More to Love

by Dixie Browning

  Another few hours, then. There were dozens of questions she wanted to ask. It occurred to her that Rafe knew all there was to know about her, from the fact that she was a sucker for a sob story, to every job she’d ever held, to the fact that she could never remember the punch line of a joke long enough to repeat it, and that she had a real weakness for anything containing coconut. He probably knew what size she wore, because she hadn’t gotten around to clipping the tags from inside her new clothes.

  What did she know about him? Nothing. What he did when he wasn’t cooking up temptation or flying around in that fancy plane of his, whether or not he was involved with a woman. Or with several women. She wanted to ask just how he’d talked Kenny into that hasty, red-faced departure, because she had an idea there was a bit more to it than he’d let on.

  A modeling agency? What did he know about modeling agencies?

  On second thought, it might be better if she didn’t know.

  Molly spent the rest of the afternoon giving the birdcages a thorough cleaning. Or as thorough as she dared without risking a finger. Rafe went out. She didn’t ask where, nor did he tell her. At least he didn’t say goodbye, which meant he’d probably be back in time for their dinner date.

  Mercy. She had a date with the man. Her fancy denim outfit with the nailheads and embroidery was damp and sandy. The laundry basket was full of clothes waiting to be washed and line dried once the weather cleared up, as the cottage didn’t run to a dryer. Which left her with two choices. Her oldest jeans and a ratty sweatshirt, or the only dressy outfit she had brought with her, a flattering gored skirt, ankle length, with a long turtleneck pullover, both in black.

  An hour later she fastened small gray pearl studs to her earlobes. She rouged hollows under her cheekbones, or where her cheekbones would be if they ever surfaced again.

  Tomorrow Stu and Annamarie would be here and she’d be free to leave. Tomorrow she would go back to her apartment and wait until the renovators were finished at Holly Hills, and then she could throw herself into all sorts of projects. Starting a library or seeing if she could get someone from the college interested in holding a few classes in creative writing, or genealogy. Oh, she had all sorts of creative ideas that didn’t exactly fit her job description. Maybe she would see if Holly Hills needed an activity director. They had a physical therapist and once a week, a crafts instructor, but maybe she could—

  And maybe she’d do well to keep her feet on the ground and her head out of the clouds, Molly reminded herself.

  They met in the living room. Rafe was breathtaking in khakis, a white shirt and a dark blazer. Which was something else she was going to have to deal with sooner or later. Sooner would be better. Sooner might not leave any lasting scars.

  They took her car. Rafe drove. The water had gone down considerably, but it was still slow going. They passed Delroy’s Pub and Molly thought of her last dinner date. From this moment on, she had a feeling she’d be measuring every man she met against Rafe Webber. It was a depressing thought for a woman who was determined not to be depressed.

  “This suit you?” Having chosen one of several restaurants on the island, Rafe tucked her hand over his arm as they waited to be seated. Her smile nearly rocked him back on his heels. He wouldn’t have thought black would be her color, not with her muted coloring, but it brought out the red highlights in her hair, the golden tint of her skin and the amber glow of her eyes. She had a lot to offer some lucky man, he told himself. Some deserving nine-to-fiver who would give her a home and children and all the things a woman like Molly needed.

  She ordered the cheapest thing on the menu. He ordered a sampler tray for an appetizer. When the platter of shrimp, scallops and seviche came, she looked at it suspiciously. He forked out a grilled shrimp, dipped it in the tangy sauce and held it to her lips. “Open up, Molly.”

  She snapped the shrimp off the fork and chewed as if she were angry.

  “What’s wrong. You wanted the fried cheese? We can have that with coffee for dessert.”

  Reluctant laughter lit her eyes like an unexpected streak of sunlight. He stared, bemused. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m still worried about Kenny. I wish I knew how he located me. It’s awful to dislike someone you once cared enough about to marry. Doesn’t say a whole lot about my judgment, does it?”

  “How well did you know him before you married him?”

  “Not well enough, obviously. I saw what I thought was a handsome man with excellent taste who was involved in a lot of important business deals. I couldn’t believe it when he asked me to marry him three weeks after we met.”

