out the door.
Greg walked to the counter and lifted an eyebrow. "Mensa?"
"Don't listen to her," she said with a laugh. "Alex must have drunk too much caffeine while she was here."
One corner of his mouth went back, and he jerked his thumb toward the door. "Listen, you're busy. I'll just take a taxi back to my car."
Her heart quickened as Greg took a tentative step backward. She realized with awful clarity that she didn't want him to leave, and that while saving her business should have been uppermost in her mind, it wasn't. "Wait!"
He stopped.
She conjured up a shaky smile. "I close in less than an hour, if you want to stick around. Maybe we'll get a quiet moment to…talk."
He looked back at the door, hesitating. Lana's heart thumped in her chest. Maybe he didn't feel the same push-pull sensation when their bodies came within ten feet of each other. Maybe he thought she was a kook, and wanted to return to his own kind. Heck, maybe she was a kook.
"Okay," he said with a shrug. "I'll stay."
Her friend Alex probably would have declared the little jolt of happiness Lana experienced at his response, which was casual at best, a sign of desperate loneliness. Thank goodness, Alex wasn't around.
13
GREG TOOK IN THE BUSTLING SHOP—customers sitting and standing, laughing and talking over the music of two acoustic guitarists flanked by no fewer than four Christmas trees on the cramped little stage. Miles of lights twinkled from the rafters. Aromas of coffee and chocolate and sugar filled his lungs. The place had charm, all right. Then he looked back to Lana Martina, tousled and red-cheeked and electric.
She was the charm. People gravitated toward her. He gravitated toward her. The realization hit him hard, and he tried to rationalize his irrational feelings. He wasn't completely immune to the sappiness of the holidays. And her wild sense of adventure was simply a passing intrigue. Still, this…attraction would make his task of winning her over to his side a bit easier, and much more pleasurable.
So why did he have the feeling that when he'd said "I'll stay," he was committing to something much larger?
Her smile erased his concern. "Good. What can I get you to drink?"
"Decaf, black."
"What kind?"
"What kind what?"
"What kind of decaf?" She pointed to the menu behind her that listed as least thirty different types of bean blends, several of them decaf.
He shrugged. "Pick one."
She plunked a fuzzy Santa hat on her head, the same one she'd been wearing when he first met her. "How about our special holiday blend?"
"As long as it's hot."
The drink appeared in front of him within thirty seconds, then she returned to her customers. He sipped his coffee, which was surprisingly good, and took advantage of the time to study her. She moved efficiently behind the bar, taking orders and dispensing beverages while bantering with patrons. Her profile was exquisite, both above and below the neck. She was finely boned, richly curved and eminently appealing. Gripped by a strong urge to have her, he was reminded that the woman already had a man in her life. There was The Kissing Man, and possibly others. He didn't relish being one in a long line of her classified-ad lovers.
Yet he knew if the opportunity presented itself, he'd dive headfirst into her bed.
In an attempt to distract himself from his unexplainable fixation with the woman, he left the bar to read the items posted on the enormous bulletin board along the wall leading to the rest rooms. Flyers were posted for typing services, cars for sale, and dog-sitting. Plus a half-dozen petitions were posted for saving the rain forest, preventing animal abuse and other causes.
Greg shook his head because the people who had signed the petitions were fooling themselves if they thought a mere signature would change the shape of things. If they really wanted to make a difference, they'd do something concrete. In his experience, only money—the incentive to make it, or not to lose it—had the power to influence change. Couldn't Lana see that the best chance for solving the world's problems lay in commerce, not in caring?
No, which demonstrated how fundamentally oppositely he and she were wired.
"Lana!"
At the sound of her name over the microphone, Greg turned to see the two young male singers beckoning her toward the stage.
"Come and lead us in a song."
Despite the chorus of encouragement, she shook her head and held up her hands to decline. "I can't sing!"
But the cheers grew louder, and Greg joined in. She glanced at him, her cheeks bright red, and he realized with a start that she cared what he thought. He jerked his head toward the stage and mouthed, Chicken.
The correct word choice, judging by the sudden lift of her chin. She marched up to the stage, conferred with the musicians, then led the room in a rousing rendition of "I Wanna Hippopotamus for Christmas." Her voice was horrifically off-key, but loud and enthusiastic as she conducted a crowd that was on a cumulative caffeine buzz. Greg found himself smiling into his hand. Despite his dare, he marveled at her nerve. No amount of money, much less plain goading, would have gotten him on that stage. But she was a sport, bouncing around like a child, acting out the song like a vaudeville entertainer.
