He had to kiss her.
But he shouldn’t. He wouldn’t. He’d already skied down that slippery slope and it left him with a hard-on and near cardiac- inducing sexual frustration. There was no reason to think Kat would go any further now than she had earlier. No matter how delicious her lips looked, their pale pink the color of strawberry cream fondant...
Okay, maybe just one kiss.
He brushed his mouth against hers and she shuddered, her response ratcheting up the heat in his body. In some circles, that might qualify as one kiss, but it was really just the start of a kiss and he couldn’t leave it unfinished, could he? So he angled his head more comfortably and slanted his mouth against hers with more pressure, sliding his tongue across her soft lips.
His hands had no business being anywhere except where they were, pressed against her back, the thick sweatshirt a barrier to her soft skin. But somehow they started roving, drifting lower to the hem at her waist, his fingers burrowing under it. As he continued his one, long kiss, his palms skimmed up along her sides, thumbs tracing her rib cage, stopping just below the tickle spot below her arms. Most men would have gone straight for the breasts, but he had more self-control than that. It was a bit dicey when he remembered she wasn’t wearing a bra, and when she moaned into his mouth he thought his one kiss might segue into two. But he kept his hands right where they were, just beside her breasts, itching and burning with temptation.
Until she grabbed his wrists and shoved them over. Who was he to say no to Kat? He covered her breasts with his hands, enjoying the slight weight of them, the hard tips that rubbed against his palms. They were so perfect, so hot and silky.
“God, you feel so good.” He kept his lips against hers as he spoke, technically a continuation of kiss number one.
She squirmed against his touch. “Too small,” she murmured into his mouth.
“Perfect,” he assured her. “Just right.”
Her head fell back and it took some skillful maneuvering to keep his mouth in contact with her. He explored her cheek, her jaw line, her ear.
“Your ears are perfect, too,” he whispered, drawing his tongue along the whorls.
Her gasp jolted through him. “Stick out.”
“Do not.” He moved one hand down to her hips, pulled her against his too-tight flesh. “Your breasts—” He thrust against her. “—are perfect. Your ears—” Another thrust. “—are cute. Your butt—” He couldn’t help himself; he ground against her. “—is just the right size. Not too big.”
Suddenly, she stiffened against him and for one wishful- thinking moment, he thought maybe she was about to come again in response to his masterful lovemaking. But he knew better. That wasn’t Kat bracing for climax. That was Kat a heartbeat away from pulling out of his arms.
What the hell had he done this time?
As wrong as it felt, he let go immediately, stepping back. An appealing rose still colored her cheeks, but the flame of anger in her eyes threw a cold shower on any hopes they might resume his interrupted one kiss.
“You read it,” she hissed.
Like his life flashing before his eyes, a bibliography of everything he’d ever read scrolled in his mind. Then he said the worst thing possible. “Read what?”
Her ire seemed to inflate her, adding a good two inches to her height. “My list!”
Although relieved to have his lifelong inventory of reading material narrowed down to lists, he was still completely baffled now. And said the second worst thing possible. “What list?”
Mistake number one: implying that, despite his innocence, he might have read, at some point in time, something Kat found objectionable. Mistake number two: implying with his tone of voice that the offensive reading material might not actually exist.
And when her anger dissolved into tears, her wet eyes and damp cheeks stabbing at his heart, he understood the magnitude of his error. Even though he still had no clue of how, exactly, he’d screwed up.
Backing away from him, Kat rounded the sofa, picking up speed as she headed for the stairs. When the door slammed upstairs, he figured it might as well be a guillotine plummeting toward his sorry neck. At least he’d be put out of his misery.
Chapter 9
Kat stared down at the ball of crumpled pink paper in her hand and felt like the biggest fool in the world. She’d found it right where she’d stuffed it a couple hours ago, in the depths of her suitcase, shoved into the toe of her panty hose. While there was still an infinitesimal chance Mark had located the wad of paper in her Gucci carryon, fished it out of her panty hose, uncrumpled it, read it, then reversed the process to hide it again, it surpassed even her finely honed sense of paranoia that he’d actually done it.
