Keast, Karen

by The Surprise of His Life

  "Lindsey..." This time he felt her nibble at his ear. He also felt her lean forward. Her breasts nestled into his back. She'd worn another see-through blouse, the ivory fabric of which was so soft as to be almost nonexistent.

  He moaned.

  "Or," she growled softly, "we could take the wine and cheese and bread and have a picnic in your backyard. Your virtue, however, is definitely not safe there."

  "Lindsey—"

  "Come to think of it..." she said, biting the back of his neck.

  "Stop it."

  "...It might not be safe on the beach, either."

  "Lindsey—"

  Her tongue rasped across his neck.

  His control gone, Walker grabbed her hand and pulled her from him. "Dammit, don't!" At her sudden wide-eyed, very startled look, he added hoarsely, "Please." When she still said nothing, he said, the words tattered and torn, "I'm begging you."

  For long, long, eternally long seconds, neither said anything. There didn't seem to be anything to say. Walker could see her hurt. She could see his frustration. She could also see that he'd just arrived at the end of his rope.

  Slowly, Walker realized that he was still holding her wrist. He released his hold, feeling oddly bereft by the loss of her touch. It was strange, he thought, but all it took to make him happy these days was her touch. He could never remember when so little seemed like so much.

  "I, uh, I think I'll leave early today," he said.

  She said nothing.

  "Why don't you, too? There's nothing here that won't keep over the weekend."

  Still, she said nothing.

  He rose. "I, uh, I'll see you Monday." When she still said nothing, but rather stood looking as though he'd struck her, he added, "Lindsey—"

  "It's all right," she said quietly.

  They both knew that it wasn't, however. In fact, everything was a damned sight short of all right, and there was the real possibility that nothing would ever be right again.

  Chapter Eight

  Lindsey sat in her car, staring at the unturned key. Minutes before, she'd paid for the pina colada that she'd nursed for the past hour and left the hotel bar where, weeks before, she and Walker had shared a drink. She wished now that she hadn't chosen that particular bar. It had too many memories. But then, memories plagued her no matter where she went.

  "Dammit, don't... please... I'm begging you."

  Walker was nearing the breaking point. It was what she wanted—for him to lose the struggle with his emotions and, thereby, for her to win. She hadn't realized, though, that his losing would be so painful for him, so soul-wrenchingly painful. She had heard the pure agony in his voice. He wanted her, and that fact was eating him alive, for it was making him go against every fiber of his integrity. He had not yet—and maybe never would—come to terms with what was happening between them. He saw his feelings for her as a betrayal of her parents and a breaching of his godfather responsibilities. How stupid of her not to know how hurtful this betrayal of his principles would be. How stupid! How insensitive! How naive? Yes, how incredibly naive.

  So, where did she go from here? She didn't want to keep hurting Walker. She couldn't keep hurting him. When you loved someone, you didn't hurt that someone. At least not if you could help it. All of which meant, she guessed, that she'd have to rethink her battle plan.

  She sighed, feeling the September heat ooze through the sheer lawn fabric of her blouse. Though almost seven-thirty, it was still as hot as Hades, and the humidity was as dense as a chunk of wood. The radio had earlier reported rumblings of a storm in the Gulf, which could, ultimately, mean wind and rain for the island. At the present she would welcome such a cleansing, although it might be days down the road... if at all. Right now, she had to decide where to go, because she couldn't very well sit in this parking lot all night.

  Home.

  She thought of home, but didn't want to go there. She knew that her mother was out again with this Don person. According to her mother, lunch had been nice, and she'd volunteered to show Don some of the off-the-beaten-path sights before he left the island the next day. Lindsey didn't know how she felt about her mother being out with a man other than her father. Well, actually, she did. She didn't like it any more than her father did. When he'd heard that Bunny was going out again that evening, he'd become sullen, quiet, withdrawn. For the first time, Lindsey had felt encouraged. Maybe her father was having second thoughts.

  Her father.

