“Sadly, they are. They represent the real me, and I think you deserve to see that.”
It might be tempting Fate, but he walked over and took her by the shoulders. The silk blouse, warmed by her skin, felt like heaven under his fingertips, and her rose-filled scent reached out, taunting him with the thought of another kiss. “If those glasses represent the real you, then I am Napoleon Bonaparte.”
“They do.” A fine tremor passed through her as she gazed up at him. “I’m not cool like you.”
“Cool? I am not even slightly cool, cherie.”
“Oh yes, you are. And I’m not. You need to know that going in.”
He had kept his equilibrium until she pronounced those last two words. Instantly he had a vivid image of what going in could mean, and he wanted that. He wanted it with a vengeance. Fortunately, his condoms were in the car. Still.
And because they were, he needed to stop touching her. “Gwen, I cannot seem to think about anything except kissing you.” Actually, he could think of something else, like making love to her.
She drew in a sharp breath. “Nobody’s ever . . . that’s not the kind of thing men usually . . .”
“It is simply the way I feel.” With great regret he lifted his hands from her shoulders. “But if I kiss you again, we will not go into the kitchen and look at that plant.”
“Which is what you came for.”
He chose not to respond, because that was not true now and maybe never had been.
“It’s in here.” Turning, she led him through a doorway into a room that reminded him of a kitchen from his childhood. He and Josette still owned the vacation cottage in the country, but they never went there.
He tried to appreciate the quaintness of Gwen’s kitchen, but he was too busy thinking about the astounding effect she had on him. He was probably expected to comment on the house, which seemed to be lovingly decorated. Vaguely he remembered that the living room had the same sort of French farm-house feel.
“You have a nice home,” he said. Not a particularly imaginative assessment, but it was the best he could do considering he was pumped up on pheromones.
“Thanks.” She smiled at him. “My father had it built as a replica of his boyhood cottage back in France. I thought you might feel at home here.”
He did feel at home, but it was not the house. The truth hit him hard. It was Gwen.
“I can’t believe you forgot to turn on the exit sign.” Dorcas took the martini Ambrose handed her.
“I can’t believe you let them do that to your hair. It’s spiky.”
“I happen to love it. I needed a change.”
“Maybe I should get a Mohawk, so we can match.”
“Now you’re just being silly.” Dorcas was still irritated with her husband over the exit sign. He’d almost created a disaster. She went over to join Sabrina, their black cat, on the sofa.
That was the other sore subject—Sabrina. Ambrose had recently given her an expensive collar that obviously used to be someone’s bracelet. The platinum links were connected with diamonds, and it was loose enough to work as a collar, but it was too pricey for a cat.
Ambrose had bought the bracelet/collar online at a wizard site called eCharm. He’d bought it without asking, and the cat had become impossibly vain about it. At the moment she’d arranged herself on the purple sofa so that the diamonds caught the light from the nearby lamp.
She’d also begun demanding to take part in happy hour. Eyeing Dorcas’s drink, she meowed.
“Sabrina wants her martini.” Ambrose set his glass on the mantel. “I’ll get it.”
“I think we should break her of this little habit,” Dorcas said. “It was cute the first time, but I’m worried about my stemware.”
“She’s never broken anything,” Ambrose said over his shoulder as he headed for the kitchen.
“And you’d better not.” Dorcas looked into the cat’s green eyes. “I paid a pretty penny for those glasses.”
Sabrina met her stare and flicked her tail as if to say she deserved pricey stemware as much as anyone.
“I think it’s that collar you’re wearing,” Dorcas said. “It’s giving you delusions of grandeur.”
“It’s not the collar.” Ambrose returned carrying a martini glass filled with sparkling water. And he was sporting a Mohawk.
Dorcas didn’t want to laugh and give him the satisfaction, but she couldn’t help it. “Fix it back,” she said between giggles.
“Just making a point.” He set Sabrina’s glass on the coffee table. “Your drink, madam.”
