Keast, Karen

by The Surprise of His Life

  Lindsey luxuriated in Walker's hunger. She wanted him to look at her, just the way she wanted to look at him. She wanted to see every inch of him, memorize every inch, in case tonight was all she had of him. She wanted memories enough to fill the long, lonely nights that might lay ahead. And she wanted him to remember her. Not as his goddaughter, but as the woman who loved him.

  "You are different," Walker whispered, reaching out and touching her love-tossed hair with his fingertips. "So very different."

  A tiny smile budded, grew, ripened. "I grew up."

  At that, he began to gently twist the blond strands of her hair about his fist. Each roll brought her closer to him until the tips of her breasts brushed against his chest. Her neck was arched, her head angled upward. "Did anyone ever tell you that you grew up in all the right places?" he said, his mouth only milli-inches from hers.

  "I've been waiting all these years for you to tell me," she whispered.

  He did more than tell her. He showed her. Completing the distance, he dropped his mouth onto hers. He intended the kiss to be gentle and tender, but, when flesh met flesh, his intentions scattered like crisp leaves in a chafing wind. In seconds, the kiss became hot and wet and graphically explicit. Abruptly, Walker jerked his mouth from hers. Just as abruptly, he released her hair, backed away and began to swim brisk laps.

  Lindsey let him, even when one lap led into another, then into another, each delivered as though he had a surplus of energy he had to dissipate. She knew, though, that it was more than energy. It was desire. For through all that was happening—his concern, his doubt, his fear of betraying aged friendships—she knew that he desired her. She knew, too, that the extent of that desire startled him. It even frightened him.

  Slowly, she began to swim, letting the cool water glide over her damp skin. She was tired. Yet exhilarated. She needed to sleep. Yet sleep was the last thing she'd be able to do. Closing her eyes, she ducked her head beneath the surface, allowing the womblike stillness, the silence, to surround her. When she resurfaced, she saw Walker slowly swimming toward her. He looked as tired, yet as wired, as she.

  Using her hands, she smoothed back the wet hair from her face. By placing one hand on each side of her, Walker immediately pinned her to the edge of the pool. Without warning and forcefully, he took her mouth again—one short fierce kiss, as though to prove to himself that he was still in control.

  For moments, they didn't speak. They just stared. Finally, Lindsey angled a lock of wet hair from his forehead. "Tired?" she said, her eyes fully on him.

  He grinned. "A little. I'm not used to such late nights. We old folks go to bed early."

  The grin Lindsey returned was pure deviltry. "You went to bed early."

  "Yeah," he answered, the husky delivery of the word sending Lindsey's blood to simmering.

  She lazily, sexily drew her finger down his chest. "We could go back to bed... and sleep."

  "We could."

  "Then again," she said, stopping her finger strategically short of his navel, "maybe we could find something better to do."

  "I think we'd be talking about one of those miracles you're so fond of believing in. A man has his limits. An old man has even greater limits." He was aware, however, of wanting her even as he spoke of the biological practicality of the male body.

  "Ah, yes, you're so old," she said, a spark of teasing lighting her eyes. "You know, I'd be glad to help you put your teeth in a glass or tune your pacemaker."

  A grin nipped one corner of his mouth. "Smart aleck."

  "No, really. I could push your wheelchair or adjust your hearing aid. I could even rub your bad knee."

  "How did you know I had a bad knee?" Walker asked.

  "You told me when you were trying to discourage my asking you to dance. But I knew about it, anyway. I know everything about you." She reached down and began to rub his knee. "The game with the Redskins, right? Some defensive back with a bad attitude creamed you on the thirty-sixth yard."

  The feel of her hand on his knee was beginning to push all thoughts of football from his mind. In fact, her hand was making him believe in miracles. "I have no idea what yard it was," he said, his voice growing husky.

  "It was the thirty-sixth. At least that's what an old newspaper article Mother has said."