  Maybe he could use a little tender loving care tonight. Maybe she herself could use a little of the TLC that he was so good at dispensing. Over the years, no one could ease her pain the way her father could. No pair of arms had ever been able to so completely hug away life's hurts. Suddenly, more than anything in the world, Lindsey wanted to feel her father's arms about her. Even though she couldn't tell her father about Walker, wouldn't it be wonderful just to have her father's silent assurance that whatever was bothering her would be all right?

  Turning the key, Lindsey started the car and headed it in the direction of her father's apartment. Though she'd never been there, she knew the address. At least, she knew the small apartment complex. All she'd have to do was look for a red sports car, which, as luck would have it, she caught sight of several blocks from the apartment. The car, its top up for a change, had just halted at a stop sign, then lurched forward with the power of a team of wild horses. Lindsey knew it was her father because of the temporary license plate.

  At closer inspection, Lindsey realized that there was someone else in the car with him. For the duration of one unsteady breath, she toyed with the idea that it might be Walker, but the idea fled when the car turned the corner. The passenger was clearly a woman with long flowing red hair, the ends of which fluttered out the open window. Lindsey's unsteady breath vanished entirely at the sight. Her first reaction was to deny what she was seeing. Her second, to minimize it. There could be lots of reasons that her father had a woman in the car with him. Yeah, she heard a voice saying deep inside her, name a couple. The truth was that she could come up with only one. One very hurtful reason.

  Lindsey's pain grew by leaps and bounds as she watched her father pull into the driveway. From a position of a block away, she saw him get out of the car, round the hood and open the passenger door. A woman, all red hair, long legs and a giggly smile, tumbled out... and into her father's arms.

  Lindsey couldn't believe what she was seeing. Her father with another woman! Woman? Maybe, but Lindsey would guess that she barely had reached that chronological point, and there was no doubt whatsoever that the flame-haired sprite was younger than she. It was equally obvious that this wasn't the first time her father had dated the young woman. They were too chummy, too personal, too downright intimate. This Lindsey thought as she watched the redhead brush her mouth across her father's.

  At the sight of her father returning the kiss, Lindsey grew numb. As though she could not help herself, as though compelled to watch, Lindsey's gaze followed the couple as they walked, arm in arm, up the sidewalk and toward the apartment. At the door, they paused as her father searched through his pocket for the key. All the while, the two of them laughed and kissed. As Dean fitted the key into the lock, the woman's hand roamed onto his rear end and splayed wide, as though staking a claim. Lindsey noted that her father in no way objected. In fact, he dragged her into the apartment and closed the door, leaving the impression that he couldn't get her alone fast enough. Lindsey had no doubt what was about to occur behind the closed door.

  Suddenly, she felt sick to her stomach, sick at heart. In all of her life she could never remember feeling this way. She felt hurt, in such an abundance that she wasn't certain she could bear it. It was like a mighty weight pressing down on her chest. In equal proportions, she felt anger—a hot, scalding, how-the-hell-could-he-do-this anger. She felt... alone. So bitterly alone. She also felt like crying, but this she stubbornly refused to let herself do.

  Lindsey had no idea how long she sat a block away watching
the apartment. She saw the downstairs lights go out and the upstairs lights go on. She then saw them go out, too. Still, she continued her dark vigil until she finally became aware that the night had closed in around her. Outside, stars had begun to twinkle. Inside the car, she had grown uncomfortable sitting in one limited position. With a start, she realized that the motor was still running. She eased the gear into drive, turned on her lights and let the car take the lead. She hadn't the foggiest idea where she was headed.

  Wearing only a pair of worn stone-washed jeans, Walker reclined in a chaise lounge at the side of the pool. Except for the sparse illumination of the pool lights, he sat in darkness. A beer can rested on his flat belly, its cool drops of condensation mingling with the sweat that had formed on his body. Beside him, the radio played a string of love songs—songs of passion, songs of devotion, songs of love gone painfully wrong.

