Beguiled Again: A Romantic Comedy

by Patricia Burroughs

Minutes later she strolled out of the bathroom looking, well, if not like a million bucks, at least presentable, in a fit-and-flare knit dress that hugged her from neck to waist, then flared into a flirty skirt.

  Red silk would have been a million, but entirely inappropriate for a family excursion.

  She walked to the door and she saw a mischievous sparkle in Jeff’s eyes, the playful twist of his lips.

  “Mom can’t play... what a shame.”

  Cecilia stopped short, her cheeks flaming. And when his eyes flickered down the front of her soft chambray dress, she had the distinct sensation he had more than an idle idea of what was beneath.

  She pushed forward and unhooked the screen. “I’m sorry. They should have let you in. I didn’t realize they would take me so literally.”

  “It was deliberate I’m sure.” He cast a sidelong glance into the living room, where Peter was studiously focused on his Xbox.

  “We’re on our way out.” When Jeff didn’t respond, she prompted, “You said you had something for me?”

  He grinned, the familiar dimples deepening, and slid his hand into his trouser pocket. He pulled out a small glass disk. “I believe this belongs to your eldest, er, child.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be grateful,” she murmured as he dropped it into her palm.

  “I doubt it.” He propped an elbow against the door frame, for all the world as though he were staking a claim. His jacket flared to expose his trim middle. “But it doesn’t really make any difference. The watch crystal was just an excuse.”

  “An excuse?”

  “For being here.” His eyes teased her with sparkling gold pleasure. The interest in those glittering eyes was as pronounced as the glittering gold stickpin in his red silk tie. And it was an interest she was trying her darnedest not to reciprocate. Her palm felt oddly tingly where the watch crystal nestled, as if his touch lingered, radiating heat. She closed her fingers around it and thrust her fist into the pocket of her blue skirt, then glanced into the living room. Peter’s eyes were trained on her, his expression hard.

  “Thank you.” It sounded lame enough, even to her ears, but what was she supposed to say? Now go home?

  She didn’t have to.

  “Where are you going, all dressed up?”

  Remembering the rustle of red silk on the chaise in the bathroom, she shrugged. “Not dressed up. Not really.” Then realizing she hadn’t answered his question, she added, “To school. Tonight’s open house. Texas Public Schools Week.”

  “Open house? Good grief, I haven’t been to an open house since I was a kid.” Jeff tilted his head, a slanting ray of late evening sun catching the lean angles of his face. His skin was a warm tan. Not tanned by the sun, because Cecilia would venture a guess that he hadn’t spent a measurable amount of time in the sun in years. And not olive, because olive tended to sallow in the winter. Just a warm, natural shade of brown.

  “Cecil, in case you’re being a little dense, I just dropped a big hint.”

  “Hint?” she choked out, hoping he hadn’t noticed her scrutiny.

  He took her by the arm and led her deeper into the hall, out of range of the living room. “I realize you’ve been out of circulation awhile, so I’ll refresh your memory. I said 'I haven’t been to an open house in years,’ to which you could have replied, 'Well, why don’t you come with us?'"

  “What?” she gasped. “You? At the school?”

  “Why such surprise?” he asked, edging a little closer. He stroked her cheekbone with his knuckle, blazing a tingling trail along her jaw and down her neck.

  “Mom.” Peter stood framed in the doorway, staring. “If we’re not going to school tonight, just say so.”

  “We are going. Mr. Smith is leav—”

  “Agreeing to go with you,” Jeff inserted smoothly. He confronted Peter’s stare without flinching, then straightened his wide shoulders and tightened his jaw. Propelling Cecilia forward, he added, “Your mother was kind enough to invite me. I hope you don’t find that a problem.”

  Peter’s sullen gaze swept from Jeff to his mother and back to Jeff again. Without a word, he spun away and pushed through the screen door, letting it slam behind him, which was a totally un-Peterish thing to do. Hearing the commotion, Brad dashed after him. Slam.

  Anne-Elizabeth brought up the rear.

  Slam.