Sabrina rose with a lazy stretch and hopped to the table, where she began lapping the water.
“I think it is the collar,” Dorcas said. “Did you check to see if it had an entitlement spell on it?”
“The wizard I bought it from guaranteed it was spell-free.”
He looked so ridiculous with the Mohawk that she had a tough time keeping a straight face. “So if it does have an entitlement spell on it, you can get your money back?”
Ambrose picked up his drink and sat in the red wing-backed chair next to the fireplace, where a cheerful blaze crackled and popped. “The collar is spell-free. I have a certificate.”
“But if it’s not, you can get a refund from this guy?” Dorcas could predict what her husband’s answer would be. He was one of the most gullible wizards she’d ever known. Now he was a gullible wizard wearing a Mohawk.
Good thing he could change it at will. She could change her hair at will, too, but she wanted to leave it this way for a while. She didn’t dare make any drastic changes, anyway, or Francine and Sylvia would get suspicious.
“I’m sure I could get a refund,” Ambrose said, “once Sherman gets back from his trip to Mongolia. He won’t be online for another six months or so. But it doesn’t matter, because there’s no spell on that collar.”
Dorcas made a mental note to check the collar when Ambrose wasn’t around. Sabrina had always had attitude, but lately she’d behaved as if she ruled the household. That happened to be Dorcas’s position, and she didn’t intend to give it up.
“My hair feels weird this way,” Ambrose said.
“It looks weird that way.”
“Will you change yours back if I change mine?”
Dorcas shook her head.
“All right.” With a sigh, Ambrose muttered a few words and his hair returned to its normal conservative cut. Then, as if wanting to change the subject, he raised his glass. “Here’s to Gwen and Marc.”
“To Gwen and Marc.” Dorcas raised her glass, too. “And a heavy snowstorm coming up in the next hour.” After a generous sip, she leaned back against the red throw pillows arranged along the back of the sofa. “What did you find out about Prince Leo?”
“He’s not at Atwood.”
“Well, we knew that. We saw him in Whispering Forest.”
“We didn’t make a positive ID.”
“I did.” Dorcas took another swallow of her martini and hoped the mellowing effects of the gin would kick in soon. Whenever unexpected events threatened to interfere with her plans, she got peevish.
Sabrina lapped up the final drops of her sparkling water, and to the cat’s credit, she didn’t move the glass even a millimeter while doing it. When she was done, she turned toward Dorcas with an expectant expression in her green eyes.
“Now she wants you to plump up a pillow for her,” Ambrose said.
“You know, Ambrose, she used to be content to lie on the sofa without all this fuss.”
“So she likes a little extra comfort these days. So do I. I was thinking we should order a pillow-top mattress.” He winked. “More bounce to the ounce.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “You’re funny.”
“No, I’m horny.” He smiled back. “We’ve both been working too hard.”
“There’s plenty to do.” But she liked that he was always interested in having sex with her, even after all these years.
“Would it be so bad to fluff
Sabrina’s pillow?”
“I think we’re spoiling her, but what the Hades.” Dorcas vowed this would be the last time she’d go through this routine. At the first opportunity, she’d check the collar for an entitlement spell, and she just knew she’d find one.
Laying the pillow down, she wedged it into the corner of the sofa. Sabrina minced from the coffee table to the sofa to the pillow. Then she curled up on top of it and gazed at Dorcas with a satisfied smirk.
“This pampering will not last,” Dorcas murmured under her breath.
“What was that, love?”
She turned back to her husband. “Just thinking out loud.” She’d spent enough time worrying about the cat. They had more pressing matters to deal with. “Were you able to find out why Leo’s here?”
“Not exactly.” Ambrose swirled his drink in his glass. “But it’s no secret that his mother, Queen Beryl, hasn’t been happy with his behavior and is considering giving the throne to a commoner.”
