“Come on out as soon as you’re ready. I made fresh coffee.”
“You told me I needed sleep. You said we’d wait until morning to talk about what had to be done.”
“I lied. I’ll give you a choice, though—go to bed, turn off the light, and if you’re snoring within five minutes, I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re planning on lying there in the dark, fretting about how four people are going to fit into a five-room cottage, or how we’re all going to get there, then you might as well join me in a nightcap while we go over a plan of operations.”
Molly sighed. Under cover of the damp bath towel she had managed to pull on her pajama pants, tug them up and tie the drawstring, thankful the waist was adjustable. She couldn’t think of anything more embarrassing than eating an enormous meal and then not being able to get into her clothes.
Tomorrow. Absolutely, without fail tomorrow she would start on the diet of her life, with no time-outs, no excuses, no chocolate rewards for losing two pounds that caused her to gain three more. Not one single forbidden bite until she had lost fifteen pounds. It wasn’t enough, but it was a start. At Mary Etta’s statuesque five-foot-ten, fifteen extra pounds would hardly even be noticeable, but at five-foot two, those pounds made the difference between the upper-end of average for a large-framed woman—which she wasn’t—and overweight. All the charts said so. Charts might lie, but Molly’s mirror didn’t. Nor had Kenny. For a guy who poured on the smarmy charm like maple syrup when it suited his purpose, her ex-husband knew just how to boost his own ego by slicing hers up into small, bleeding bits. Dumbo had been one of his kinder pet names.
“Black, with one sweetener, right?”
She sighed and buttoned her pajama top up under her chin. “One cup of coffee and that’s it. We can talk until I finish, but then I’m going to bed.”
After he left the room, she used the hotel’s hair dryer for a few minutes, but her hair was too thick and she gave up halfway though. She’d been exhausted before the long, hot soak. Now she felt like a flower-scented zombie. Back when she’d been working two jobs, plus a third on weekends, she’d been younger. Now, at thirty-six, she felt old as the West Virginia hills.
When she came into the lounge, Rafe handed her a thin, gold-banded cup and saucer. “I’ll be on the phone first thing tomorrow with the insurance people and the DMV. Then I want to check the car ads in the morning paper. While I do that, why don’t you take the rental and go shopping? There’s a mall not far away—we passed it on the way to the hotel earlier, remember?”
The thought of trying to find her way around a strange city was daunting, however Molly had tackled worst things in her life. “Fine. Have you got a list for your brother? You’d better specify brands and sizes, because I don’t know all that much about men’s clothes.” Molly shopped at discount stores. Kenny had insisted on buying his things from the most expensive men’s store in Morgantown, or ordering from those fancy catalogs that sold battered milking stools for hundreds of dollars and priced faded cotton as if it were woven gold.
She sipped her coffee, hoping the caffeine would kick in while they discussed plans for tomorrow. “We should be able to get the basics out of the way by about ten,” Rafe said. “I’ll meet you back here when you’re through shopping and we’ll run out to the hospital and see if we can bail the honeymooners out. After that we’ll grab some lunch and then leave them here while you and I check out the car dealers.”
Molly nodded silently. She knew what it was like to be broke. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have lost everything, right down to driver’s license and Social Security card. Some things could not be replaced at the corner drugstore. “Won’t Stu want to pick out his own car?”
“He trusts me.”
Leaning back in her chair Molly tucked her bare feet up beside her and studied the man across from her. Mercy, he was beautiful. That sun-streaked hair hadn’t come from any bottle, any more than that spectacular tan had. Molly had belatedly developed an excellent instinct for phonies, and whatever else he was, Rafe was no phony—he was genuine to the bone. You could take him or leave him; he couldn’t care less. Everything about him practically shouted that message.
And Molly would have given her last earthly possession to take him, but that wasn’t a choice she’d been offered, except on a strictly temporary basis. Once Stu and Annamarie were settled, Rafe would go back to the lifestyle of the rich and famous and she would go back to the lifestyle of a head-housekeeper at Holly Hills Home.
“Isn’t that right?”
“Isn’t what right?”
“Wake up, darling. You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said for the past five minutes, have you?”
“I warned you I wasn’t up to a serious planning session tonight.”
“You did.” He stood and held out his hand. Molly sighed and took it, but only because she honestly didn’t think she possessed the strength to resist. He tugged her to her feet and then held her in a loose embrace, his chin resting on the top of her head. “Molly, Molly, what am I going to do about you?” he murmured, his voice almost too soft to be heard over the clumsy thump-ka-thud of her heart.
“I don’t know,” she said simply. Hopefully. Hopelessly.
“I know what I’d like to do, but let’s get this other business sorted out first.”
Rafe had been asleep for about three hours. There’d been a time when he could go without sleep for thirty-six hours without losing his edge. Now it was more like twenty-four. He could still fall asleep within minutes, catnap and wake up fresh and ready to meet trouble head on, but he rarely slept so deeply that the slightest sound didn’t bring him instantly alert.