Now what? Climbing out of the bedroom window and across the porch roof to escape wasn’t practical and was very likely hazardous. Especially since she’d have to do it barefoot. No way was she squeezing her feet back into her Avias.
She could stay walled up in her room the rest of the day. She had a bathroom, she had water. She’d downed an apple and her last two chocolate coins before she left the cabin. She could tough it out until morning.
Her stomach rumbled to let her know it was not on board with her plan. It reminded her all the food was downstairs with Mark and, except for the antacid tablets swimming in the bottom of her purse, she didn’t have so much as a calorie to her name.
With a hiss of frustration, Kat buried the ball of paper back in her suitcase and padded into the bathroom. Once she’d taken care of nature’s call and tidied up her hair and face, she headed resolutely for the door.
Mark sat slumped on the sofa, head tipped against the back. Despite her quiet footsteps, he sensed her, turning his head as she reached the bottom of the stairs. She hesitated there as his blue gaze fixed on her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For whatever I did.”
She started toward him. “You didn’t do anything.”
“Then consider it a universal apology.” He waved a hand at her. “For future transgressions.”
With some trepidation, she settled on the far end of the sofa. He kept his arm along the back, his fingertips inches away from her. He stared out into the middle distance. “Did we ever get along?”
Bringing up her knees, she hugged them to her chest. “I don’t know.”
“When we were kids...” He considered, then shook his head. “Not even then.”
“You teased me.”
“And you’d scream at me,” Mark said.
“Or cry.” She felt a little like crying now. “Or punch you.” The pain only dug deeper in her heart at his faint smile.
“You had a hell of a right cross.”
“You never hit me back,” Kat said.
He looked at her as if she was crazy. “You were a girl. And you were smaller than me. I would never.”
She covered his hand with hers. “No, you’d never.”
The always-present heat between them blossomed in her palm where it lay against the back of his hand. He surely felt it. How could he not? For a moment she thought he’d pull her toward him.
But he tugged his hand out from under hers. “Let me do something about those blisters.” Pushing up from the sofa, he headed for the downstairs bathroom. He came back with a first- aid kit.
He ministered to her gently and efficiently. When the antiseptic towelette burned against her broken blisters, she bit back her reaction, shutting her mind against the sting. When his fingers cradling her calf generated hot sensual images, she blocked them ruthlessly.
He set down her bandaged foot, then busied himself with restoring order to the first-aid kit. She touched him on the shoulder. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” He snapped the lid shut on the white case. “Are you hungry?”
“A little,” she lied. She’d been ravenous a few minutes ago. Now a tight knot rested in her stomach. “Mark—”
He nearly jumped to his feet. “I’ll fix us something.”
More comfortable wi
th her heels bandaged, she followed him into the kitchen. “I can help.”
“Go sit down.” He wrenched open the refrigerator. “I’ll do it.”
“Let me give you a hand.” She stepped closer to him.
“I don’t want your help!” He slammed the refrigerator door.
“For chrissakes, Kat, would you just sit down!”
Backing away, she yanked a chair out from the dinette table. “Fine. I’m sitting.”
His back to her, he looked ready to yank the handle from the refrigerator. His voice was taut with tension. “If you’re near me, I want you. Hell, if you’re in the next room, you make me so damn hot.”
He tugged the refrigerator door open. “We can’t be friends, Kat. And I damn well won’t let us just be lovers. I just can’t stand it.” He started grabbing items from the refrigerator shelves and drawers, lunch meat, lettuce and tomatoes, jars of condiments. “What do you want?”
I want us to stop fighting. She locked the words in her throat. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
“Sandwich?” He set everything on the counter and looked back at her long enough to catch her nod. “Ham or turkey?”
“How about both?” she said.
Their mundane conversation stabbed at her heart. How did they get so far apart? Maybe they’d never been close. Maybe she’d just imagined they once had been.