  "You looked?" he asked, feeling incredibly warm, both by her personal knowledge of him and of the way her fingers were kneading his skin.

  "Mmm," she admitted, adding, "How does that feel?"

  "Good," he said, his voice having gone from husky to downright thick. "However, it's the wrong knee." His grin was back. "Guess the newspaper didn't mention which knee."

  Slowly, Lindsey stopped her massaging. She tried to look vexed, but the grin that kept threatening to turn up the corners of her mouth was seriously interfering. "Why didn't you tell me it was the wrong knee?"

  "Why should I? I was enjoying it."

  "Were you, now?" Her gray eyes had begun to twinkle, making them glitter like finely cut diamonds.

  His eyes twinkled back. "Yeah. I was."

  "Well, enjoy this," she said as she unexpectedly splashed a screen of water in his direction and started swimming away.

  She caught him totally off guard, but then, he thought as he instinctively started in after her, that was pretty well how she'd caught him in every respect. Not only hadn't he seen her coming, he hadn't had even the smallest glimpse.

  Swimming hard, he grabbed her ankle. She squealed, giggled, jerked her foot away. He reached for her again, but all he got was a handful of where she'd been. His heart was already pounding, but its tempo increased dramatically with the sudden need to touch her. How long had it been since he'd touched her? Suddenly it seemed like ten thousand forevers. Their playing took on an element of urgency.

  Stretching his arms to their full extent, he kicked harder, encircled her waist with his arm and, to the accompaniment of her laughter, yanked her to him. They both slipped beneath the surface of the water, she fighting him as though he were her mortal enemy. Rolling and tumbling over each other, their bodies in intimate contact, they scrimmaged and fought, teased and played. At last, breathing became imperative. Gasping, they broke from the water.

  Beads of water dampened Lindsey's face, clinging like raindrops to her thick tawny eyelashes. The same drops of moisture dewed her parted lips. Her hair, like a veil of gold, hung straight about her shoulders, making her look like a beautiful sea goddess.

  Walker was equally wet. His hair streaked onto his forehead, his whisker-shadowed jaws dripped water. Runnels ran through the hair on his chest. He, too, looked like a god rising from the depths of the ocean.

  At the sight of Lindsey, Walker's eyes darkened.

  At the sight of Walker, Lindsey's breath quickened.

  Playtime ended as abruptly as it began.

  He hauled her to him, savagely taking her mouth with his. Teeth clashed, tongues probed, body collided with body in warm and wanting ways.

  "I want you," she whispered, once more brazenly, truthfully proclaiming her need.

  "Then take me," he whispered back, his desire as frenzied as hers.

  As he spoke, he drew her legs upward, draping them about his waist even as she folded her arms about his neck. Her breasts cozied next to his chest, while his arms crisscrossed her bare back. She lay open to him, intimately open—her heart, her body. He entered her, driving himself deep. On some plane of thought, he registered the fact that the miracle wasn't that she'd aroused him again, but that each time she did a curious thing happened. Each time, he seemed to grow younger. Each time, his desire for her grew stronger.

  This is madness! he thought as his body moved inside hers. A fine and rare and altogether magical madness!

  A long while later, each dressed in nothing more than a towel, they lay on the chaise lounge. They were entwined in each other's arms. Overhead, gauzy clouds floated past a full silver moon.

  "You're quiet," Walker said, the comment rumbling from his chest. There
were only a few hours left before daylight. The night would soon be over. Their night. What would the morrow bring?

  As she lay in his arms, a dark thought had crossed Lindsey's mind. She hated herself for letting the thought intrude, but found that she couldn't halt it. Any more than she could stop herself from now bringing up the subject. The pain was still there—sharp, acute, biting her to the quick.

  "I wonder if Dad and the girl—pardon me, the woman—from the diner are having a similar evening."

  Walker tightened his hold. "Lindsey, don't do this to yourself."

