Patricia nibbled her thumbnail. Should she admit she wasn't ready? She glanced up at Jesse. Now, he stood beside the table watching her, those provocative lips twitching into a grin. Apparently the image of the richest girl in Arrow Hill slaving over a hot stove amused him.
"How about Friday evening?" she heard herself say. "I'll make a pot roast." A wholesome American meal, Patricia decided, with all the trimmings. So what if she had less than a week to refine her culinary skills. She dealt with multimillion-dollar deals on a daily basis. How difficult could tossing a roast into a pot be? She straightened her spine and reached for a sandwich, determined to ignore Jesse's amused grin. She would do this for Dillon.
* * *
Late Friday afternoon Patricia studied the salad and commended herself on a job well done. It looked festive, she thought, a variety of lettuce with cherry tomatoes, carrot shavings and cucumber slices. She'd skipped the mushrooms since she'd decided to sauté them in wine. Okay. She took a calming breath. All she had to do was refrigerate the salad and move on.
According to Elda's instructions, the roast would take about an hour and thirty minutes to bake, which would give her plenty of time to peel, boil and mash potatoes.
She checked the microwave clock. Jesse was scheduled to arrive at seven. Oh, goodness, should they eat in the dining room on the kitchen? The kitchen table didn't seem like more than a breakfast nook to her, but Jesse might think differently. She wanted this dinner to go off without a hitch. Maybe she'd ask Dillon what to do.
"Mom!"
Patricia smiled as she snagged a tomato from the salad. Speak of the young devil.
He came rushing down the stains in a flurry of cotton and loose-fitting denim. "Mom, you're never going to believe what happened."
"What?" She was used to Dillon's drama, his boyish theatrics. He looked too excited to be announcing bad news. She knew enough not to panic.
"Mark's cousin broke his leg."
She covered the salad and placed it in the refrigerator, then rechecked her supply of bottled dressings. "Oh, that's too bad. I'm sorry to hear it." She had met Mark Harrison's cousin a few times. He seemed like a nice kid. "I'm sure he'll be fine."
"Yeah, but now he can't go water-skiing with Mark this weekend. Mark's family is leaving for the river tonight." Dillon rocked on his heels. "They asked if I could go instead."
"Tonight?" Now she felt a panic coming on. "They're leaving tonight?"
He gave a quick, anxious nod. "I know it's short notice, but Mrs. Harrison said you could call her. They don't mind me going. They were planning on having an extra kid, anyway." He shuffled his feet, pleading his case. "I've been on vacations with them before. Plenty of times. And I know how to water-ski. I went last summer." Before Patricia could respond, Dillon continued, "Mrs. Harrison is like you, Mom. She nags us about wearing sunblock and everything. I'll be in good hands."
Patricia couldn't help but smile. A nagging mom. In a sense that did make her feel better. And the Harrisons were like family to Dillon. He'd been friends with Mark since kindergarten. She studied Dillon's wide, gray eyes. She could see how badly he wanted to go.
Dillon persisted. "Their summer home is really nice. It's right near the river. I was there for two weeks last year, remember?"
She remembered. Mrs. Harrison had called Dillon an angel, a pleasure to have around. But he's my angel. My baby. Regardless, it didn't seem fair to keep an active eleven-year-old boy home for pot roast when he could go water-skiing. "I'll phone Mrs. Harrison."
Dillon rushed into her arms for a swift, strong hug. "Thanks, Mom. I love you."
She combed her fingers through his hair. "I love you, too." A moment later he flew up the stairs, and Patricia called Mrs. Harrison. When she had been assured by the other woman that they'd take good care of Dillon, Patricia helped her son pack. He'd be gone before Jesse arrived.
Jesse. Oh, Lord. "I wonder if I should call your dad and cancel."
Dillon jammed a second pair of swim trunks into a canvas suitcase. "Don't do that. You already started cooking. And Dad said he was looking forward to a homemade meal." He paused and looked up at her. "You're not mad about me leaving, are you?"