  "...And now an update on the weather," came the male voice on the radio. "In case you hadn't noticed, it's hot here on the island. At present it's eighty-eight degrees, with another sizzling day predicted for tomorrow. For those of you following the progress of the tropical depression in the Caribbean, it's still harmless enough, but seems to be gaining momentum. We'll keep you informed of its movements. And now, here's a song for all of you out there who are in love. It's called—"

  Walker abruptly shut off the radio and brought the beer can to his lips. He was sick of love songs, as in fed up to the gills. He also wondered about the storm. When you lived on the coast, when you operated oil rigs in the Gulf, each manned by a crew, you never took storms cavalierly. They were always worth watching. Sometimes a storm was nothing more than a naughty lady. Then again, it could be bold and brazen.

  Lady.

  Bold and brazen.

  An image of Lindsey shadow-danced through Walker's mind. She was all he'd thought about since leaving work. Hell, she was all he'd thought about for days, weeks! He'd give anything if he could just stop thinking about her, if he could just stop wanting to be near her, wanting to touch her, if he could just stop remembering every nuance of how she looked, how she smelled, how she sounded.

  "Oh, you mean my flirting with you."

  "Poor Walker. I'm not making it easy for you, am I?"

  "Stop fighting. I want you. You want me. There's nothing wrong with that."

  Walker groaned. To indicate just how far he'd fallen, there were actually times when he thought wanting Lindsey wasn't wrong. How could something that felt so right—and the feel of her in his arms did feel right—be so wrong? How could feelings so strong be false?

  The flash of headlights cutting across the privet hedge brought his miserable thoughts to a halt. Who in hell? he wondered, momentarily hearing the slam of a car door. Maybe, if he pretended not to be at home, whoever it was would go away. He didn't want company. Not anybody's. At the sound of the doorbell, Walker didn't stir. The bell rang again. Walker held his breath. Once more the doorbell rang—three times in rapid succession. Walker uttered a profanity and pushed himself from the chaise lounge. Whoever it was wasn't going away. That much was clear.

  En route to the front door, Walker turned on a couple of house lights and deposited the beer can, with a spewing thud, onto the kitchen cabinet. He hit the porch light at the same time he yanked open the front door. His mood was only three growls short of a grizzly bear's.

  "Yeah?" he barked, the word clipped in the middle of its delivery.

  Lindsey stood on the doorstep, the harsh porch light bleaching her skin to a sickly pallor. At least that was Walker's first interpretation of her paleness. He revised it when he saw the blank look in her eyes, the vacantness in her expression. It wasn't the orange glare of the light washing the color from her face. She had managed to be pale all on her own.

  "Lindsey, are you all right?" Walker asked, his concern apparent.

  "I, uh, I didn't know where else to go," she said. Seconds, heartbeats, regrets by the score passed. "I don't want to hurt you... I promise I won't flirt... I promise I won't tease... I promise..." Her voice trailed off as if she couldn't remember exactly what she was promising. She then repeated, "I didn't know where else to go."

  As instinctively as breathing, Walker stepped aside. Lindsey accepted his unspoken invitation, noting, even in her muddled state, that he wore neither shirt nor shoes. An ebony matting of hair, some shaded in silver and moistened in sweat, covered his chest. Though the woman in her clearly recognized his blatant sensuality, the child in her just wanted to be held, and comforted, against that chest. Abruptly, she realized that she was just staring at the object of her interest. She raised her gaze from Walker's chest to his eyes.

  She had promised not to flirt, but the very look of longing on her face was more powerful than any blatant teasing she might have engaged in. Walker's body suffused with heat, with longing, with a need so profound it was frightening. Only the fact that something was wrong—very wrong—kept him from pulling her into his arms.

  "What is it?" he asked. "What's happened?"

  Lindsey smiled in self-deprecation. "I must be incredibly stupid. Or naive." She laughed as she drew back the long blond hair from her face. "Or maybe I'm both. Yeah, I guess that's it. I guess I'm both."

  "You're going to have to tell me what you're talking about," Walker said.

  "What I'm talking about is being as blind as a bat. All the signs were there. I just refused to put two and two together."

  "Lindsey..."

