Time slowed to a slumbering pace.
A heartbeat. His and hers. His gaze, languid and as hot as a sleepy summer sun, lowered to her mouth. The action had been as instinctive as reaching for her when she was falling. In an equally instinctive way, her gaze raised to his.
Time stopped.
Is he going to kiss me?
Am I going to kiss her?
Both—each—pondered the question for what seemed like the passage of eternity. Lindsey prayed that he would kiss her. Walker prayed that he wouldn't. He prayed, too, that his soul wouldn't burn in hell because of what he was feeling. He could no longer hide from the naked truth. He desired Lindsey. In every corner, crook and cranny of his body, he desired his goddaughter! The realization shamed him, excited him... angered him.
Abruptly releasing Lindsey, he growled, "Let's eat!"
The meal was long. As was the rest of the drive home. Lindsey wondered what Walker was thinking. In turn, he wondered what she was thinking and if she'd known what had gone through his mind back in the parking lot—and what pond scum she must think him if she had.
And yet...
As once before, he could have sworn she was feeling the same thing. Even now, as they neared Galveston, a thick tension lay between them. The tension huddled like a lightning-driven rain cloud.
"I wonder how the evening went for Mom and Dad," Lindsey said, breaking through the stifling silence. Despite the fact she'd been preoccupied with Walker, her parents had never been far from her mind. Nor would they be until she'd talked some sense into their stubborn heads.
Walker glanced over at Lindsey. Despite the confusion he was mired in, he could think clearly enough to know that he didn't want Lindsey hurt. In fact, it was the last thing he wanted. "Listen, h—" He'd started to call her hon, but that which had always been so natural suddenly seemed fraught with danger. "Listen, don't expect a—"
"I know. I know. Don't expect a miracle."
A miracle, however, was exactly what Lindsey allowed herself to believe in a few minutes later. She had left her car at the office since taking it home would have alerted her mother to the fallacy of the dinner plans. On the drive back, Lindsey had decided to leave her car at the office overnight. That in mind, she'd directed Walker to drop her off at her parents' house.
As they pulled into the driveway, Lindsey noted that her mother's car wasn't there. Nor was there a light on inside the house. Though almost ten-thirty, it was clear that Bunny hadn't returned yet. Surely that was a good indication that the evening had gone well. Wasn't it? Lindsey chose to believe it was. She even chose to believe that maybe, just maybe, her mother and father were settling their differences. Maybe even making up in true lover's fashion. Maybe they were necking on the beach. Maybe they were snuggled up in a hotel room. Maybe—
"Don't expect a miracle," Walker repeated.
Through the darkness, Lindsey's eyes found his. She saw concern in his, concern that she'd expect too much and, in the end, wind up hurt. His protectiveness was endearing.
She smiled faintly. "I told you once before that, if you don't expect a miracle, it won't happen."
"I don't want to see you disappointed."
"I know you don't," she said softly. "And that's really very sweet."
Sweet. Walker wasn't certain that anything he was feeling for Lindsey would fall under the heading of sweet. What he wanted, and he'd wanted it all evening, was to touch her—and it wasn't for any sweet reason. Then again, maybe it was for the sweetest reason of all. Damn! he thought. Just walk her to the door, see her safely inside and get the hell out of here. The irony of the situation did not escape him. He was keenly aware that he was protecting her from himself.
Cutting off the headlights and the engine in seemingly one motion, he reached for the door handle. He had just unlatched it when he felt and heard Lindsey.
"Wait!" she called quietly, her fingers banding about his forearm.
Walker hesitated—lost in the velvet of her voice, the satin of her hand. His gaze merged with hers. She was leaning forward, her hair tumbling about her shoulders, the curves of her breasts just barely visible as the scooped neck of the sweater fell gently forward.
"It's late," he said, the words sounding as if they'd been polished with sandpaper.
"It's not that late. It's only ten-thirty."
"But I have to go to work in the morning."
"You shouldn't work on weekends," she said, loosening her fingers and beginning to seductively trail them up his arm.