  “Love at first sight.”

  “Infatuation. Followed by confusion, followed by disillusionment. Followed by a few other things I’d just as soon forget. At least I learned my lesson.” Did you now, Moll? What about Jeffy? What about this man? What do you really know about him after all?

  Rafe fed her another shrimp, and then a scallop dipped in tartar sauce. She closed her eyes, savoring the sweet, tangy blend of flavors. “No more men, hmm?”

  “No more marriage,” she corrected, and sampled the seviche. “I end up feeling sorry for the men I’m attracted to, and it just doesn’t—oh, this is so good!—it just doesn’t work out.”

  “You feel sorry for Dewhurst?”

  “Can’t help it.” She took a delicate bite from a golden brown hush puppy. “It can’t be easy, knowing you’re such a loser, always having to pretend because you’re afraid other people will see through you.”

  “How did you get to be so wise at your age?”

  She laughed outright at that. “Wise? Uh-uh, not me. Mercy, how can you say that when you’ve just met one of my major mistakes? Here, try this stuff. I don’t know what it is, but it’s delicious.”

  “Raw fish.”

  Her eyes widened. “No it’s not. Raw fish is sushi, and it’s all rolled up in little balls with capers and things sticking out the ends.”

  “This was marinated in lime juice. The acid—you’ll pardon the expression, coagulates the protoplasm. No calories involved.” He didn’t mention the oil. He was beginning to enjoy feeding her, tempting her, enjoying her sensuous pleasure. “Conch seviche’s a lot better, but this isn’t half-bad.”

  Fascinated, Rafe watched her golden brown eyes widen and then close as she savored another forkful of the cold fish salad. It occurred to him that he had never known a more sensuous woman. Or a more intriguing one. Her appeal, he was beginning to discover, had nothing to do with fancy clothes or being seen in all the right places with all the right people. Unlike most of the women he’d known intimately, she didn’t wait to find out what he thought about a subject and then fall all over herself agreeing. Molly argued. She could talk intelligently about a surprising number of topics, expressed curiosity about as many others and wasn’t afraid to admit she knew nothing at all about still others.

  By the time the waiter brought their dinners, they had demolished the appetizers. Without asking, Rafe lifted two hush puppies, a crab cake and several fried scallops off his plate and onto hers. “You need all the seafood you can get while you’re here. It’s got all sorts of health benefits.”

  “It also has a zillion calories when it comes breaded and fried.”

  “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”

  “No, and don’t bother.” She sampled a fried scallop and closed her eyes in ecstasy. “I’m overdressed, for one thing. Look around. Practically every other woman in here is wearing jeans and big, dangly earrings. Way cool, as Carly would say.”

  “That’s Carly of the belly-button jewelry, right? The neighbour’s daughter? Oh, yeah—I’d trust her fashion expertise any day.”

  Molly helped herself to a bite of his fried sea trout. “She’s only fifteen years old. Give her time.”

  “Stu was fifteen when I got him to raise. We didn’t even speak the same language.”

  “You did a good job. I don’t know him all that well yet, but I like him a lot. I trust Anna
marie’s judgment.” Better than her own, she could have said, but didn’t.

  “You know about his trust fund?”

  “Not much. Only that some day he’ll probably get some money.”

  Rafe nearly swallowed a bone. “Yeah. That’s about the size of it.”

  “He’s going to be a great history teacher. You can tell he loves his subject, just listening to him talk about it.”

  Rafe didn’t particularly care to speculate on what would happen when his half brother turned thirty-one. Unless he was a hell of a lot stronger than he looked, it was going to make a big difference. His wife would have a lot to do with how things ultimately turned out. “What do you think, fried cheese and coffee or key lime pie?”

  “What? Oh—none for me, thanks. You go ahead, though.”

  “You didn’t touch your dinner.” Made some pretty big inroads on his, but her broiled chicken and green salad had been barely touched. “What’s wrong, Molly? Are you still worrying about Dewhurst?”