“From what I’ve heard, I wouldn’t give it to him, either. I’m not happy that he’s in the forest playing poker with the raccoons. It’s only a matter of time before George gets sucked back into that routine.” She had a sudden thought. “Do you suppose he’s after George’s treasure?”
“I don’t think so. Atwood is a rich kingdom. No, the rumor is that Queen Beryl has given him some task to accomplish that will qualify him to become King of Atwood.”
“A task he’s supposed to accomplish here?” Dorcas didn’t like the sound of that one bit.
“It would seem so, wouldn’t it?”
“Can you get in touch with Queen Beryl?”
“I’ve tried. She’s taking a much-needed vacation and is out of pocket.”
Dorcas drank the last of her martini. “Wonderful. Then it’s up to us to get him by the ear and demand to know what he’s doing messing around in our woods.”
“Our woods?” Ambrose stared at her. “I’ve never heard you sound so possessive before.”
“I can’t help it. We’ve put a lot of work into this place.”
Ambrose gazed at her. “Are you becoming attached to Big Knob, Dorcas?”
“No, of course not. Perish the thought.” But that’s precisely what she was afraid of. She was beginning to love this crazy little town.
“So I suppose we have to go back into that cold forest again tonight.” Ambrose shivered.
“Yes, Ambrose, we do.” She winked at him. “But I’ll find a way to warm you up once we get home.”
Chapter 7
Stupid, stupid, stupid. As Gwen took Marc into the kitchen, she berated herself for that little speech about being uncool. He hadn’t kissed her as if she was uncool. He’d kissed her as if she was freaking Angelina Jolie. It had been the best kiss of her entire kissing history thus far.
Given that amazing liplock, why had she felt the need to point out her shortcomings and put on her glasses, which she now couldn’t take off without looking vain? Why couldn’t she have continued to play the role of desirable, sexy lady for a few days and enjoy whatever attention came her way?
The answer wasn’t difficult. She didn’t want to settle for a few days, and anything longer than that would surely reveal her lack of sophistication. She wanted to know beforehand how Marc might react to that. Such a preview wasn’t possible, but that didn’t stop her from wanting one.
“It certainly resembles a bromeliad.” Marc walked over to the bay window where Gwen grew herbs year-round.
She’d temporarily moved several into her greenhouse to make room for the potted plant that Dorcas and Ambrose had brought from the Whispering Forest. She’d wanted to keep a close eye on the plant.
But at the moment she didn’t give a damn about the plant. She was too busy keeping a close eye on Marc. “You’re still wearing those wet loafers. I need to get you some heavy socks.”
“Believe me, wet feet are not a problem. I have dealt with far worse than that.”
“I’ve read on your Web site about your trips up the Amazon.” She could picture him in khaki shirt and shorts, paddling a dugout through dangerous rapids, his skin tanned from the hot sun, his shirt plastered to his chest. . . .
He smiled. “I make the trips sound as thrilling as possible so I can keep receiving grant money.”
“Even so, a trip to Big Knob to look at a bromeliad species must seem pretty tame.”
“Not so far.” He held her gaze.
She gulped. She’d never been with a man who specialized in saying exactly the right thing. Now that she was wearing her glasses, she could see the heat in his eyes, too. He wasn’t making idle conversation.
At this rate she’d never be able to concentrate on cooking hamburgers. And she definitely wanted to feed him. It was the least she could do after he’d given her the kiss of a lifetime.
She gestured toward the plant. “Go ahead and examine it while I start on dinner.”
“May I help you?”
“Are you a cook?” Panic shot through her at the thought that he might be a gourmet chef. That sort of thing was probably part of every Frenchman’s DNA.
“Not much of one, but I could slice vegetables or something.”
Thank goodness he didn’t whip up souffle’s in his spare time. “I’d rather have you study the plant and tell me what you think.” Then maybe she’d have a decent chance of getting dinner on the table without burning down the house.
Turning away, she opened the refrigerator and pulled out a package of hamburger. Fortunately she’d picked some up yesterday, or she wouldn’t have been able to satisfy his dinner request.
