A rational sector of his mind urged calm, counseled him to be cool. The rest of his thoughts flapped around like a flock of panicked geese. They had a routine. She smiled and waved on the way to the counter. He smiled and waved as was expected, then took refuge behind the fortress of the sports page.
He could sense her legs even through the newsprint.
* * * *
From behind the counter, Dee whistled at Kate's approach. “Ooh la la, girl! You look spiffy!"
Kate looked at Dee, then at Paul behind his paper. Nothing. No reaction. I can't believe it. She glared at the newspaper, clawed it with her eyes. Dressed as a knight in shining armor, or a fuzzy pink bunny, she might have provoked a raised brow. But her legs in heels? Nothing.
Dee put two extra large double mocha soy lattes on the counter. “Big day today, right?"
Kate wrapped each hand around a hot paper cup. “Big day today.” She looked at Dee, and Dee at her, and they shared a moment of silent communion. They never spoke openly of Paul, but Dee had made a silent campaign to grow their flirting into something serious. She was also the one least interested in buying Kate's stance that Paul Tristel was merely Breakfast Paul, an inconsequential quirk in her career-focused life.
Kate lifted her eyebrows and pursed her lips. You'd think he'd have noticed.
Dee shrugged. Who can figure that one out? Best luck to ya, girlfriend.
With that anemic support, Kate picked up the lattes and started back towards the sofa. As usual, right beside Paul's mug on the long, low table was the mug of that horrid black goo he insisted, every day, on buying for her. She put his mocha soy latte beside his mug of black goo, moved her mug of black goo from the coaster and placed her mocha soy latte there instead.
By rough calculation, Kate believed that the ongoing coffee cold war had cost her $960.00 in tenaciously untasted mocha soy lattes, and Paul $585.00 on ignored black goo. Tax not included. Two of the world's most tenacious souls, wasting time and money on a stupid, year-long game.
She flopped down just a little too hard on the sofa beside him. A slight adjustment of his leg away from hers was his only reaction. Kate resisted the urge to kick him.
Paul handed her the front page, barely flicking his eyes from the sports scores. “Big day today, right?"
Kate gave him a brisk, businesswoman's nod before she flipped open the front page. “Big day today, right.” She realized that she'd stopped thinking of the court appearance as what made the day big. She hadn't thought of anything but his reaction to her appearance since she left the house. Now, like a maraschino cherry dropped onto a tower of whipped cream, her misgivings about court plopped on her head.
"Are you nervous?” Paul asked.
"Of course not."
Paul folded down the corner of the sports page and regarded her with narrowed eyes. Even though he seemed oblivious to her legs in heels, he hadn't missed her little lie. Kate found it unnerving that, of all the people in the world, a man with whom she'd only ever shared breakfast knew her well enough to catch her in a lie.
"I'm sure you'll do great,” Paul said after a moment, his lips lifting in a trace of a smile. “But what you need is caffeine. Fortify yourself for the day.” He picked up the mug of black goo and held it out, his face a picture of concerned innocence.
Kate looked from his smile, which was quickly degenerating into that smirk she hated so much, to the mug of black goo. Every damn morning. It made her want to laugh. But she didn't. She wouldn't. If he wasn't going to notice her legs, she wasn't going to let him win the laughing game.
She took the mug from his hand, very careful not to let their fingers touch. She put it back down on the table, picked up her mocha soy latte, and took a long, scalding gulp. When she came up for air, she knew she'd succeeded. She could feel the warm nubbin of soymilk foam on the tip of her nose.
Paul's eyes widened and lips twitched. “Kate, um, you have...” She could see him debate whether she'd done it on purpose or by accident as his gaze flickered from her nose to her eyes. He pointed to his own nose, keeping his expression serious. “You have foam."
Kate lifted her eyebrows and crossed her eyes, trying to pinpoint the location of the foam at the tip of her nose.
Paul took a very, very deep breath.