He was instantly alert. Silently he slipped out of bed and felt for his khakis. By the time he reached Molly’s bedroom door, he was marginally decent. He listened, not knowing what he was listening for, but knowing he would recognize it if it came again.
Thump! The sound of muffled curses. He opened the door a crack and peered into the darkness, wondering how good hotel security was, wishing he had brought along his own protection. Even four star hotels had their share of break-ins.
“Oh, dammit, dammit, dammit.” Molly’s voice. She sounded as if she were in pain, but not as if she were fighting off an intruder. He’d been in enough tight situations to recognize the difference.
Reaching inside the door, he switched on the entry light, all sixty watts of it. She was sitting on the floor clutching one foot, rocking back and forth and muttering, “Dammit, dammit, dammit” in a dull monotone. Stifling the urge to laugh, he entered, leaving the door open. “Got a problem?”
“My toe—or rather, my leg and my toe.” And then she uttered a basic four letter word that was so un-Molly-like he had to laugh.
Kneeling before her, he took her foot into his own hands. “Let me guess. Another blister? You got up to go to the bathroom and stubbed your toe?”
“I got a leg cramp and got up to walk it off and tripped over that—that damn-blasted chair!” She glared at the guilty chair, but as Rafe began to massage her calf and the small, childlike foot, she sighed and closed her eyes. “I can do that myself. I was getting ready to.”
“Hush up and let my magic fingers go to work. Your arms are too short, remember?” He was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her, beside the bed. The covers were spilling onto the floor, as if the bed itself had been under attack.
“This is getting to be an embarrassing habit,” she muttered. “You and my feet.”
“You need to take better care of yourself. Is this better?”
“I take excellent care of myself. I always have.”
“Right,” he said with a knowing look as he gently manipulated the spasming muscles at the back of her leg.
She flinched when he touched a trigger spot, and Rafe smoothed the place with long, slow strokes, watching her mouth tense, then soften. Watching the way her gold-tipped russet eyelashes curled on her cheek when her eyes were closed. After a while s
he said, “I always walk. Even when I’m tied to my desk all day, I always walk at least a couple of miles. Today I didn’t.”
“Mmm.” There was the faintest dusting of fine, transparent hair on her lower legs, none at all above the knee. She didn’t shave, and for some reason, that struck him as incredibly arousing. No polish on her toenails. She was pure, plain Molly. What you saw was what you got.
He very much liked what he saw. And what he felt. And the heady scent of warm, sleepy woman with overtones of some fruity-scented body lotion. Liked it too much…and that was beginning to be a problem.
The trouble with Molly was that she was nothing at all like the women who had left their mark on his life to a greater or lesser degree, starting with his mother, a Vegas showgirl. Gorgeous even somewhere in her early sixties, Stella loved romance with a capital R. She had married often and loved every one of her husbands, but if she’d ever had a maternal bone in her body, it had yet to be discovered.
Molly was purring, her eyes almost closed, but not quite. Funny thing about women. His ex-wife, eighteen at the time they were married, had never liked being touched. He hadn’t seen her—had scarcely even thought about her in the sixteen years since their divorce. But he could still remember how he’d felt when she’d announced shortly after their wedding that she would do the Dirty Deed with him whenever he required her to, but she preferred to sleep alone.
At the time he’d been as hormone-driven as any normal nineteen-year-old. Once he realized she meant it, he’d told her she was flat-out crazy. With nothing else to sustain it, their brief marriage had gone downhill from there. It had been years before he’d trusted his judgment with any woman. Even now, he never asked for more than he was prepared to offer, which definitely ruled out any emotional involvement.
Until Molly.
Over the years, he’d run pretty true to type where women were concerned. Invariably he was drawn to brunettes. One of the sexiest women he’d ever known had a sleek cap of blue-black hair and almond-shaped eyes the color of green seedless grapes. Molly’s hair was long, reddish brown and inclined to curl. Her eyes were as round and brown as chestnuts.
He’d always been turned on by tall women, athletic types with long legs, lean bodies and small breasts. Molly was short and well-rounded, generously endowed in every area.
The one thing that was nonnegotiable in the women he guardedly allowed into his life was detachment. No clinging vines. No demands on either side. The only reason he had broken off with Belle, who fit all his requirements to a T, was that, approaching the age of forty she had discovered a long-buried nesting urge.
Molly dropped off the charts in every single category. A woman who had helped raise two sisters? No way. She was one of those women whatsername sang about—people who needed people. If she’d struck out on her own after her folks had been killed, leaving her sisters with other relatives, it might be different, but she wasn’t the type to shirk her responsibilities.
Right. Like you didn’t take on the care and feeding of a fifteen-year-old kid when you were barely making it yourself.
Okay, so they both had a few weaknesses. All the more reason not to get any more involved than they already were, Rafe told himself.
“Your hands have got to be tired. I’m all right now, honestly. See?” She wiggled her toes. Small, straight toes with nails as pink as the inside of a conch shell.
“You sure? You’ve got a long list tomorrow.”
“Just move that blasted chair on your way out, will you?”