He lowered his gaze to her hand, studying it as though he'd just arrived from another planet and had never seen such an appendage—long slender fingers, a pearl ring where she'd once worn an engagement ring, prettily manicured nails. Walker dragged his gaze away and back to hers.
"Lindsey?" he whispered. He hadn't intended to whisper. The word had just come out thus.
"Yes?" she said, her voice sounding like lace and silk. By now her fingers had made their way to the inside of his elbow. The sensitive inside of his elbow. They stopped there. She felt him tremble beneath her touch.
"What—" he swallowed "—are you doing?"
"What do you think I'm doing?"
Driving him mad, he thought, but he answered, "I don't know."
Lindsey brushed her knuckles against his cheek, whose stubble felt wickedly sexy to her, and whispered, "You really are working too many weekends if you don't know what I'm doing."
Walker reached for her hand, ostensibly to stop whatever feel-wonderful something she was doing to his face, but he managed only to take her hand in his. Once he'd done so, he seemed unable to turn loose. Warm. God, her hand was so warm!
"Lindsey..."
Her fingers entwined with his.
"...this is not..."
She leaned forward.
"...a good idea."
Her breath fanned against his mouth milliseconds before her lips brushed his.
Walker moaned, then told himself to stop this... while he could.
"Lindsey—"
"You talk too much, Walker," she whispered, grazing his lips yet again. Then once more, before sensuously settling her mouth on his.
A part of Walker tried to resist, but the part of him that had resisted kissing her earlier in the evening could resist no longer. He wanted this kiss. He needed it. And if it meant paying the devil with his soul, he'd have it. On a deep, shattered groan, he tugged her to him and buried his hot mouth in hers.
Chapter Seven
Heaven.
He might well be on his way to hell, Walker thought dimly in some far recess of his mind, but he'd made a pit stop in heaven. Nothing in all of his life had prepared him for the sweetness, for the sensualness of Lindsey's kiss, nor for the effect it had on him. He felt as though he'd shattered into a million crystal shards of sensation, each possessed of a rainbow of lights. He felt as though he were racing in a star-studded sky, flying high, flying low, flying without any net to catch him, which made the experience more exhilarating simply by dent of the danger. In a word, he felt alive.
In spite of the beauty of what he was feeling, however, his conscience was troubled. What was happening shouldn't be happening. He knew that. He just didn't seem able to stop it. But he had to. He had to....
Lindsey moaned at the way Walker's mouth slanted over hers, at the way it melded with hers. In response, she parted her lips, bringing their mouths into even more intimate contact. Somehow she'd become wedged between Walker and the steering wheel. Somehow she'd ended up partially draped across his lap. She could feel his hard thighs. She could feel his taut stomach. She could feel his masculinity growing strong. He wanted her. His kiss told her so. His body told her so. And yet, she could feel him holding back. She didn't want him to hold back. She'd waited too long for this moment. Guided by instinct, emboldened by feelings that had been too long denied, Lindsey sent her tongue forward. The tip, nimble and eager, touched Walker's.
He tumbled from his high-flying flight, falling downw
ard into a sea of sensuality. He groaned, grinding his mouth more desperately against hers, shoving his fingers deep into her hair. In proportion to his desperation, in proportion to his growing need for this woman, so, too, did his conscience flare. The intimacy of the kiss, the feel of her in his arms, the way his body was boldly responding to her—each and all appealed to his sense of right and wrong. Along with one brazen question: How in hell could he explain this to Dean and Bunny?
"No!" Walker cried, wrenching his mouth from Lindsey's at the same time he pushed her from him.
Startled, Lindsey simply stared. To have gone from the fullness of his arms to the emptiness of nothing left her bereft of all feeling. She felt nothing but loss—a grievous, soul-gouging loss. She thought it the worst she'd ever felt. She was wrong, however, for into the void slowly crept a cheek-reddening embarrassment.