Oh, come on, laugh, Kate thought. But he wouldn't. He just stared at her. Then he smirked again. Okay, so she loved that smirk. She'd never admit it to him, especially not now when he didn't notice her legs. Using one finger, Kate lifted the warm soymilk foam from the tip of her nose. Without changing her expression, she leaned forward—making certain that the low scoop of her neckline framed everything nicely—and deposited the foam on the tip of Paul's nose.
Try not to laugh at that!
* * * *
There are freckles on her chest. Paul's heart pushed against his throat. There are freckles. On her chest. He concentrated on her face, on the freckles he knew, and tried to look fierce. What he wanted to do was push her back against the cushions, run his hands through that preposterous hair, and kiss her until she was gasping.
Kate tilted an eyebrow, looking quizzical and innocent. He felt the foam start to slide, clinging precariously to the tip of his nose, but it just didn't matter. He couldn't tear his awareness away from the gleam in her green eyes and the freckles on her chest and the steady rise and fall of her breasts under the red angora. He had to win the laughing game and win fast, because he couldn't go on with the teasing, not with freckles on her chest, and her legs and oh, God. He hadn't touched a woman in years. Decades. Almost a century.
"Very saucy sort of maneuver, Kate, even for you,” he said. His voice came out a shade too low, too husky. She noticed, and her brows tipped curiously. He wanted to push her down against the sofa, run his hand up her skirt. He wanted it so badly that his hands shook. I have to win NOW.
Sacrificing any pretense to dignity, he rubbed away the foam with his shirtsleeve, making pig grunts.
Her eyes flew open and her mouth popped into a surprised “o” before she threw up the barrier of the newspaper. And there it was. She laughed! Covered badly by a cough, but she laughed.
"Aha! You're laughing back there."
"I am not!” Kate protested. “I'm not laughing. I'm choking on my coffee.” She made strangled noises, then guttural hacks, like she was dredging up the bottom of her lungs.
Paul laughed.
Kate dropped her paper, declaring, “I win!"
"You can't win, I already won.” He sat back, feeling smug. “He who laughs second, laughs last."
Irritation brightened the gleam in her eyes. Her emotions always played like a Broadway show across her face. He wondered how passion might look. How would her cheeks flush? Would her lips tremble?
Her brow suddenly smoothed. The gleam in her eye put Paul on guard.
"Okay.” She gave him an airy smile. Then she uncrossed and crossed her legs with deliberate slow grace. Up went the skirt, high up her thigh. “You win."
Paul stared helplessly at her exposed leg. His hand twitched and curled into a fist. He could feel the heat of her skin under his palm even though he hadn't even touched her. Something long captured inside him broke loose. He knew he couldn't stop himself from touching her, from kissing her, right here in the coffee house. He raised his eyes, knowing that when he looked into her piquant face, he would lose all control, and he couldn't wait to be free.
But instead of Kate's green eyes he saw another pair, staring sightlessly out of his memories. Horror overwhelmed him. What was he doing? He had to stop now! But now was too late. Kate's expression exploded with outrage; she mistook his expression of horror to be for the display of her glorious leg.
Apologies leaped to his lips, but he didn't have a chance to speak them. Her expression shifted from indignation to humiliation.
"Oh no, I'm sorry.” She tugged furiously at her skirt's hem, then put her hands over her face. “God, how embarrassing. I didn't know."
Know what? Fear f
rosted Paul's heart. She couldn't know. He'd never, ever tell her.
She spread her fingers and peeked out at him. “I didn't know, Paul. I didn't know you're gay."
"But I'm not!” The words popped out at the same moment an inner voice shouted, Stupid, stupid, be gay, be gay! Being gay was a much better reason why he couldn't love her. Being gay was so much easier than trying to explain how every night his bones were crushed and his spirit broken, and what was left of his soul ... “Wait, yes. Yes, you're right, I'm gay.” He gave a decisive nod, met her eyes, and gave up any chance he might ever have to kiss her. “I'm gay."
* * * *
The ridiculous words stabbed Kate. She dropped her hands from her face. “What?” It was bad enough seeing him look like a cat about to be thrown in a wood chipper when she flashed her leg. Now he was telling her outrageous lies. God, I hope it's a lie. “You're either gay or you find me repulsive, Paul. Which is it really?"