Rafe was grateful for the dim lighting. It didn’t take much candlepower to recognize temptation when it was lying back, propped back on a pair of dimpled elbows with one knee bent, one leg resting across his lap. Those flannel pajamas of hers, with the rabbitprint collar and cuffs, were definitely not one of Victoria’s secrets. He started to ease her foot onto the floor. She sighed. He slid his hands to the back of her knee and heard her catch her breath.
“You’re ticklish,” he accused.
“Only when you touch me behind the knees,” she gasped.
Well, naturally, he had to test her.
One thing led to another—later, the only conclusion he could draw was that they both wanted what followed. His fingers traced the dimples at the back of her knee and she planted her stubby little foot on his chest and shoved. Like a kid—like a feisty ten-year-old kid. He retaliated by rolling over her and tickling her ribs.
One thing led to another. The bedding was half on the floor by then. So he dragged it the rest of the way. Making love to a woman on even the best grade of commercial carpet simply wasn’t his style, and he knew what was going to happen. At some level, he’d known it when he’d opened her door.
Ten
Fingering the soft, rumpled fabric of her pajama top, Rafe said, “Is this what you always sleep in?”
“Yes—no—sometimes.”
“I like a woman who knows her own mind.”
The pajama top came unbuttoned as if by magic. Molly had a stern mental talk with herself about the advisability of deliberately courting disaster. It lasted all of thirty seconds. She tried to tell herself she couldn’t possibly be in love with the man, not after less than a week, but it felt more like love than anything she had ever before experienced. Even at the very first, when she’d been suspicious of him and tried to talk him into leaving, it was as if she had recognized him at some deep, subconscious level. If only he had recognized her in the same way….
Still, she would have this much, no matter what.
This time they were equal partners. The same wild magic that had propelled them headlong into ecstasy the first time they had made love prevailed once more, but now there was the added element of tenderness. The feeling that this would be a farewell gift made her want to weep.
Lifting his mouth from her breast, Rafe moved down her body. “Let me—” he whispered hoarsely.
“Oh, please—you can’t,” she said as shivers of sheer pleasure raced though her boneless body.
He could, and he did, and long moments later, Molly cried out her pleasure. Then, with the coals of passion still glowing, he came into her and they rocked together, holding on tightly, murmuring soft broken words until they succumbed to an avalanche of sheer, mindless sensation.
Rafe watched her guardedly the following morning. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, but he could feel her gaze focus on him the moment he turned away. There was a sense of sadness about her that didn’t make sense. God knows, the last thing he wanted was to have her regret what had happened. Briefly he considered bringing it up—cards on the table, so to speak—but sex was something he’d never felt comfortable discussing. Especially when he was still feeling off balance. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was; he only knew that some vital element in his life had changed.
Before he thought too deeply about it—if he had to think about it at all—he preferred to put some distance between them. About a thousand miles should put things in perspective. “How’re your leg cramps?”
She looked for a moment as if he’d tossed her a live mouse. Then, ignoring his question, she picked up her list and read off, “Two sets of clothes, under and outer, for both. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, moisturizer—Annamarie doesn’t need much makeup. Do you know what Stu needs for shaving? Brands and everything? And they’ll need pens and a notepad to list things as they think of them and…whatever.”
Rafe named a well-known brand of shaving cream and suggested a pack of disposable razors. “Stu had his wallet on him. Your sister lost her purse, so that’ll mean a new drivers’ license, new Social Security card—”
“New library card.”
“Oh, yeah, can’t forget library card,” he said dryly, and that brought a smile to her lips. It felt as if the sun had just come blazing out after a three-day hurricane.
By the time they finished breakfast they had allocated duties. Molly went over her lists while Rafe scribbled notes on the hotel stationery and waited impatiently fo
r the insurance office to open. Neither of them mentioned the night before, but it hovered like a third presence in the room. They avoided looking directly at each other, avoided mentioning anything even faintly personal.
Molly was all efficiency, dressing quickly in her black top and jeans. She was down to her last clean outfit. Thank goodness the waistband wasn’t too tight today. Occasionally she played games with herself, telling herself it was only water weight, but weight was weight. Measurements were measurements. And Molly was nothing if not a realist.
Thanks to her new pomegranate-pink lipstick and a touch of blusher, the shadows beneath her eyes weren’t so noticeable. Glancing at her watch, she said, “The stores should be open now. I want to allow enough time to find the mall—I think it’s on this same street, about two or three blocks south. Or was it north?”
Rafe pointed toward a colorful serigraph on the wall beside the door. “Which direction is that?”
Molly blinked. “Out?”
He shook his head. “Just ask directions from the concierge.”
“The what?”
“It’s a who. Lady in the lobby, behind the standalone desk with the big, potted anthurium.”
She scowled at him. “I knew that,” she said when it was plain as day that she’d known nothing of the kind.
Which might have been what prompted Rafe to cross the floor just as she reached for her purse, take her in his arms and kiss her on the mouth. It was a soft kiss, not at all passionate, yet all the more devastating for that. Because there was that tenderness again. Passion was one thing, she told herself—passion could flare up for purely chemical reasons and burn itself out within minutes.
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