"No, sweetheart. I'm not mad." Just a little scared, she supposed, about being alone with Jesse again. She glanced at the clock beside Dillon's bed and admonished herself. It was only dinner. One short evening. What could possibly go wrong?
A hundred things, Patricia realized frantically after Dillon was gone. Timing a meal was impossible. The roast was nearly cooked, but the potatoes weren't even done boiling, let alone mashed and seasoned. The mushrooms hadn't been cleaned yet, and the table wasn't set. She'd decided on the dining room because the kitchen was a mess. But worse than the kitchen was her own appearance. Her hair felt limp, her lipstick worn, her summer dress speckled with red dots from a dessert Elda had referred to as strawberry-cream surprise. The surprise was that it took longer to make than anticipated and still needed time to chill.
Patricia checked on the potatoes again, poking several with a fork. How soft did they have to be before they would mash properly? Now she couldn't remember a thing Elda had told her. And like an idiot, she'd given the older woman the entire weekend off. Elda was fifty miles away visiting her grandchildren.
When the doorbell rang, Patricia accidentally dropped the fork into the scalding water, then tore off to answer the summons with a silent curse.
Jesse was early, tall and handsome in a white Western shirt and blue jeans, his clean scent suggesting freshly showered skin and a splash of aftershave.
He smiled. "Hi, Tricia."
She blew a nervous puff of air from her lungs. He had no right to look so crisp while her hair and makeup wilted. Rather than say hello, she began to ramble. "Dillon's not here. His friend Mark invited him to go water-skiing this weekend. They left about an hour ago with Mark's parents." Patricia chewed her bottom lip, picturing the kitchen fiasco. "It's just you and me," she added, hoping Jesse might decide to go back home.
No such luck. Although his smile had faded, he stepped inside. "That's okay, I guess. So Dillon water-skis, huh?"
She nodded. "Snowboards, too. He promised to call when they got to the river. The Harrisons have a summer home there." She fingered the strawberry stains on her dress. "I didn't have the heart to tell him he couldn't go. It was a last-minute invitation, and he was so excited."
"I understand. Maybe I can see him midweek sometime. I'd really like to get past this weekend-dad thing."
Midweek meant her time, too, she realized. Dillon still wasn't willing to visit with Jesse by himself. "We'll figure that out when the time comes." How could she think clearly knowing a piece of silverware was boiling with the potatoes? She pointed to a wet bar in the living room. "Feel free to fix yourself a drink. There's soda and beer, or something harder if you prefer. I have to check on dinner." She darted into the kitchen and left Jesse staring after her.
* * *
Jesse poured himself a soft drink and sat on the edge of the sofa. He'd never seen Tricia so distracted and flighty. Well, hell, he was a bit nervous himself. He had expected this to be a family dinner with Dillon present. But now it was just Tricia and him. A dangerously lusty combination. They'd practically swallowed each other whole last Friday night, kissing for hours on end. And not only at the ball, but in his truck and on her doorstep, too.
He took a swig of the cola. Okay, so they'd gotten a little carried away on that "friendship date." That was no reason to hide out in the living room while Tricia barricaded herself in the kitchen. He could be alone with her without fantasizing about tearing her clothes off. Their attraction wasn't lethal. He'd survive this dinner and so would she.
He followed a pleasant aroma to the kitchen, then paused in the doorway. The normally cool, calm, sophisticated Tricia moved about the room like a wind-up toy gone awry, blowing bits of hair out of her eyes and mumbling frantic curses. And no wonder, he thought with an amused grin. Her kitchen resembled the
aftermath of a war, food casualties strewn everywhere. Cucumber and potato peelings battled strawberry stems and lettuce cores for the sink while spills of undetected origins splotched the counters.
"Do you need some help?" he asked, biting the inside of his cheeks to keep his grin in check. She looked too adorable for words, flour dusting her chin, two oversize oven mitts competing with the allure of a soft, summer dress.
When she spun around, one of the mitts flew off and landed on the floor like a deceased puppet. "I can't find the beaters for the mixer. How can I mash potatoes without them?"