  "No, I'm curious. How do men view affairs? Do you think he took her back to his place for a quickie?"

  "Lindsey—"

  "Or do you think she spent the night?"

  "Don't do this."

  "Do you think he told her he loved her, or do you think it was clearly understood that everything was just fun and games?"

  "I don't think he's doing this for the fun of it. He's trying to prove something to himself."

  Lindsey laughed bitterly. "So you think he gritted his teeth and refused to enjoy it?"

  "I think there's a difference between temporary pleasure and longtime peace."

  Lindsey wasn't placated. "Gee, next you're going to tell me that he thought about Mom the whole time."

  "I think that's a real possibility."

  "Then you're more naive than I am," Lindsey said, her tone revealing the anger she felt toward her father. The anger that could so easily become bitterness.

  "He's been upset by your mother's going on with her life. I think her being able to stand alone took him by surprise. I think it also made him take another look at her. She may not be exactly what, or whom, he thought she was."

  Lindsey sat up, sighed, and raked her fingers through her damp hair. "I don't know what to think anymore. Right now, I don't much care. If Dad wants to bed Miss Diner, let him. If he wants to run off to Timbuktu with her, let him. If Mom doesn't want to fight for him, that's her business."

  "But you'd fight, right?"

  Angling her head, Lindsey looked at the man stretched out beside her. "I don't know," she said honestly. "I used to think I'd fight for what I wanted no matter what, but now I just don't know. If one would rather be turned loose, what's the point of trying to hold on? If holding on is only hurting the one you love, how can you conscionably justify fighting?" Both knew that the conversation had turned personal. Personal as in their own relationship. Lindsey now asked frankly, "Do you want me to fight for you? Or do we just chalk this evening up to the kind my father's had?"

  At the first of her questions, Walker hadn't known what to answer. Did he want her to fight for him? The second part of the question, however, he had no trouble responding to.

  "No!" he growled, yanking her back down beside him—under him. "What happened between us is in no way comparable to what happened to your father. And don't you ever say that again! Do you hear me?"

  What she heard, what he heard, too, was an answer to the first question. He wanted her to fight for him. He didn't want her to let him walk away. He didn't want her to let him turn his back on what she was offering him.

  "I hear," she whispered only seconds before his mouth claimed hers.

  "...The tropical depression, located two hundred miles southwest of Jamaica, continues to build in intensity, and weather forecasters predict that it will start to organize over the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The depression is currently being plotted on a northwest course which may strike the western tip of Cuba. This storm has the potential to be a threat to the Texas and Louisiana Gulf Coast...."

  Walker listened to the radio over the sound of sizzling bacon. Beyond that he could hear the shower running. He hadn't slept a wink. Not one. Lindsey had slept precious little more. At a little after five, she'd drifted off to sleep in his arms, cuddling up to him in a way that had stolen his heart. He'd simply held her, wondering what in hell was happening to him, wondering where they went from there.

  Still no answer and careful not to wake her, he had crawled from bed at six o'clock. Only minutes before, it had begun to sprinkle, a fact which didn't surprise him in the least because his knee hurt like someone was pounding it with a hammer. Slipping on his jeans and nothing more, he'd quietly taken Lindsey's car keys from her purse and gone out to make sure the car windows were rolled up. On a whim, he'd pulled the car into the garage. He didn't analyze why. He just knew that it had something to do with wanting to keep their night secret from any curious eyes. Returning to the house, he turned on the radio and put on some breakfast. Something— perhaps the radio, perhaps the smell of perking coffee, perhaps his absence—had awakened Lindsey, for shortly thereafter he'd heard the shower.

  A thousand thoughts ran through his mind. What would they say to each other? What did he want to say? What did he want her to say? She had said she loved him, but had it only been the madness of the night? Would the same words tumble from her lips by day? And what was he feeling for her? What name should he put to the strong feelings dancing through his heart? Along with these questions came the more practical question of whether or not Dean knew about the possible storm. And what would his best friend say if he knew that he'd spent the night making love to his daughter? He couldn't even begin to fathom an answer to this last one.