She watched him work, his economy of movement as he assembled their sandwiches and arranged them on plates with some chips he’d found in the cupboard. He set hers in front of her. It was stacked high with meat and lettuce, cut into four neat triangles. That he’d remembered she liked it that way stabbed a little further into her heart.
When he turned to get his own plate, she expected him to sit down opposite her, but he started toward the door. “I’m going to eat on the porch.”
She couldn’t stand to have him leave her. “Mark.”
Halfway out the door, he stopped. “Yeah?”
Come sit with me. Come talk to me. She held back the selfish words. “Thanks for making lunch.”
A nod, then he shut the door behind him. Appetite lost, her stomach rebelling, Kat picked up one neat triangle and forced herself to take a bite. It might as well have been sawdust in her mouth.
She rose and picked up her plate, intending to hide her lunch in the trash before heading upstairs. But she caught a glimpse of Mark through the front window, swaying on the porch swing. Loneliness shot through her, and her feet moved of their own accord toward the front door.
He didn’t look up when she stepped outside, just kept up the porch swing’s rhythm, forward-back, forward-back. A little like their relationship, except they always took twice as many steps back as forward.
Plate biting into her hand, she blurted out, “It was never you.”
That got his attention. He turned toward her.
She forced herself to move closer, stopping just beyond the swing’s arc. “The problem’s always been me, not you.”
“Kat—”
“No, let me talk.” Her trembling hand threatened to shake the sandwich from her plate. “There’s something wrong with me, something mixed up. I don’t know how to get along with people.” She gasped in a breath. “With you.”
The distance in his blue gaze melted away. “Oh, Kat...”
His gentle tone was her undoing. Tears tightened her throat, brimmed in her eyes. She blinked them away. “Truce, okay? Until Kandy for Kids is over.”
“Sure, Kat,” he said quietly.
“When I want to fight you, I won’t. I’ll just keep my damn mouth shut.”
His gaze searched her face and she couldn’t bear the softness in his eyes. She wanted to yell, tell him to stop being so nice, because it just made her heart hurt more.
She didn’t yell. She swiped her eyes with her sleeve and took a deep breath. “Can I sit with you?”
“Yeah.” He smiled, and the urge to cry washed over her again. “Please.”
He moved the plate he’d set beside him to his lap and patted the cushion. Once she’d seated herself, he sent the swing rocking again, the rhythm soothing. As the creek burbled and the wind whispered secrets in the trees, they ate together in a rare companionable silence.
* * * * *
In her car just out of sight of the cabin, Norma waited as Fritz finished the night’s skullduggery. It had been just past midnight when they secreted Kat’s Camry in the carport and now the hour was yawning toward one a.m. Norma hadn’t stayed up so late since she was a teenager.
She rolled down her car window and listened. The engine of Mark’s BMW rumbled softly in the distance for a few moments before it cut out. Fritz would be climbing from the car, shutting the door as quietly as possible, then walking the quarter-mile to where she was parked. Anticipation bubbled up inside her as she watched for him in the faint moonlight.
She heard his footsteps before she saw him. Switching on the Metro’s dome light, she waved at his silhouette. She felt goofy as a schoolgirl when he reached the car and climbed inside. A breeze had tossed his sandy brown hair and a glow of mischief lit his blue eyes. He seemed a little too thin in his mint green cashmere sweater, but her heart sang just looking at him.
A shocking impulse burst inside her, to throw her arms around him and kiss him in welcome. She discovered she’d started to lean toward him, to reach toward him. Stopping herself just in time, she dropped her hands in her lap. “Any trouble?”
“Nope.” An odd look flickered in his eyes and she suffered a bout of mortification wondering if he knew what she’d nearly done. “The cabin was dark. I think they were already asleep.”
“Good.” Not quite able to resist touching him, she gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Mission accomplished, then.”
“Yeah,” he said, still with that peculiar expression on his face.