The applause was thunderous, and he joined in good-naturedly. She glanced his way and delivered a little salute, then reminded everyone that one of the trees on the stage was decorated with tags bearing the name of a needy boy or girl and his or her Christmas wish list. "Help make this year special for one child who might not otherwise have any gifts at all."
Greg drained his coffee cup. Good grief, she'd turned the place into her own little do-good center. Still, guilt stirred in his stomach at the sight of the tree she indicated, covered with name tags, each representing a child. Others must have felt the same guilt, because as she left the stage, the tree was surrounded by customers. The guitarists extended the spirited mood with more holiday songs.
And for a moment, Greg almost bought into the whole Christmas spirit thing. But a more sensible part of him stubbornly resisted. What good did it do to be kind to your fellow man a couple of weeks out of the year? To p
articipate in hand-out programs that made the giver feel good, and the recipient feel pitied? Lana Martina was a comely ambassador, perky and persuasive. But one woman wouldn't change his entire mode of thinking. Even if she was compelling. And braless.
Still, he conceded a proprietary thrill when she left the stage and made her way toward him, as if they were together. The woman was certainly more interesting than most of the women he'd dated. But interesting translated to one thing: complicated.
"You're multitalented," he observed, when she stopped in front of him.
"If I didn't know better, I'd think that was a compliment."
He lifted his coffee cup. "But you know better."
"Yes, I do. Need a refill?"
"Sure." He followed her to the bar, confounded by his urge to be near her. She yanked on a red cord, which rang a bell he was sure could be heard all the way to Louisville.
"Last call!" she bellowed.
Greg blinked. Last call in a coffee shop?
One by one, the customers unfolded themselves from their comfortable seats, most of them sauntering to the counter for half-cup refills, although a few collected their coats from the long row of hooks along one wall. Those leaving called good-night to Lana, and she knew each person by name. A half hour later, the two musicians, who were the last to leave, waved and carried their acoustic guitars out the front door. Lana locked the door behind them, and pulled down the blinds. She flipped knobs on an old metal switch plate to extinguish the lights over the door and windows, then turned an ancient sign from Come on in to Sorry, we're closed. At long last, they were alone. His vital signs increased, and longing pooled in his belly.
She began to clear the tables. "This shouldn't take long, then we can talk."
Greg remained glued to the padded stool, turning to watch her as unobtrusively as possible. She bussed the tables with remarkable energy, humming as she dumped trash into a compartmentalized bin she wheeled around. The woman had a fabulous figure.
"Was the crowd typical for a Saturday night?" he asked. It was more difficult to ogle while talking.
"Most evenings are decent when classes are in session. Otherwise, night business is dead. I'd love to see something open downtown to draw people out of the suburbs after five o'clock."
"Like what?"
She stopped and shrugged. "Like a planetarium."
He pursed his mouth. "Not a bad idea."
"I have others."
Be nice to her. "So let's hear them."
She dragged a canvas bag from beneath the counter and extracted the notebook he recognized from the restaurant. "Okay, but first a question. Why not just zone some of the buildings in question commercial and some residential?"
A legitimate question—from a layperson. "Property values will be more stable if the areas are blocked off separately rather than intermixed. Who wants to live next to a bar, for instance?"
She sighed. "And who wants to operate a business where customers have to fight for parking spaces?"
"Exactly."
"But it's pretty common in downtown areas to see storefronts on the first floor of a building, and condos or apartments above." She pointed to her ceiling. "There's an enormous attic in this building large enough for two apartments."
He smiled patiently. "After retrofitted plumbing and wiring. And adding handicapped access. And don't forget about the parking problems around here. To support all-day, permanent parking needed for employees and customers and residents, you're looking at a parking garage."
She smirked. "So why does the parking garage have to go here?"
"Because the architects and engineers said so." At her frustrated sigh, he plunged on. "Listen, Lana, contrary to popular belief, this rezoning plan is not some kind of whimsical conspiracy to evict the shop owners of Hyde Parkland. My company has been working on this project for months, even years on some aspects. This is a huge undertaking that will, whether you want to believe it or not, give a much-needed boost to the downtown economy." He splayed his hands and lowered his voice to reflect his sympathy. "Unfortunately, there are always casualties of progress."
She shook her head stubbornly. "But this business has been here for thirty years! Doesn't that count for something?"
He pressed his lips together, then chose his words carefully. "Yes. It means something to you and to your customers. But if you'll be honest with yourself, you'll realize this area needs a parking garage more than it needs a coffee shop."
She averted her eyes and bit into her lower lip. She didn't seem like the crying type, but a man never knew. He watched her nervously, poised to whip out a clean hanky if she erupted. She didn't. He realized as he had before that the only other person in the world who evoked these protective feelings in him was Will. Not a good realization, considering that protecting Lana Martina's interests ran counter to protecting his own interests. And Will's.