  “Kenny? No, I think you opened up a whole new world for him. Of course, it probably won’t work out, but…”

  “But?”

  “Rafe, you did all anyone could ask and more. And I thank you, I really do. If he shows up again, then I’ll deal with it, okay? I’ve certainly had enough practice.”

  “Just out of curiosity, how do you usually handle it?”

  She toyed with the idea of not answering, but he had more or less made it his business earlier. “When I have it, I give him money. I refuse to let him move in with me, not even when he claims he’ll have to sleep on the street because he can’t afford security and first month’s rent on another place. The sad thing is that Kenny’s really fairly smart, in a way. He’ll get a job, work until the first payday, then quit and look for something better. He’s— I guess you could say he’s a perennial dreamer.”

  “I guess you could say he’s a perennial hustler,” Rafe said dryly.

  “He borrows money to buy lottery tickets. Every time he opens the door he expects to see someone from Publisher’s Clearing House.” She sighed and propped her chin on her linked fingers. “According to someone who used to know his family, he was a beautiful little boy. His mama spoiled him rotten, gave him everything he ever asked for, convinced him he was special and made excuses for him, no matter what he did. It was never his fault, you know? And then, once she was gone, poor Kenny found out that as far as the rest of the world was concerned, he wasn’t so special after all.”

  Rafe watched the candlelight reflected in her eyes. Large, warm, honey-colored eyes.

  “You have to feel sorry for someone like that.” That soft husky voice undercut the noise of cutlery, china and laughter all around them.

  “You do?”

  “You can’t despise a child,” she said patiently. “Kenny just never grew up.”

  Rafe shook his head slowly in amazement. How the hell did you respond to a statement like that? Instead, he changed the subject by waving a waiter over and ordering a whole key lime pie to go.

  By the time they got back to the cottage, Molly regretted having not done justice to her chicken. She had eaten the raw fish thingee and Rafe had made her sample his seafood platter. She couldn’t be hungry. But sharing the cottage with a whole key lime pie was dangerous. When her emotions were involved, she couldn’t count on her common sense to protect her. In some ways she was no wiser than Kenny.

  Rafe headed for the kitchen to put away the pie. Molly draped her shawl over a chair and tucked a few loose tendrils of hair back into her French twist, then decided to change into something more comfortable. Not that she wasn’t perfectly comfortable in her black knit outfit, but key lime pie wasn’t her greatest weakness. Rafe had told her she looked beautiful. They both knew it wasn’t so, but just to be on the safe side, she’d better change into her grungiest everyday clothes. She was who she was and Rafe was who he was, and no matter what he’d told Kenny about being her new husband, that was one twain that would never meet.

  If Kenny came after her again and wanted to know where her husband was, she would tell him—

  Nothing. She didn’t have to tell him one darned thing. In case Rafe was worried, she wanted him to know that she had no intention of perpetuating the lie. Feet on the ground and cards on the table, that was her policy from now on.

  Back in her jeans and a sweatshirt that had seen better days, she marched into the living room intent on clearing the air. Rafe beat her to the draw. “Uhoh, you’ve got that look in your eye.”

  “What look?”

  “Militant. Is something bugging you? You’re not still upset because I told whatsisname we were married, are you? Molly, where’ve you been for the past fifty years?”

  “Not in your circles, obviously. And anyway, he couldn’t have believed it.”

  “Something’s on your mind. I haven’t seen that Molly-on-the-warpath look in days.”

  “I told you, there’s nothing on my mind. I’m happy as a clam, so happy I’m going to have a bite of that pie. Do you want me to cut you a slice?”

  He studied her with curious eyes. “I’ll wait a while.”

  She made it a tiny slice. Just a teensy sample. Crisis food, she told herself now that the crisis had passed. Back in the living room a few minutes later, she chose one of the two straight chairs, set her pie on the bookshelf and launched her attack. “All right, we can agree on one thing—you’re leaving tomorrow, but chances are, we might run into each other from time to time. You being Stu’s brother and me being Annamarie’s sister and all. So—”

  “You think the world’s going to come to an end if people think we’ve slept together? And you’re how old, Molly—thirty-five?”