She was in a state of panic, he realized, bordering hysteria and quite possibly tears. He came forward and removed her other mitt. "Just relax, honey. I'll help you find them, okay?" Was she actually rummaging through cabinets and drawers with those silly things on?
"Thank you," she said in a choppy breath.
He found the metal beaters on the counter beneath a haphazardly tossed hand towel while Tricia sipped ice water in an apparent attempt to regain her composure.
Within minutes she was back on her feet, graceful as ever, and determined, Jesse supposed, to make up for her uncharacteristic breakdown. He withheld an animated chuckle. Buying into the lady-of-the-manor act was a bit tough since she still wore a spot of flour on her pert little chin.
They worked side by side in companionable silence. She mashed the potatoes, he sliced the meat and thickened the gravy. She set the table, he sautéed the mushrooms. Together they brought platters and bowls into the dining room, and right before they sat down to share dinner, Jesse reached forward and brushed the flour from her chin.
Clearly embarrassed, she shook her head. "I must look a mess."
No, he thought. She looked beautiful. Sexy and tousled. Good enough to carry to bed and cover with kisses. He swallowed. A home-cooked meal and a gorgeous brunette. Suddenly jasmine perfume and the aroma of pot roast were a strangely enticing combination.
"Messy suits you."
"Right." She laughed. "I doubt the designer of this dress would appreciate the strawberry stains."
He stood beside her at the table, scanning the length of her dress. It flowed over her curves like a stream of lilacs, a side slit exposing one long bare leg. On her feet she wore high-heeled sandals. He didn't see any strawberry stains. Only flowers, sheer cotton and woman.
"We better eat before it gets cold," he said, scooting back her chair. Gaping at her wasn't doing either one of them any good. This was a friendly dinner, not an orgy for misbehaving hormones.
After dousing his salad with bottled ranch, he served himself a mound of potatoes and several thick chunks of roast, then poured gravy over both. "So Dillon's quite the little sportsman, huh?"
She nibbled on her salad, taking proper, ladylike bites. "Yes, but he's a lot like you. He excels at lone sports. He's never really been a team player."
It was the dyslexia, Jesse thought. Focusing on too much activity at once was difficult for most dyslexics, making team sports frustrating and confusing. "So he's going to call tonight, right?"
She nodded. "Soon. Probably."
"Good." Jesse missed his son, even though he understood the boy's enthusiasm for a weekend at the river. Jesse enjoyed the allure of water, too. The cool, refreshing feel of it. "I'm sure Dillon will have a great time."
"He felt so guilty about skipping out on dinner. He must have apologized a hundred times before he left."
His kid had heart, Jesse thought. A tender boy with a warrior's soul. He was as proud as a man could be. "Well, he missed a good meal. I'll say that much."
"It is good, isn't it?" She dipped her spoon into the potatoes, her eyes twinkling as she smiled. "I don't think I could have managed without you, though. We make a wonderful team."
"Yeah. Great food and beautiful babies."
Instantly they both froze. There was no soft music, no candlelight, no flowers but the ones sprinkled upon her dress, yet his simple words spilled sensual images into the air. Young, hungry lovers making a beautiful, gray-eyed baby.
He tried to look away but couldn't. Now he wanted her, smooth and silky and naked beneath him.
Tricia, it seemed, couldn't turn away, either. Her gaze was locked on his, sloe-eyed with a sweep of dark, curling lashes. Was she thinking that she wanted him, too? Wanted to drag his head to her breasts and watch him flick his tongue across her nipples? Feel them peak to his touch?
Silence ensued, intensifying his senses—the allure of her perfume, color of her hair, length of her fingers, shape of her nails—those blush-pink nails, long and wickedly feminine. He could almost feel them clawing his skin.
"Jesse?"
He blinked, then shivered, struggling to respond to the sound of Tricia's voice. In his mind's eye, her legs were wrapped around his waist, her head reared back, her—
"What?"
"Do you want dessert?" she asked, her tone a tad too husky. "It should be ready by now."
He smiled. Was that her answer to sexual tension? A bowl of something sweet and frothy? "Sure. Why not?" At this point he was willing to indulge in whatever she offered. Tricia Boyd was, and probably always would be, his fantasy.