He had rebuffed her. She'd obviously misinterpreted his actions, read the wrong meaning into them. Yet how could she have mistaken the way, the man-woman way, his mouth had moved over hers? How could she have mistaken the masculine response of his body? Dummy, she answered herself, throw yourself all over a man and he responds... whether he wants to or not.
Feeling like a fool, wishing the earth would split wide and swallow her, Lindsey threw open the car door and, without once looking back, slammed the door behind her and ran toward the house. She didn't give her pedicure the first thought.
"Lindsey, wait!" Walker called, pushing wide his door, too.
She ignored him, digging instead into her purse for the house key. She found it—though heaven alone knew how with her trembling fingers—jammed the key into the lock, and, flicking on the lights, fled inside the house. She sent the door sailing shut. Walker caught it in midswing.
"Lindsey?"
Again she made no response. She just headed for her bedroom. This time the door closed with a deafening bang. Right in Walker's face. Dragging his hand to his waist, he closed his eyes, lowered his head, and let out a long, frustrated sigh.
Dammit! he thought, how could he have let things get to this point?
Turning the knob, he opened the door slowly and entered Lindsey's bedroom. She stood staring out a window with her back to the door. In the dim glow of a single lamp, Walker could see that she clutched something to her. He suspected that something was a teddy bear. As though the thought made him ultra-aware of his surroundings, he made a quick scan of all the stuffed bears in the room. Each pair of eyes stared back accusingly. He deserved their censure.
Walker looked back at Lindsey. Remembering her womanly kiss, he thought she looked incongruous in the youthful setting. He also thought that she was crying because, even as he watched, she swiped at her eyes. Fancifully, he wondered if the teddy bears knew that she was crying, just the way she knew when they were. Not at all fancifully, he wanted to take her in his arms. God, how he wanted to take her in his arms! To comfort her, to hold her, to kiss her lips once more. He forced himself to settle for calling her name. Softly. As softly as her lips had felt against his.
"Lindsey?"
It was hard to tell whether she'd known that he was in the room before he spoke. Walker suspected she had. At the sound of her name, she turned. As though it were her only friend, she clung to a teddy bear—the one he'd given her at the airport. She was also crying. At least, she'd been crying, for her eyes still glistened with tears. Her pain crushed him, and he fought, as he'd never fought anything before, to keep from going to her.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. It was a paltry, worthless thing to say, but it was all he had to offer her.
She smiled sadly, mirthlessly, with lips still swollen from the bruising pressure of his. "What are you apologizing for? I'm the one who made a fool of myself. I'm the one who threw myself at you." Before he could respond, she added, so softly that it was more silence than sound, "I'm sorry."
Her lips, which had been sweeter than anything he'd ever tasted, trembled, and Walker groaned inwardly. He rammed his hands deep inside his pockets, because if he didn't he was going to cross to her and yank her into his arms.
"Don't, Lindsey," he said. "Please." He wasn't certain what he was pleading for her to do. Not to cry? Not to apologize? Not to make him want her even now, because—God, help him!—that was exactly what he wanted!
"No," she said, emboldened by what she'd already said. "I have to say this. I am sorry. I misunderstood. I thought... I thought... I just assumed..." She clasped the teddy bear closer, garnering the courage she needed to say, "I thought you were feeling what I was." She smiled again sadly, but this time so prettily that Walker thought he was going to die from her sheer beauty. "Wishful thinking plays strange tricks, huh?"
Her frank admission humbled him. How, though, could she not know that he'd wanted her, too? Hadn't his body signaled that loud and clear? The thought that he had wanted her still mystified him, still mortified him, yet he could not deny it. Not even to her. Especially in the face of her honesty. "You know I wanted you," he said.
He could have sworn that her cheeks pinkened. Minutes before, like a siren extraordinaire, she'd initiated a kiss, the likes of which he'd never known before and now here she was blushing. But it was that very dichotomy, the child-woman, the woman-child, that charmed him so.