  "I mean, he was exhibiting all the classic signs of a mid-life crisis. Why did I think he wouldn't have gone all the way?"

  "...You're going to have to tell me..."

  She laughed mirthlessly, and her voice had risen in anger when she said, "Well, I guess it's pretty obvious why I didn't want to add two and two together. Four hurts. In fact, it's downright unfair!"

  "Lindsey—"

  "Dammit, he's having an affair! My father's having an affair!"

  In that moment, Walker could have throttled Dean. The pain he was inflicting on those who loved him was inexcusable, unforgivable. Walker could also have throttled himself for not anticipating that Lindsey would find out. Affairs never remained a secret for long. Why hadn't he told her himself? Because he hadn't had the guts, that was why. Now, angry with both himself and Dean, Walker gave a long, weary sigh.

  Something in the sound of the sigh caught Lindsey's attention. That and the fact that Walker looked less than shocked. Disgusted, yes. Frustrated, yes. Shocked, no.

  "You knew, didn't you?" she asked with a certainty that didn't need confirmation. "You lied to me," she said disbelievingly. The hurt she'd experienced earlier that evening, the revelation of her father's affair, now compounded and magnified until she felt that she would surely smother beneath her suffocating pain.

  Her accusation cut through Walker like a sharp saber. "I didn't lie to you! When I told you I didn't know of any affair, I didn't. I found out later."

  "And you didn't tell me?" She now refused to be placated. Frankly, it felt good to be taking her anger out on someone. Anyone.

  "And I suppose you rushed right home and told your mother," Walker said, his own emotions peaking to the same hot high.

  "Of course, I didn't! How could I tell her that Dad is screwing around? How could I be the one to hurt her?"

  "My point precisely. I didn't want to be the one to hurt her, either." His voice had lowered to a rich huskiness when he added, "I didn't want to be the one to hurt you."

  The words lapped about her like heated honey, their tone telling her of the strength of his feelings, feelings he was fighting, but feelings he had nonetheless.

  "Maybe I should have told you," he said suddenly. "Maybe it would have been better coming from me."

  "No," she answered softly, wisely, "it wouldn't have been any better. And, if it's any consolation, I probably wouldn't have told you, either. I wouldn't have wanted to be the one to hurt you. I couldn't hurt you. At least not intentionally."

  Walker knew that she was
apologizing for all the times she'd taunted him, teased him. That apology, coupled with her remarks when he'd first opened the door, remarks about her no longer going to flirt with him, had an unexpected and strange effect upon him. He'd begged her to stop, but now that she was, disappointment seized him. My God, was he going totally crazy?

  "You want a drink?" he said, starting for the liquor cabinet. The fact that it was so meagerly stocked said that he wasn't normally a drinking man. All that might change if his life didn't get back to normal. Normal? All he could remember of normal now was that he'd been drowning in dullness, sameness, with one day plodding slowly into another. And then Lindsey had returned home.

  "You told me once that I wasn't old enough to drink," Lindsey said, watching Walker pour a dash of brandy into a snifter.

  "Believe me, we're both getting older by the minute," he said, downing the drink in one gulp.

  It was hot and mixed poorly with the cold beer sloshing around in his stomach. He splashed more brandy into the glass and handed it to Lindsey. She took it. He noted that her hands were inordinately cold for the hot weather flooding the city. It crossed his mind that he could think of a lot of ways to warm them—sexy ways, sweetly sinful ways—then realized that it was just such thoughts that he was trying to curb.

  After swallowing the brandy, Lindsey made a face. "Brandy and pina coladas don't mix."

  "Tell me about it," Walker grumbled as the beer and brandy battled.

  Suddenly, as though just remembering what had driven her to this man, Lindsey spoke. "Oh, Walker, my father's having an affair. And the worst of it is, she's just a kid. My God, she's just a kid! She makes me look ready for Social Security."

  "She's nineteen," Walker supplied, adding what he knew she wanted to ask, "He met her at a diner."

  Disbelief streaked across Lindsey's face. "He left Mother for a nineteen-year-old he met at a diner?"