Still, he felt compelled to say something healing. "Um, about that planetarium—maybe I'll look for a suitable piece of land and try to interest a developer."
She lifted her gaze. Sure enough, her violet eyes were falsely bright. "A lot of good a planetarium will do me when my coffee shop is a parking garage."
"Why don't you simply move your shop?"
"There isn't a location in town that would bring me the same amount of traffic."
Had he imagined that her voice broke on the last word? "How about your friend Alex's property, beneath Tremont's department store?"
"It's not Alex's property, and I can't afford the space."
"Surely she has enough pull to cut you slack on the rent."
From the set of her mouth, he'd hit a nerve.
"Alex offered. But I have this little hang-up about doing things on my own."
They were nearly eye to eye, and he was mesmerized by her beauty—her flawless skin, her unusual eyes, her plump mouth. Her work perfume of coffee beans and sugar and cinnamon tickled his nose. The woman had spunk, and sex appeal in spades.
"Funny," he said, reaching out to clasp her wrist, "so do I." He tested her resistance, pulling gently. She blinked, then came into his arms.
"What about the other shop owners?" she asked quietly. "Can you help them?"
"For you," he murmured, "I will certainly try."
Greg drew her into the cradle between his knees for a slow, thorough kiss, while alarms sounded in his head. What had he promised? What was this woman doing to him? She seemed tentative at first, but he beckoned her tongue with his and drew her into his intensity. Overwhelmed with the urge to devour her, his sex hardened to the point of pleasure-pain. He pressed his legs together, capturing her, drawing her heat closer to his. He wrapped his arms around her narrow waist, splaying his hands across her back. A whisper of fabric lay between his fingers and her warm skin. Her unbound breasts bore into his chest, and he groaned against the tide of desire that flooded his limbs.
He wanted her. Badly.
14
LANA WAS GLAD for his strength—her own had vanished. She was emotionally wrung, and Greg's arms gave her a place to escape the pressures weighing on her head. Just one kiss, she promised herself. They were finally talking, and he seemed somewhat sympathetic to the shop owners. He would help them, he would help her.
But thoughts of rezoning plans and parking garages and loan payments dissolved as the kiss matured into uncontrollable desire. She matched his parlaying tongue, stroke for stroke. When he slipped his hands beneath her blouse and skimmed the indention of her spine, she shuddered and moaned into his mouth. His lips slid to her neck, licking and kissing her throat. She leaned her head back and drove her fingers into his dark hair. He slid his hands forward and thumbed the undersides of her breasts, sending moisture to the juncture of her thighs. She cried out, and the shock of hearing her own voice echo off the brick walls restored a small measure of sanity.
"Greg," she said, her voice thick.
He mumbled an incoherent response against her collarbone.
"Greg, someone mi
ght see us."
He lifted his head, but maintained his hold on her. "Then let's go somewhere. To your place."
She opened her mouth to say yes, then remembered that Rich Enderling was still moving his things in and shook her head. "No. It's…complicated."
"Lana, I want you." And he upped the ante by brushing his thumbs over the stiff peaks of her breasts.
Her shoulders rolled involuntarily as pleasure coursed through her chest and arms. She was powerless to speak. In one movement, he lifted her and spun on the stool, setting her on the cool wooden bar. His eyes were level with her tingling breasts, his arms encircling her and his hands cupping her bottom as if he were afraid she would try to pull away.
She didn't. The blinds were pulled and the lights were low. Anyone nosy enough to peek inside deserved the eyeful they got. His eyes were glazed with passion—passion for her. The knowledge that she was able to move this staid man filled her with an incredible surge of feminine power. Was there anything more sexy than pure enthusiasm?
"I want you, too," she whispered, and pulled his face to her breasts. He nipped at the aching tips, suckling through the gauzy cloth, wetting the pink fabric. She strained into him, luxuriating in the feel of his warm tongue against her sensitive zones. Kneading his shoulders through his starched shirt, she hungered to feel his bare skin.
Lana tugged at his loosened tie, then rapidly undid as many buttons as she could reach. Springy black hair met her fingers above a white ribbed undershirt that clung to smooth chest muscles. She fumbled with the buttons on his cuffs and helped him shrug out of the shirt, while he feasted on her breasts. When his dress shirt, undershirt and tie hit the floor, he stood and lifted her blouse over her head.
Perched on the edge of the bar and bare to the waist, she allowed him to look at her, and she looked back, wetting her lips at the sight of superbly defined shoulders, biceps, pectorals. When she'd had her fill, she lifted her gaze to his hooded one, and trembled at the promise she saw there. Intensity. Endurance. Satisfaction.
Seeking Single Male Page 10