  Turning the bacon, he opened the refrigerator and removed the juice jar. He poured two glasses, one of which ran over the rim. Wiping up the orange puddle with a wet rag, he then washed the rag out under the faucet. In lieu of a dish towel, he swiped his damp hands down the legs of his jeans. The top button lay unfastened, forming a vee low on his stomach. He'd just reached for a couple of eggs when he heard yet another sound. It was the sound of a brisk knock on the back door seconds before the door flew open.

  "Good, you're up," Dean said, storming into the kitchen the way he had a hundred times before over the years.

  Walker dropped one of the eggs. It went splat on the kitchen floor.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Dean said. He was wearing cutoff shorts, a shirt that needed pressing and sunglasses even though not a sliver of sun peeked through the clouds. In fact, the sprinkling had evolved into a steady drizzle.

  Walker said nothing. He simply stared at his friend— and listened to the shower. He did have the presence of mind to put down the other egg before it suffered a fate similar to the first.

  Whipping off his sunglasses, Dean grabbed a rag and started to clean up the mess. "I didn't know whether you'd be up." Without giving Walker a chance to comment, he added, "Have you heard about the storm in the Gulf?"

  Storm? Walker fought at a hysterical laugh. The storm in the Gulf was nothing compared to the storm about to break in his kitchen!

  "Dammit, I hope we don't have to evacuate the platforms," Dean said.

  Squatting down as he was, Walker noted, in the idle way that one does the color of the guillotine before the blade falls, that his friend was developing a bald spot to go along with his receding hairline. Dean hadn't tried to cover it up, which maybe was why Walker was noticing it now. It left Dean looking old. Dean also looked tired, as in having been up half the night. He didn't, however, look like a man who'd stayed up having a good time. Instead, he look worried.

  Worried?

  Walker glanced in the direction of his bedroom. The shower was still running. Thank God! Walker knew, though, that his time was borrowed.

  "Look—" Walker began.

  "Geez, you're burning the bacon!" Dean said, throwing the egg-stained rag into the sink and yanking the skillet off the fire. Snakelike streams of smoke billowed upward. "Man, what's wrong? You're the one who does mornings, not me."

  In the silence, the shower sounded deafening, like a waterfall going over a steep cliff.

  As clearly as a spring stream flows; Walker saw realization dawn on his buddy. "Ah, man, I'm sorry. My timing is lousy. It just never crossed my mind that you had a woman here. I had that storm on my mind, and I was up... couldn't sleep.
.. so I thought I'd come on over...."

  Walker heard the shower stop. His heart stopped along with it.

  "I'll call you later," Walker said, herding his friend toward the door.

  "Yeah, sure," Dean said, adding as he nodded toward the bedroom, "Anyone special?"

  "Uh... look, let's talk later, huh?" Walker said, opening the back door.

  "Right... sure... I gotcha," Dean said, allowing himself to be almost physically ejected from the house. "We'll talk later. Hey, wait," Dean said, holding on to the door frame, "are you going into the office later?"

  Office? What office? Walker had to force himself to think straight. How long did it take a woman to get out of the shower and into her clothes? Or—holy hell! —what if she came in in nothing at all? He wouldn't put it past Lindsey. Not after last night. Walker deliberately positioned himself between Dean and the now crack in the door. "Maybe... maybe not... I don't know."

  Dean grinned. "That hot, huh?"

  Yeah, Walker thought, but said nothing. "I'll, uh, I'll talk to you later."

  Walker closed the door on his friend's muffled "All right" and leaned back. His heart, the one that had stopped earlier, was now pounding a mile a minute, and he'd broken out in a sweat that had nothing to do with the early-morning heat. His legs felt rubbery and useless. Finally, on a deep sigh he pushed from the door. He was midway in the room when the back door was once more flung open.