“If you are certain you do not need help.”
Oh, she needed help, all right. She needed help navigating the unfamiliar waters of having a man who looked like Marc interested in her. “I have it covered.” She took a couple of potatoes out of the bin at the bottom of the refrigerator. “Seriously.”
“Very well. Then let me take a closer look at this plant.” He unclipped a BlackBerry from his belt. “I stored several pictures of unusual bromeliads, so I could compare them with this one. I—uh, oh.”
“What?” She glanced over her shoulder. Damn, but he looked good standing in her kitchen. His white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, looked as if it might be silk. “Is something wrong?”
“I had a call from my sister, and I missed hearing the ring.”
He sounded so guilty that she wanted to comfort him. “It’s easy to miss when you’re driving in heavy traffic. And the bar was noisy, too.” Then you were kissing the living daylights out of me. Speaking for myself, I wouldn’t have heard the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing the Hallelujah Chorus.
“I promised to call when I arrived.”
“I’m sure she’ll understand. You’ve had a lot on your mind.”
“But she has no other family besides me. I need to try to reach her.”
Gwen was used to calculating the time difference between Paris and Big Knob. “Wouldn’t she be asleep?”
“I can text her first, although she may be up. She has insomnia.” He stared at his BlackBerry and murmured something that sounded like a French curse.
“What is it?”
He glanced up. “I remember you said that cell phone reception is unreliable in Big Knob. I should have called from the airport.”
“You could give it a shot, anyway. Sometimes we get lucky with reception.”
He continued to study the screen and shook his head. “Not promising. Is there any room in the house better than the kitchen?”
“My bedroom.” The suggestion sounded seductive, although she hadn’t meant it that way. Nothing she could do about that. It was the truth.
Indecision lurked in his eyes. He glanced at the BlackBerry again and sighed. “Very well. I really need to attempt this call. Where is your bedroom?”
“This way.” If he hadn’t kissed her, this little trip wouldn’t be so loaded with tension. But he had kissed her, and she was extremely aware of h
is footsteps on the hardwood floor as she led him down the hall past the guest room to the back of the house.
At the bedroom doorway she reached inside and flipped the switch that turned on the bedside lamps. She’d replaced the boring shades her parents used to have with Tiffany-style stained glass. The lamps filled the room with jeweled light that she loved, but tonight they seemed like overkill, as if she’d deliberately set the stage to lure him into her bed.
The whole room looked that way, now that she saw it as he might. The four-poster became phallic, and the plump mattress and pillows cradled within those four sentries promised sensuous delights.
But if he wanted better cell phone reception, this was the room for it. She stepped back out and gestured for him to go inside. “I don’t use my cell often, but when I do, this is the best place.”
“Thank you.” He glanced into the room and took a deep breath. “Inviting.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond. “Thanks. I like it.”
He hesitated, as if reluctant to step inside.
“You can try somewhere else if my bedroom makes you uncomfortable.”
“Au contraire.” He gazed at her with those deep blue eyes, which gradually darkened until they were almost navy. “I am afraid that I will feel entirely too comfortable.”
He wants to kiss me again. She knew it with a certainty that she’d never experienced with a man, as if she could read his mind. If she moved a step closer, he would pull her into his arms, gently remove her glasses, and go for it. The thought gave her goose bumps of pleasure.
But she wouldn’t step closer. He’d feel even guiltier if he didn’t get in touch with his sister, and Gwen didn’t want to be responsible for that. “I’ll leave you to your call.” Heart pounding, she turned and walked down the hall.
“Gwen?”
“Yes?” She turned back. If she’d thought he looked good in her kitchen, he looked even better in the doorway to her bedroom. And she loved the way he said her name.
She wanted him. No point in denying it. If he held out his hand, she would walk back down that hall and deal with guilt about his sister later.
“You implied in your e-mails that people in Big Knob like to gossip,” he said.
Casual Hex Page 7