  “Thirty-six,” she snapped.

  Touched and amused, Rafe watched her struggle with the idea. Color bloomed on her cheeks, competing with the twin streaks of rouge. Racing stripes, they were called among the women he knew. “Honey,” he said softly, “this is the twenty-first century. Women have the vote, they hold public office—they pretty much do as they please, and no one holds them accountable.” Except maybe for their kids, he thought, but the bitterness he’d once felt toward his own mother had long since lost its edge.

  “So? What’s your point?”

  “My point is this. Unless you’ve got a few more jealous men lurking in your background, I think we can forget having to explain anything. I don’t know about your sister, but Stu won’t have a problem with our being here together.”

  “Oh. Well, I wasn’t actually concerned. I mean, for goodness’ sake, we’re both certainly old enough, and—well, people live together all the time and nobody gives it a second thought. It’s just that things are different in real small towns, and anyway—”

  “Molly.”

  “And even in Grover’s Hollow we have cable, so it’s not like we—”

  “Molly,” he said again, but she was on a roll. Thank God he’d tossed sheets over the cages or the birds would be adding their two cents’ worth. Covered, they were somewhat quieter.

  Rafe levered himself out of the sagging easy chair. Planting himself in front of her, he said her name again and then he captured her hands and drew her up into his arms. “Is this what’s got you so uptight? I believe it’s called sexual tension,” he whispered just before his mouth came down on hers.

  Rafe had it pegged. It was called sexual tension, and it had been simmering just under the surface all day.

  Seven

  She tasted as sweet as she looked. She felt just the way a woman should feel—soft and solid and warm. Resilient. Not fragile and bony, all angles and edges. The novelty of it alone was enough to encourage him, even before her arms crept around his neck and she started making squeaky little noises in her throat.

  Incendiary. That was the only word to describe what was happening. At thirty-eight, Rafe thought he had long since passed the age where testosterone overruled common sense. There were plenty of reasons for not getting involved. Trouble was, they
weren’t getting through to his brain.

  Compulsion was another word that applied. This compulsion to go on holding her, tasting her, feeling her warm body pressed against his, inhaling the essence of Molly Dewhurst. A unique blend of sexiness and innocence.

  It caught him off guard, the lack of artifice. Granted, she was a desirable woman, and granted, they’d been sharing close quarters. Granted, too, the sexual awareness that had been lurking just under the surface, feeding on itself. Chemistry happened.

  The trouble was, there just might be something more than chemistry involved. Not only did he find himself wanting to explore every delectable inch of her body, he wanted to reach inside her mind and explore the warm, disarming, engaging woman that was Molly Dewhurst. That was downright scary.

  “Mercy,” she whispered breathlessly. She was clinging to his ears with both hands as her eyes slowly opened to stare wonderingly at his face. “Did you just kiss me, or did I imagine it?”

  His amused response held an edge of desperation. “If you don’t know, then maybe my technique is getting rusty.”

  “Oh, no—it’s just fine! I mean, you do it really well.” She closed her eyes and bopped her head against his chest. “Why not just shut up before you make a complete fool of yourself, Molly Lou?” she muttered fiercely.

  The cat was sleeping on the sofa. With one hand, Rafe waved him away. The sofa was too narrow for what he had in mind, but then that might be a good thing. With any other woman in these same circumstances, bed would have been the next logical step. But this was Molly, not any other woman. He wasn’t exactly sure of the rules here; he only knew that the old rules didn’t apply.

  One thing was clear—that loser she’d been married to had obviously been too damned self-centered to know how to treat a woman. Rafe knew how to treat a woman. He’d made it something of an art. Trouble was, Molly deserved more than quick, convenient, a-good-time-was-had-by-all sex. And that was all he could offer.

  “Uh—maybe I’ll have some pie after all,” he said, gently disengaging himself. The cat leapt back up on the sofa and glared at him as if to say, Hey, if you’re not going to use this thing, buddy, butt out!