She stared at him, unflinching, ruthless, as he just sat there, mouth open like some stupid fish, hooked and gasping.
"Ummm..."
"Which is it, Paul?” Whichever option he picked, gay or just repulsed, she was going to throw the mug of black goo down his shirt and storm out.
"Umm...” He looked at his wrist, which didn't have a watch on it. “Aren't you going to be late?"
Way wrong answer. Kate reached for the mug of black goo.
"No, no, no!” Paul lunged forward and grasped her wrist. Kate's head came up, and they both froze. Her face was only inches away from his. She could see the outline of his lower lashes against his cheek, the even ridge of white teeth between his parted lips. She felt the tickle of his suddenly indrawn breath.
She'd never noticed the way Paul smelled before. Her world narrowed to the scent of Irish Spring and the hot-dryer perfume of fabric softener, the bitter tang of black goo over toothpaste. And a wisp of something more. A musky something rising up from the hollow where his collarbone met his throat. For that moment, she didn't give a damn about anyone anywhere ever finding social justice.
"Please don't be gay,” Kate whispered.
He brushed his thumb over the pulse point at her wrist. Kate felt the touch enter her vein and swim through her blood. He lifted her hand and, closing his eyes, he pressed a kiss into her palm. She felt the touch of his lips echo across every nerve ending. She curled her fingers around his cheek, finding a rough spot he'd missed shaving. He moved his mouth in light, tickling kisses to her wrist, and Kate suddenly became aware that the coffee shop had gone unnaturally quiet.
"People are staring,” she whispered.
Paul opened his eyes and peered around. The edges of his mouth twitched. “Perhaps this is not the most appropriate moment..."
Kate hadn't thought her heart could beat faster, but it did. No one had ever set her skin on fire by kissing her palm and her wrist. How could she have believed that this man would ever just be breakfast? “I...” She swallowed. “I like to keep my mind open about what's appropriate."
"Oh you do?” His eyebrow quirked. The index finger of his right hand brushed the inside of her knee.
The flicker of a touch sent a spasm through the muscle of her thigh. He saw it, and the quality of his smile kicked up her pulse.
"How about that? Appropriate?"
It wasn't, really. Her parents were probably peering down from heaven, scandalized that on her biggest career day, she was having serious turn-on for breakfast. But for the first time since they died, she just didn't care.
"Perfectly appropriate."
He shifted on the sofa, using his body to block them from the sight of most of the patrons. His knee nudged slightly between hers. His fingers walked up the inside of her thigh.
"Still appropriate?” he whispered.
Kate met his eyes, touched her lower lip with her tongue. Her voice lowered. “I think you're just being polite."
He chuckled.
"Made you laugh."
His fingers slid higher. Another three inches, and they could be arrested.
From Kate's briefcase came the shrill ring-tones of her cell. Paul jerked his hand away. Kate jumped to her feet. The moment burst like a bubble. Cups clinked and voices chattered. The television blared and the cell phone rang. Kate grabbed the thing, turned her back, and answered, “Scott."
"Kate.” The voice belonged to David Dowd, her boss. “We have a big problem."
* * * *
Paul heard the slight quiver in her voice as she answered. Then her spine straightened and she all but shouted into her phone. “They did what?"
The anger in her voice brought Paul to his feet as well, overwhelmed with the urge to punish whoever had crossed her.
"Well did you tell her?” Kate threw up her free hand. “That's great.” Sarcasm spiked her words. “I'm glad you saved it for me. Is it Christmas or my birthday?” A short pause. “I'll be right there. Just ... don't ... do ... anything. I'll take care of it."
Kate clicked the phone shut and muttered a stream of obscenities in a poem that had the rhythm of long practice. Then she turned to Paul. She looked like she'd just run over a baby squirrel with her car.
"This is what happens,” she said, “when you forget what's important.” She grabbed her briefcase. “I've got to go. Goodbye."
It sounded so final. “Goodbye?"
She was already halfway across the coffee shop, the red suede heels clicking decisively against the floor.
"Kate?"
