by Shirley Jump
To hell with Jerry. To hell with the location. The movie.
This moment was about her. And Duncan.
“You’re so wet,” he said, stepping closer, his finger slipping beneath her collar again, fire against her skin. His dark eyes caught hers. She watched his Adam’s apple bob up. Down. “Maybe I should go before we end up doing something we both—”
“Stay,” Allie said, the decision already made. She was grown up, a bold Allie Dean now, no longer the nervous, afraid-to-be-rejected Allison Gray. “I might need help with a button…” She grinned. “Or something.”
“Or something,” he echoed. His gaze roamed over her face, intent. Studying her, deep and piercing. “Who are you?”
For a second, she panicked, thinking he’d guessed her identity, then she caught his gaze and saw the tease in his blue eyes. “Me? I’m just Allie.”
“Well, Just Allie, you’re making me forget.”
“Forget what?”
He traced along her jaw, his gaze so intent, she nearly had to look away. “Everything.”
More lingered in his words, his look, than Allie wanted to deal with. She intended revenge, a love-him-and-leave-him strategy, not to care about Duncan Henry or what he was trying to forget.
Get in, get out, her mind screamed.
But her heart flickered to life, demanding she care about this man. That she remember the boy who’d called her Grace and once told her he liked her eyes because they were the only honest ones he knew.
Her plan was going wrong, but it was the kind of blissful wrong she couldn’t turn away from, couldn’t stop. Want pulsed through her veins, throbbed in her pelvis, overriding every sensible thought.
“Forget with me,” Duncan whispered.
She was a goner. To hell with the plan. “You’re right,” she said, watching him, smiling and loving the way he smiled back. Loving that power. “I better get out of these wet clothes.” She began to unbutton her blouse, one tiny pearl button, then another.
Duncan’s hungry gaze followed the movement of her fingers. The last button stuck a little but she wriggled it out, then parted the two front panels of the shirt. His eyes took in her breasts as she opened her shirt, then let it fall to the floor, heedless of the dust, the wet fabric.
“My, my, Allie Dean. Are you seducing me?” A grin teased at his lips.
“Is it working?”
“Oh yeah.” He slid a finger along the strap of her bra, the thin silk skipping beneath his touch, her skin prickling with aching fire beneath it. He took another step, closing the gap between them, her breasts crushing to his chest, pained, tight nipples sparking with the twins of agony and ecstasy. He paused, only a moment, before lowering his mouth to hers.
Allie had fantasized about Duncan Henry kissing her. Whenever their pencils had touched, those math problems bringing him to her desk, his head so close she could catch the scent of his cologne, discern the flecks of gold in his dark brown hair. And her imagination would run, distracting her from cosines and tangents.
She’d imagined every type of kiss. Soft, hard, slow, fast. A hundred scenarios, as varied as cable channels.
But she had gotten it all wrong.
Duncan kissed her sweet. Tender. Easy, as if he treasured her, couldn’t believe he had her in his arms. She’d expected heat and passion, speed and strength. Not a man who took the time to stoke the fire within her one ember at a time, his thumb tracing an agonizing pattern along her jaw, making her feel—
Special.
Cherished.
Oh damn. This was so not part of the plan.
She ran her hands up his back, the slick fabric sliding easily beneath her touch, giving her access to every ridge, every ripple. Her mouth ranged over his, tasting the warmth and salt of his skin, feeling the skip of stubble across her chin. It was everything she’d imagined and more, so very, very much more.
His cell phone began to ring, the tinny sound cutting the mood like a knife. Duncan cursed, then broke away, regret clear in his features. He glanced down at the number, then back again at Allie. “I have to go.”
“Go?” She could barely breathe and he was leaving? This kiss, a kiss she had dreamed of for years, was ending before it had barely begun.
“I’m sorry.” He glanced at her lips, then met her gaze. “You have no idea how sorry. But I’m already late.”
Reality slammed into Allie. She’d almost made a huge mistake and gotten involved with the very man who had broken her heart seven years ago. If anything, that cell phone had been a wake-up call, not an interruption—and a reminder to get back to her real reason for being here.