"I know you reacted like any man would have under the circumstances. Reacting in a biologically prescribed way isn't the same as wanting someone. I mean, it is and it isn't. I thought... I thought you wanted to want me. I mean, I thought there was something—" she shrugged "—some chemistry going on between us. I thought you were feeling what I was. I thought..." She suddenly looked lost, confused, as mortified as he. Raking one hand through the blond tumble of her hair, the hair he'd minutes before devoured with his hands, she moaned, "I don't know anymore what I thought."
Walker took a step toward her. Only one. It was all he dared. "I felt what you felt. I wanted what you wanted." He took a deep breath. "I wanted you," he said hoarsely. His voice was torn and ragged when he added, "Heaven help me, I still want you!"
Lindsey, her heart hammering a discordant song, stood perfectly still. She was barely able to believe what she'd heard. She wanted to shout this wonderful news from the highest hill, yet, if he had indeed wanted her, she was more perplexed than ever.
"Then why—" she began, only to be cut off by Walker, by an emotional Walker who savagely thrust his fingers through his hair.
"My God, Lindsey, you're young enough to be my daughter! Which you are in a sense. You're my goddaughter! Which quite possibly makes what just happened incestuous!"
"That's a bunch of bunk!" Lindsey shouted, matching the pitch of her voice to his. "There's nothing incestuous—"
"Yeah, well, explain that to your parents!" As though weary to the bone, Walker plopped down on the side of the bed, gave a deep sigh and buried his head in his hands. He muttered something about explaining it to him while she was at it.
Lindsey could see Walker's pain. It was a tangible thing, jagged and serrated and ripping at his guts. He was just now facing what she'd faced months before. She remembered the emotional agony she'd endured. She remembered wondering if she was losing her mind. She remembered thinking that somehow there was something inappropriate, even downright wrong, about what she was feeling.
"I know," she said softly as she stepped across the room and eased down beside him. She was careful not to let her body touch his. "It takes some getting used to."
He pulled his head from his hands and glanced over at Lindsey. His look said that he'd heard the subtlety of her remark, namely, that she'd obviously had some time to consider the matter.
Lindsey admitted nothing more, however. She wasn't certain that Walker was ready to learn the depth of her feelings, nor how long she'd been nurturing them. She didn't want him to have to deal with anything more than he was already having to deal with. Frankly, he looked overwhelmed enough. "I'm not your daughter," she did say with defiance. "No matter what our relationship has been in the past, I'm not y
our daughter. Nor are you my father."
"Not in a biologic sense, of course, but—"
"I'm not your daughter, period. You're not my father, period. It's that simple."
Her nearness making him feel things of a decidedly unfatherly nature, Walker rose from the bed and stepped to the window, where he stared out into the black night. A car, its headlights bright, eased down the quiet street. It crawled past the house. Its presence reminded him, however, that it could have been Bunny returning home. How could he explain this scene to her should she find him in Lindsey's bedroom? The fact that he couldn't—at least not easily—underscored the complexity of the situation.
"It's not that simple," Walker said.
"It is just that simple," Lindsey repeated.
He turned around. "Lindsey, I'm twice your age."
She laid down the teddy bear and stood. "Which is it? Are you worried about the age difference or about my being your goddaughter?"
"Both, dammit!"
"What's the big deal about age?"
"Lindsey, I'm old enough to be—"
She groaned. "I know! I know! You're old enough to be my father!"
"Well, I am!"
"So what?"
"So what? So doesn't that bother you?"
"No. Not particularly. When you kissed me, your age was the last thing on my mind. I was hoping that it was the last thing on yours."
Her honesty disarmed him again, especially since the truth was that age, neither his nor hers, had been the last thing on his mind minutes before. All that had been on his mind had been the satin-softness of her lips, the honeyed sweetness of her mouth. Walker closed his eyes and sighed.
Lindsey saw her chance and pressed her advantage. Slowly, she walked toward him. Without actually touching him, she stopped so near that she could feel the heat of his body. Her voice was only a whisper when she said, "Tell me that you were thinking about age when we kissed."
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