  “Excuse me,” Cecilia grated, “while we have a family conference.”

  She cornered the children on the front walk. The conference was brief and explicit. She was satisfied that though Peter’s expression was sullen, he didn’t argue. She ordered them into the minivan, then returned to the porch where Jeff was waiting. “Who won?”

  “I always win when it counts. I don’t think that will happen again.”

  “Door slamming?”

  “Oh, heck no.” She laughed in spite of herself. “This door doesn’t remember how to shut without slamming. I just don’t think Peter will...” Will what? Peter was not likely to hide his feelings for long. “I don’t think he’ll be quite so... blatant.” She smiled weakly. “At least not tonight.”

  Jeff cocked his head and smiled. “How far is it to the school?”

  “About four blocks,” she said. “But you’re not going.”

  “Of course I am. I am totally entranced by the prospects of salt maps, tissue paper bluebonnets and sugar cube Alamos.” His wry chuckle belied his words charmingly.

  “Why on earth do you want to go?”

  “I don’t. Not really.” He grinned, and she couldn’t tear her gaze away. “But if it means I can follow you around, watch your hips sway and fantasize about your raspberry underwear...”

  “What?” Cecilia stepped away from him, her heart thudding with the rhythm of a panic-stricken hare when the fox has just entered the back door. “You—you saw!”

  Jeff nudged her toward the door. “Lock up, Cecil. The kids are waiting.”

  ~o0o~

  Two tense but exhilarating hours later, Cecilia sat beside Jeff on her front porch swing, eating ice cream, while the kids shared theirs with Vinny and Mikey and Ralph in the backyard. With his shirt-sleeves rolled back, exposing the dark hair on his forearms, his hair ruffled from the breeze, Jeff once again had changed before her eyes.

  “I really don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Jefferson Smith.”

  “Every time you 'Jefferson Smith’ me that way, I know I’m in for it.”

  “Saturday morning you told me in no uncertain terms that you thought I had problems, then when you picked up your car you acted as if I had a contagious disease.”

  “Is that the way you remember it?”

  “All right,” she said, relenting. “I wasn’t exactly cordial, I’ll admit. But doesn’t that show you we really don’t get along very well?”

  “You might say that,” he agreed, seemingly more interested in his double dip chocolate cone than her.

  “Don’t drip,” she commanded as the soft edge of his chocolate ice cream threatened to dribble onto his trousers.

  He caught the drip on his tongue, avoiding her eyes. “Did I mention that I promised Brad I’d photograph his soccer game this weekend?”

  “You’re going to his soccer game?” she repeated numbly.

  “I’d like to try some action shots on some new film I’m testing, and this seems as good an opportunity as I’ll get.”

  She angled herself toward him on the porch swing. “What exactly are you trying to prove? You just admitted that you and I don’t get along at all, so why don’t you leave well enough alone? Leave me alone?”

  “Do you honestly want me to leave you alone, Cecil?” Five days earlier, the answer would have been a desperate and resounding yes. Four days earlier, more desperate if less resounding, but still yes. But tonight, she was churning with emotions ranging from exasperation and frustration to a tingling awareness she couldn’t deny. The word “yes” wouldn’t form on her lips.

  What if he did walk away? Never called again. Never cro
ssed her threshold again. Disappeared from her life as completely as the first time. Where was the sense of relief she ought to feel? Surely it was still there, somehow camouflaged by the emptiness that threatened to overwhelm her. She turned blindly to her ice-cream cone. She couldn’t answer him.

  Nervously she wiped a smudge of raspberry sherbet from the tip of her nose.

  “I wish I had gotten raspberry,” he said.

  “There’s plenty more,” she said, seizing any excuse to break the tension between them. “Do you want me to fix you one?”

  He shifted his weight and eased closer to her. His deep brown eyes darkened dreamily beneath half-closed lids. “Don’t get up,” he murmured. “I’ll just have a taste of yours.”