“Don’t apologize,” Allie said. “Because I’ll be back. After all, we still have unfinished business.” Before he could say anything, she placed a finger on his lips. “I changed my mind, Mr. Henry. I want your house more than you.”
Then she picked up and slipped on her shirt, turned, and left before she could believe any of that moment had been real.
And that Duncan Henry was anything other than the charming playboy she used to know.
Chapter 7
The plate was the first to come winging its way toward Duncan’s head. He ducked and the plate hit the door behind him, shattering. The pieces fell to the floor, shooting outward in a dangerous, stoneware shrapnel arc.
The bowl came next, but Duncan lowered his head, heard the second crash, and pressed forward into the room, grabbing the mug from Katie’s hand before it too could become ammunition. “Stop, it, Katie.”
“Where were you?”
“Out.”
She yanked her hand back, trying to get the mug loose, undoubtedly intending to crack open his skull. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago. You promised we’d play Scrabble.”
“I know,” he said, sinking onto the bed. He couldn’t tell her he’d been out at the house, debating for the thousandth time whether to sell it—or torch it. His aunt had loved that big Victorian, and so had Katie. Until—
Duncan pushed the thoughts away. He peeled Katie’s fingers off the mug and laid it on the floor, pushing it away with his foot. “I’m sorry.”
“Mrs. Loman is terrible. I think she hates me. And she can’t spell, for God’s sake.” Katie pouted, then leaned against the pillows. Her eyes were bleary, her words starting to slur, the esses becoming shs. It wouldn’t be long, Duncan knew, before the worst sides of Katie emerged. Well, finished emerging, given the stoneware attack.
One of her friends—most likely Darla—thinking she was doing her a favor, had probably come by today, bringing along a bottle of rum, or vodka, or whatever Katie’s taste ran toward that day. They’d tell themselves they were doing Katie a favor, even as they left the bottles on the nightstand and fled the room, leaving behind the shell of the Katie they used to know.
For five years, Katie had been his responsibility. He was expected to be the guardian of the gate, the one who kept the Darlas of the world away. Saved Katie from the punch of Captain Morgan’s—and herself. Duncan was her older brother, the only one Katie had left.
He was supposed to take care of his little sister. But so far, he’d done a truly shitty job.
He tried. He failed. And every day, he woke up with better intentions and hopes that someday, life would return to some semblance of the normal he used to know.
Even as doctor after doctor told him that was impossible. That the sooner he accepted his sister’s condition, the better.
If he accepted the permanent paralysis, the hopelessness of Katie’s future, that meant accepting his part in making her that way. To Duncan, his guilt was the eight-hundred pound gorilla in Katie’s bedroom, weighing on his chest every time he crossed that threshold.
So he ignored the guilt by laying out the Scrabble tiles and telling Katie jokes about his forecast, Wally, the wonders of the Magic 8 Ball, always avoiding the real truth.
Because if he allowed that weight of fault to rest on his shoulders, it would surely crush him.
An
d where would that leave Katie?
Duncan planted his hands on either side of his sister, fixed his gaze on the telltale cracks of red in her eyes. “Who brought it to you today?”
She averted her gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I cleaned all the booze out of this house yesterday. And last week. And the week before that. And every damned week since you decided a bottle was a better way of dealing with this than therapy.”
She flung back the blankets and showed him her legs. Immobile for five years, they were thin and pale, more like birch sticks than limbs. “Therapy isn’t going to fix this, so go to hell, Duncan.” Her anger flared a momentary spark in her defeatist drunk. “If I want to drink, I will. It’s the only thing I have.”
“You have me, Katy-bird,” he said, lapsing into her childhood nickname, wishing he could as easily turn back the clock. For him, but most of all for Katie.
Tears shimmered in her eyes but she whisked them away with the back of her hand. “You and this friggin’ prison. Yeah, sure, I can take a ride in that stupid chair”—she winged a hand toward the seat that had gathered more dust than anything else—“but it’s a goddamned circle, isn’t it? It always comes right back here.” She smacked the bed and looked away.