She bumped the table as she stood, and his heart gave a boyish lurch. His living, breathing, walking fantasy. His one true obsession. The lover from his youth.
* * *
Chapter 8
« ^ »
Patricia breathed a sigh of relief. The kitchen was almost clean. Jesse had offered to help, and between the two of them, they'd run the garbage disposal, wiped the counters and loaded the dishwasher. Now they were hand-washing pots and pans.
They made a wonderful team.
Great food and beautiful babies.
A shiver tiptoed up her spine, those tiny fingers of electricity that surfaced whenever Jesse was near. Patricia remembered that he'd sparked a current on the night she'd conceived their son, the one and only time they had neglected protection. The condom box had turned up empty, but by then they had been too needy for each other to stop.
Jesse bumped her shoulder as he took the frying pan from her hands to dry it. "Sorry," he said, his voice quiet but not quite controlled.
"That's okay." She wouldn't look at him. Couldn't, she realized. Not without sinking into those gunmetal eyes.
He walked away to place the pan in the cabinet below the stove. She began washing the mixing bowl, scrubbing it clean of dried potatoes. He returned to stand beside her again, finish the chore they'd agreed to share.
Patricia handed him the mixing bowl, the last dish of the evening.
"Where does it go?" he asked.
"Up there." She pointed to the cabinet above her head.
Suddenly they were no longer side by side. He moved behind her, his breath tickling her nape.
She reached up to open the cabinet, and he leaned forward. Oh God, she thought, what are we doing? Jesse was pressed against her, and she could feel every virile motion, every hard-earned muscle bunch and flex.
The mixing bowl clanked against a glass casserole dish. She tried to focus on the sound rather than the sensation shooting up her spine. The front of his jeans had bumped her bottom, the ridge beneath his zipper hard and aroused.
"Tricia," he whispered her name, his lips brushing her ear. She locked her knees to keep herself from falling to the floor. His mouth teased her neck. Little nibbles. Sweet tender bites.
Don't moan, she told herself. Don't give him that much power. Don't…
But she did. She moaned—a low orgasmic whimper that had him growling behind her. She had power, too, she realized. He wanted her as badly as she wanted him.
She glanced down to see his cowboy boots and her sling-back heels. Even their shoes looked sexual. Lord help her, she was losing her mind. And it felt incredible.
She turned slowly, shifting in his arms until they stood face-to-face. Their eyes met. His glimmered like shards of silver, smooth and shiny—a long lingering stare. Those eyes could steal her breath, she kne
w, strike her like lightning.
He lowered his head; she offered him her lips. The moment, the very instant, they made contact, they slammed into each other with an urgent, openmouthed kiss. He caught her rear and pulled her tight against him, rocked his hips so she could feel his erection. She thrust her tongue into his mouth over and over, mimicking the motion of his body. The carnal dance they both craved.
The kiss ended in a desperate pant for air. They sucked life into their lungs and stared at each other again, their chests heaving.
A moment later Jesse placed his finger against her lips and traced their shape, marveling, it seemed, at the pleasure she'd given him. Patricia smiled, took his hand and led him from the kitchen in a silent invitation.
He paused at the foot of the stairs. "Are you sure?"
She stroked his face, the features that formed his ethnic beauty. She understood the question, the deep implication. If they made love, it would not be love. Was she willing to accept an affair?
"Yes, I'm sure." Patricia knew what she wanted. She was not a naive young girl, but a grown woman hungering for completion, sexual gratification with the only man who stirred her blood.
He nodded and smiled, allowing her to take him where they both chose to go.
They entered her bedroom, stopped to kiss, then slowly undressed each other. She released the buttons on his shirt; he helped her step out of her dress. When they were naked, he turned her toward the mirror so she could see their reflections.
He looked almost mystical beside her. The stained-glass window glowed from a light shining in from the balcony, spilling a rainbow over his skin. His chest was wide and powerful, his belly corrugated, his sex full and aroused. Patricia caught her breath. Tonight all that male perfection was hers.
JESSE HAWK: BRAVE FATHER Page 9