  She knew she should turn away from his lips, but she didn’t. She could have at least given him a moving target. But she didn’t. And when his lips hesitated a mere breath away from hers, and she knew what was coming, and even knew that she wanted it, she could have, should have at least closed her eyes and waited.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead she closed the gap and touched her lips to his. She’d waited seventeen years for this kiss, and she’d be damned if she was going to turn away from it now.

  At first they were joined only by that basic union, her lips soft and tentative, his cautious and exploring. After a moment’s gentle awakening, they melted together inch by inch, until she couldn’t tell where she stopped and he began as her curves yielded to his hard angles.

  Her lips parted and she felt the warm velvet sweep of his tongue tracing her lips with growing intensity, the chocolate and raspberry flavors blending ever so sweetly. She shivered at the delicious sensations his gently probing kiss brought to life. Everything was happening so slowly, so deliberately, it seemed an eternity before her raspberry cone dropped onto the porch with a plop, followed by its chocolate counterpart.

  Her hand sought his thick, wavy hair, and she pulled his head firmly to hers, shuddering as she felt his fingers inching down her body in exploration. Finally his hands rested on her waist. His thumbs slid the soft cotton fabric against her ribcage, circling ever upward until they were brushing the lower curves of her breasts with a tantalizing, erotic rhythm. She moaned softly into his mouth, pulling slightly away from his body to allow his hands more freedom to move. She gasped when his thumbs found the hard imprint of her nipples, felt a heat spreading when his low groan revealed his response was as great as her own.

  Sensations assaulted her one after another, his taste on her lips, the faint smell of his cologne, the sound of his shirt rasping against her dress, the feel of his hands cupping her softness, then kneading in slow, deliberate movements.

  Oh, yes, this was something she could get used to very quickly.

  He chose that moment to pull away.

  She took three deep, agonizingly slow breaths, before she muttered a raspy, “Oh, my.”

  Even Jeff sounded a little strained as he rested his head against the creaking chain. "'Oh, my?’ Is that the best you can do?”

  “I... I just can’t help remembering...”

  ” Remembering what? ”

  “How I yearned, how I plotted, how I fantasized about kissing you.” She turned a startled face to him. “Good grief, I don’t think I would have survived it at fourteen!”

  His voice amused, Jeff said, “And to think I ran from it.” He placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his. Even in the darkness, she felt the intensity of his gaze boring into her. “I wonder now, what would you have done with me if you had caught me?”

  “Oh, Lord,” she whispered.

  “I know exactly what I’d do with you if I caught—”

  “No, you don’t!” She pushed at his chest. “You can just forget that right now. I don’t have time for, for whatever this is. I’m a mother—”

  “I know.”

  “With children and responsibilities—”

  “I noticed.”

  “And I’ve changed. So let’s forget this ever happened.”

  He refused to answer, only smiled that slow smile she had to steel herself against.

  She struck his chest for emphasis. “Do you hear me?”

  His mouth sought hers once again, but she twisted away. “I’m not fourteen now, and I’m not chasing you. What’s more, I’m not interested in being chased, or seduced, or whatever you want to call it.”

  “You sure talk a lot, kid,” he murmured, finally letting her go. And then added with a wicked grin, “I’m beginning to see exactly how much fun chasing can be.”

  Cecilia leaped to her feet. The swing careened wildly as he stood, as well. “I mean it, Jefferson Smith! I’m going to go into the house, put my children to bed and forget that you made a pass at me. I’m not interested! Is that clear?” She strode to the door. She had her hand on the handle when Jeff joined her.

  “Go right ahead with your exciting evening.” He pressed his palm against the door.

  She pulled but couldn’t budge it.

  “But as for forgetting what just happened between us...” He raked her body with his eyes before planting one last, lingering kiss on her forehead.

  “You can try.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE CHILDREN HAD been asleep for hours. The wind was picking up; she thought that a cold front must be coming through. Outside on the porch, an occasional gust caught the swing and sent it creaking; it slowed and quieted; another gust, and the creaking started again.