Every day, he lost the battle, but Duncan still fought with arguments, orders, pleas. And Katie went right on drinking away her pain.
And he went right on being Atlas, only with a load of guilt on his shoulders instead of the four corners of the world.
He leaned forward, pulled open her nightstand drawer and removed the half-empty bottle of Bacardi.
“Bastard,” she whispered, then turned away and buried her head in her pillows. “Get the hell away from me. I hate you.”
Duncan left the room and shut the door, leaning against it. He put the bottle on the hall table, closed his eyes and drew in a breath. Maybe he should listen to Doc Wilson and finally do what the doctor had been advising for years—
Send Katie away.
He’d have freedom. He’d have a life again. And in a rehab hospital, she’d get the treatment she needed, whether she liked it or not, because the hospital staff wouldn’t cater to a woman who threw stoneware at their heads. There’d be someone more adept than he at getting her to talk, to work her physical therapy exercises. To get her to look forward to something other than the next drink.
In his head, though, he still saw the Katie he used to know. The laughing tomboy who’d sooner scramble up a tree than put on a skirt for church. The all-star baseball player who’d had a full ride to college, a promising future in front of her. The sister who’d adored him, because he was older and bigger and there to protect her whenever the world got a little too scary for his tough-on-the-outside but total-marshmallow-on-the-inside sister.
He’d been there every time. Except one.
“Duncan?” Katie’s voice, small and vulnerable now, on the other side of the alcohol coaster.
He sighed.
“Don’t leave me. I’m sorry.” She started to cry. “Please. I can’t do this without you. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”
His shoulders sagged. Duncan drew in a breath, released it, then he reached for the cold, hard doorknob.
“I need you, Duncan.” But he was already there, vowing to try one more time to reach the Katie he remembered.
To keep trying, and maybe, he’d finally repay his worst sin.
Black coffee.
Allie despised black coffee. She’d drunk enough of it in the past few years to want to throw the mug at the wall. All in that quest to avoid calories. Sugar. Fat. The triplet enemies of an hourglass shape.
Still, here she sat in Vanessa’s kitchen, sipping a mug of Chock full o’Nuts and pretending the taste didn’t make her want to hurl. But it was either that or extra time on the treadmill and for Allie, the choice was easy. She hated the treadmill more.
Vanessa slipped into the seat across from Allie at the oak table. “You sure you don’t want any creamer?”
Allie nodded and forced herself to take another sip, the caffeine a welcome benefit to the bitter brew. “Too much creamer and I might as well just wear the cow.”
“You have more willpower than me.” To add an exclamation point, Vanessa sloshed a generous amount of hazelnut-flavored creamer into her cup.
Allie watched Vanessa stir the beverage from dark to light, inhaling the scent of toasted nuts. Longing rumbled in her stomach. She tamped it down with another swig of coffee. “Duncan kissed me.”
Vanessa’s teaspoon landed with a dancing clatter on the hardwood table. “You kissed Duncan Henry? And you just drop it on me like that? Allie, you have to build up to a thing like that. Let me prepare for a bombshell.”
Allie laughed. “Okay, I guess it is pretty momentous news.”
“Are you kidding me? Around here, news like that makes the front page.” Vanessa leaned forward, arms crossed on the table. In the living room, her two oldest children started arguing about whether to watch SpongeBob or Jimmy Neutron. “Tell me what happened. In detail. I’m a married mom. I spend my days changing diapers and eating the crusts off peanut butter sandwiches. The only thing I have is living vicariously through you or Desperate Housewives.”
“Details it is then.” Allie told her about finding the farm yesterday, then getting rained on, and then the kiss, which had now tattooed itself on her memory. So much for focusing on working. She could barely remember she had a job right now.
“So where does it go from here?” Vanessa asked. “Just kiss him and go? Will there be more? A Duncan Part Two?”
“Neither. I’m not interested in his body. All I want is his property.” Uh-huh.
“His property? Is that some kinky thing I haven’t seen on HBO yet?”