“Is something the matter?” She shouldn’t have asked; she was terrified to hear the answer.
His bright blue eyes pierced her heart. “Just not ready to go home, I guess.”
She wasn’t, either. There were plants to water and a lonely Yorkie to pick up at the pet hotel. But given the choice, she’d just as soon stay a week up here with Fritz.
The temptation to put her arms around him rose up inside her again. The wanting set off a yearning inside her, but she kept her hands to herself. Entirely inappropriate feelings for a matronly forty-eight-year-old toward a young sprout like Fritz.
But the weekend had been so much fun, first the adventure of stealing cars, then last night at the inn when they sat in the lobby and laughed over each detail of the caper. They’d both been bleary-eyed at breakfast, but when Norma had suggested they take a drive to scout out wildflowers on Mt. Ranier, Fritz was as excited as she was at the jaunt.
Now the last thing she wanted was to return to the inn and have it all end. She sighed, toying with the strap of the seat belt. “We ought to get back. Get some sleep.”
“Yeah.”
She waited for him to turn, to pull on his seat belt. Instead he kept his blue gaze fixed on her. He reached across the center console, his fingers tentative on the back of her hand. “Norma...” He tipped toward her so slightly, she wondered if she’d imagined it. His quick glance down at her mouth sent a shiver through her. Good Lord, was he going to kiss her?
On the heels of that jolt of delight, disappointment stumbled in when he sat up straight again and grabbed a tissue from the box at his feet. “You’ve got a little left over from that chocolate cake.”
Mortification blossoming inside her, she took the tissue and flipped down the visor mirror. There was a spot of chocolate at the corner of her mouth, so small she just about had to press her nose to the mirror to see it. Dabbing the tissue on her tongue, she tidied the spot.
Still embarrassed, she looked sidelong at Fritz, unwilling to face him. The intensity of his gaze stole her breath. He turned away the moment he realized her eyes were on him, then fumbled with the seat belt. He pulled it ou
t so quickly it jammed, then it took him two more tries before he could tug it around his slight body.
He stretched his mouth into what looked like a mighty fake yawn. Speculation tickled Norma, but she wasn’t ready to give the wild fragment of a notion any credence. Flipping off the dome light, she pulled on her own seat belt and started the car.
They bumped along the gravel road back to Highway 706, the darkness putting a lid on harebrained ideas and crazy imagination.
Still, Norma couldn’t quite erase that image. Fritz’s gaze on her as if she was the most fascinating woman in the universe.
* * * * *
Kat peeled her eyes open as the brilliant morning sun pierced a gap in the bedroom’s shut curtains. The twinge of pain in her heels brought back yesterday’s events, her escape attempt, her meltdown and Mark’s unbearable empathy. Weakness threatened to steal back inside her at the memory of his kindness, his gentleness, but she squelched the softness.
Kneeling on the bed, she drew the curtains and squinted out at the green lawn and burbling creek. She took another blow to the chest when she spotted Mark sitting beside the creek, a mug of coffee cradled in his hands. She wanted to rush downstairs and across the lawn to be with him, to let him wrap his arms around her, let his warmth soak into her.
She shook off the wrongheaded impulse. Scrambling from the bed, she took care of the morning necessities in the bathroom, then pulled on a comfy pair of stretch jeans and a soft angora turtleneck. Her feet were chilly, but she wasn’t ready to pull on shoes. Instead she dug out the fluffy backless slippers she’d brought, then stowed everything else in her suitcase.
Downstairs, the coffeemaker had switched off, and the inch of French roast at the bottom had cooled enough it needed nuking. So Mark had been up a while, despite the late hour when they’d parted company last night.
The harmony between them might have been as fragile as soapsuds, but it held. After they finished their late lunch, Mark excavated the fishing poles from the storage shed and they spent the last of the day’s light out by the creek. Mark snagged one tiny trout that he released back into the icy water; Kat’s line spent more time tangled in trees than dipped in the creek.
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