  Cecilia raised up on one elbow and studied the digital clock across the room: midnight. The witching hour. And she’d be a witch tomorrow unless she got some sleep. Her shoulders ached from tossing from one side to the other, and her neck was getting stiff.

  This is ridiculous. She switched on the radio, sat upright in the bed and folded her arms across her knees. Resting her cheek on her arms, she stared out the window.

  “Flashback to the nineties...” droned the late night deejay in sultry tones, and her bedroom filled the soundtrack of her youth. It was an age of divas, with Whitney and Madonna at the top of their form and Mariah and Janet exploding onto the scene. An age of dreams of fame and riches, of singing along with the radio, with tapes, in every talent show and every stage that she could reach.

  And not just the divas. She’d been just as likely to grab her guitar and sing Tracy Chapman or Jewel, Etheridge or Clapton. Memories tugged at her, threatening to pull her under, plunging her back to her high school years. And of course, those had begun with... with a freshman girl tripping over a senior boy and sprawling, geeklike, at his feet.

  He was the last thing she wanted to think about now. His sudden return into her life was keeping her awake in the first place.

  And, of course, those memories also included Robert.

  She jerked out of the bed and to her feet.

  The past held no solace for a sleepless night.

  She slipped into her terry robe and padded through the house to the kitchen. Dreading the blinding ceiling light, she used the diffused glow from the light above the stove to see. On the top shelf of the corner cabinet she found what she wanted: a dusty bottle of wine that had been waiting for a celebration for two and a half years. A gift from a well-meaning friend after her divorce. Somehow Cecilia had never felt like the failure of her marriage was something to celebrate.

  So tonight it would serve a far more useful purpose: calm her frazzled nerves and help her sleep. She had two recording sessions tomorrow, nine to twelve at Ad-Com, Inc., and one to four at RPM Productions. A wine-filled juice glass cupped in her hand, she grimaced. Had she remembered to find a place for the kids after school?

  It was funny how wide-awake she had felt in bed, and how tired she felt now that she was on her feet. A steady scraping noise drew her to the living room window. She pulled back the lace curtains and peered into the yard. The pecan trees needed trimming again. Every three years Robert had climbed up with a chain saw and cut the branches away from the house. This must be th
e third year, and Robert wasn’t here to do it. She pictured herself on the highest limb with the roaring chainsaw and had to stifle a giggle. She supposed she’d have to hire someone. Damn. She certainly didn’t want to see her money go out for such mundane things as tree trimming. Maybe Jeff...

  Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself, and pivoted away from the window, inadvertently splashing wine down her neck. It tickled down the valley between her breasts, and she dabbed at it with a corner of her robe. One way or another Jeff kept her awake, and she didn’t have time for such nonsense.

  She tipped the glass to her lips and drained it, determined to sleep at all costs. But her sleep was haunted all night by his lips, his eyes, his gently taunting laugh.

  ~o0o~

  Next morning, driving to the recording studio, with the windows rolled up tight and the music blaring, Cecilia warmed up her voice. She parked in the shadow of the skyscrapers and dashed seven blocks to the studio in one of the older Dallas skyscrapers. Breathless, she rushed into the building at 9:02.

  “Lookin’ good, darlin’,” came a peppy male voice. Mitch Delaney, Stan Delaney’s nephew, motioned to her from across the marble-floored lobby.

  “Hi, Mitch.”

  Short of stature and stout like his bandleader uncle, the younger Delaney was a music student at SMU. He sometimes played trumpet in the band when his uncle needed someone on short notice, and he also worked as a producer for Ad-Com and some of the other production companies in town.

  She hardly slowed for him to catch up with her. “I’m running late. I can’t talk.” As she hurried to the elevator, he fell in step beside her.

  “Take it easy. There’s a big pileup on Stemmons Freeway and Karla’s bound to be stuck in the middle of it. You’re safe.”

  “Thank goodness.” She sighed, the tension in her shoulders loosening.

  “Rough night?” he asked as the elevator doors shut them into a Muzak-filled cocoon.

  She leaned against the walnut-paneled wall and nodded. “But I’m here. That’s the main thing.”