The bell on the door clanged as she pulled it open. Paul grabbed her soy mocha latte and followed. “Kate!"
She didn't stop. She opened the door of her blue Chevy, threw the briefcase onto the passenger seat. “I have to go,” she said. “I don't have time for this."
Paul read the conflict in her easily. Like recognized like. She had her career to keep them apart. He had his curse.
He realized that she was waiting, her hand on the open car door, her face turned away.
"You forgot your coffee,” he said, instead of I love you, Kate Scott. I've loved you for the better part of the last year. And you can't leave me now.
She flicked a glance towards the steaming paper cup. “You drink it. I have to go. I'm sorry."
Paul realized that she wasn't apologizing for leaving early. She was apologizing for letting things get out of hand. She was apologizing for the fact that she was never planning to come back. Panic jolted him. No breakfasts with Kate, no reason to stay sane.
He lifted the paper cup and drank. It tasted like scalded sugar, and it was unnaturally thick from the soymilk. But he drank it. When he took the last gulp he could stand, he knew he'd succeeded. He felt a warm wet nubbin of soymilk foam on the tip of his nose.
She was staring at him. When he moved the cup away from his mouth, a reluctant flash of a smile lit her face. “You have...” She pointed to her nose. “Foam."
He crossed his eyes to see it, and this time she laughed. He knew his eyes were pleading with her. Don't let this end.
Her smile faded. “I have to get to work.” But she didn't move.
Neither did he. “Promise you'll be back tomorrow."
Kate stared at him. He felt her eyes moving over him as if she were running all ten fingertips over his shoulders, down his stomach. When she reached his belt, her eyes flicked away fast.
"Of course I'll be back tomorrow.” Her smile trembled, and she didn't meet his eyes. “Tomorrow morning, bright and early."
Paul scooped the nubbin of soymilk foam onto the tip of his finger. He held it out to her, an offering, a dare, a pact. If she was really coming back, he knew she would just laugh at him. But if she really meant to leave forever...
Kate stretched her neck, parted her lips, and closed them around his extended finger. He felt her teeth scrape the first knuckle, her tongue curl around the fingertip. A goodbye finger-suck instead of a goodbye kiss. She pulled away, and Paul closed his hand into a fist.
"Bye, Paul.” She got into the car, closed the door
.
All Paul could do was stare. She was serious.
She started the engine and backed out of the parking lot without waving. Her car swirled through the coating of leaves on the road as she drove away.
I have to get her back.
Chapter Three
Getting her back just for breakfast, though, wasn't going to be enough. Now that he'd had a glimpse of paradise, he couldn't go back to purgatory. For hours he'd debated, deciding and then undeciding, then deciding again. But as his mind played over the memory loop of breakfast—the freckles on her chest, the contrast of white teeth and red lips—he knew he had no choice. He wanted his life back. He wanted to get old and, until he died, he wanted to make Kate laugh, and make her tremble when he touched her. For that, he was willing to risk the witches.
Paul navigated the Mercedes down the half-mile of wagon tracks he thought he'd never see again. The car scraped bottom and lurched as he eased around a tight curve. Tree limbs scraped at the window, as if all of nature were trying to hold him back.
Maybe the trees had a point. Here he was again, taking risks, making bad choices, just to have a woman who captivated him. But these feelings for Kate were new, different. It was more than just a hungry cock and the thrill of the chase. Wasn't it?
The wagon-track drive ended at a two-story brick house, crumbling at the edges and overgrown with the brown remains of climbing roses. Paul parked under a gnarled apple tree. No smoke drifted from the chimney on this blaze-blue October day. Cats scattered from the porch when he closed the car door. Warm sunlight pressed against him, raising the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck. He leaned against the car door and let his head fall back. He pulled the tail of his shirt from his waistband and lifted it, giving the sun more access to his skin. The breeze skittered up the plane of his stomach, and his imagination turned the cool soft touch to a warm wet one. He envisioned Kate licking her way up past his belly button. His groin tightened and he laughed with delight at the hungry sensations prowling through his nerves.
Bonds of Darkness Page 2