Allie laughed. “No, it’s a cool Victorian house, a farm, actually, that he owns.”
“Duncan Henry owns a farm? Geez. And here I didn’t think Tempest had any secrets.”
Allie grinned. “Apparently, there are a few.”
“I don’t see Duncan as the Mr. Green Jeans type. Maybe more the Mr. Tight Jeans.” Vanessa wiggled one of her brows.
“He is that. And a bag of Doritos.”
“So, what’s it like? Is he growing corn or something?”
“Nope. It’s run down as all hell. I don’t think anyone has lived there in years. Dusty, overgrown.” Allie didn’t go into the details about the woman’s clothing in the wardrobe. There was a piece missing to the house’s puzzle and to Duncan—and until Allie knew what it was, she’d leave those details out.
Vanessa shuddered. “Sounds awful.”
“It only sounds awful if you’re a Realtor. To Jerry, that’s the sound of money at a box office. It’s exactly the right location for the next Chicken Flicks movie. But—” At this, Allie sighed. “Duncan refuses to talk about leasing it to the production company. My boss called twice last night to find out if I’d gotten permission yet. He wants to move up filming and get started in a couple of weeks at most. So, I need to find a way to convince Duncan that renting it to Jerry is a good idea.”
Vanessa rose and refilled her coffee, doing the whole sugar/cream ritual again. Allie shook her head at the offer of a refill. One was about all she could stomach—literally. “Once you get your hands on Duncan’s ‘property,’ are you still going to stick to your plan?”
“You mean dump Duncan, just like he did me?” Allie steeled her resolve again with a flash of memory of her standing outside the prom, crying, her heart broken by the callous football player who’d had no idea what going into that room with him had meant to her, what any of it had meant—four years of sitting beside him, hanging on his every word, hoping, believing he’d seen past her chubby face. “Of course. I won’t fall for him. Not again.”
“Even if he kisses better than any man you’ve ever met?” Vanessa smirked. “Hey, I’ve heard the rumors about Duncan. He’s known for more than just his forecasts, believe me.”
&
nbsp; A surge of jealousy sparked in Allie. She pushed it away, refusing to allow the feeling any room. She didn’t own him, didn’t want to own him. She only wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine.
Regardless of that momentary lapse of judgment back at the farmhouse.
“Well, he won’t win me over with his mouth, that’s for sure.” Uh, yeah. Right.
“And if he uses another part of his anatomy?” Vanessa lowered her voice below SpongeBob’s nasal tittering so the children wouldn’t hear the innuendo.
“I’m not so easily swayed.” Yet even as she said the words, Allie knew her truth was as diluted as Vanessa’s coffee. She needed to reorder her priorities. Get the house. Make the movie. Get the hell out of Tempest.
Heart and soul intact.
The problem? If Duncan had proposed a little swaying, heck, even whispered the hint in her ear, she would have done a lot more than kissed him yesterday.
And that, she knew, was the one bug in an otherwise perfect plan.
Chapter 8
“Mr. H.?” Wally Messerschmitt stuck his head into Duncan’s office on Monday morning, his face as flushed as a marathoner’s. Every time Duncan saw him, the twenty-year-old kid brimmed with eagerness. His reed-thin body practically quivered, making his spiked red hair dance. “I have the forecast ready. Do you want it now? I hope it’s accurate. I mean, I’m still learning all that software.” Wally thumbed in the direction of the Doppler radar. “Man, there is a lot to learn for this job. I don’t know how you do it.”
Duncan chuckled a little. “I, ah, don’t know how I do it either.”
“Gosh, Mr. H., you make it look so easy. I mean, you just pop that forecast right out. Bada-boom, bada-bing. I hope I’m half that good when I’m doing the weather myself someday. That is, if I survive being an intern.”
“You’ll do great. You’re smart, Wally. And you have a genuine quality about you. Viewers like that, particularly in Tempest.” Over the past five years, Wally’s continual, quick study had amazed Duncan—and saved Duncan’s ass more than once. But Wally only had two weeks left in his internship.