Beyond the dining room, they entered the kitchen. With her eyes still on Brent, she barely noticed the copper pots hanging over a butcher-block island, the red brick encasing the oven, or the herbs that grew in a window over the sink. She listened more to the richness of his voice than to his actual words.
“And now for my favorite room,” he announced.
Passing through a second door, he swept his arm outward. “The den.”
Gathering her wits, she stepped into a room that oozed masculinity. Rough-hewn beams, a stone fireplace, and leather furniture lent the room the air of a mountain lodge. Track lights accentuated bold paintings of Santa Fe impressionism. On the coffee table, wrought-iron candlesticks held candles that had never been lit. The room was perfect. Almost too perfect, she thought as she noticed the Architectural Digests fanned out on the end table.
The sound of a waterfall drew her to the windows that looked out onto the patio. Redwood furniture sat in a precise grouping about potted flowers. A small water garden splashed in one corner of the yard. It looked like a setting for a photo shoot: beautiful to look at but not quite real. She brushed the odd notion aside. “You must have wonderful parties.”
“Actually,” he hesitated, “you’re the first person I’ve had over.”
She turned to him with a questioning frown.
He thrust his hands into his pockets. “I keep meaning to invite some of the people from work. Maybe after I have the molding in the dining room stripped and repainted.”
“Brent,” she shook her head, “if you wait until everything is done, you’ll never have anyone over. Trust me, I’ve lived in an old house all my life.”
“I know.” He shrugged. “But there’s still so much to be done, even though it has come a long way.”
Cocking her head, she stared at him in amusement.
“What?” He fidgeted, something she’d rarely seen him do.
“You.” Smiling, she walked toward him. “Or have you forgotten what you said when I asked you to help out with the Homes Tour?” When he didn’t answer, she deepened her voice to imitate his. “’Restoring old houses is not a worthy cause.’”
“Did I say that?”
“Yes, you did.” She touched his chin with her fingertip.
“I guess what I meant was, it’s not a worthy charity. But then I’m not asking anyone to give me money. I’m doing this for me and, well, for the house.” He glanced about. “You wouldn’t believe how neglected this place was. Even standing among all the other restored houses, no one seemed to realize the potential it had. Either that, or they considered it too small to mess with.” His gaze shot back to her, and color crept up his neck, “Never mind. It’s hard to explain.”
“Brent.” She ducked her head to see directly into his eyes. “I understand. Perfectly.”
“Thanks.” He kissed her forehead.
“So,” she asked brightly, “what do you have planned for tonight?”
“Well, let’s see.” He drew her lightly against him. “We could either go out for dinner and a movie, or … we could stay here for dinner and a movie.”
“Oh, I get it,” she laughed as he nuzzled her neck. “You tricked me into coming here just so you could get a home-cooked meal. Well, forget it, mister.” She pressed a hand to his chest and gave him a stern look. “I’m officially on a cooking strike for the next few days.”
“Actually, I was going to cook for you. How about something pseudo-Italian?”
She narrowed her gaze. “You are talking about cooking, right? Not picking up the phone and ordering a pizza.”
“What a sexist thing to say.”
“I’m just checking.”
“All right, Miss Smartypants, how does Burgundy beef with parsleyed fettuccine sound?”
Her face lit up. “It sounds fantastic.”
“Good, because I already have the meat marinating in the refrigerator. But we’ll need to run to the store. I’m fresh out of pearl onions and artichoke hearts.”
“Fine with me.” She smiled in amazement, deciding she liked this unexpectedly domestic side of Brent. She liked it very much.
—
Since the day was sunny but cool, Brent put the top down on the Porsche and took the “scenic route” to the grocery store. He wanted to show Laura all the spectacular mansions on the other side of Kirby from where he lived.
“Not that I could ever afford anything like this,” he said. “But they are something to look at.”
“Would you really want anything so big?” She looked a bit horrified by the idea.
“You bet,” he answered. “Who wouldn’t?”
She shook her head. “After all these years of living in my father’s house, all I want is a place to call my own. It could be a mansion or a shack, I wouldn’t care.” He watched the wind rumple her hair as she studied the houses. She had an odd blend of contentment and longing that he realized now had always been there. The things she wanted seemed so simple, yet remained just beyond her reach.
Turning back to the road, he took on a teasing note to keep the moment light. “As long as that shack had a white picket fence and a couple of kids in the yard, eh?”
“Maybe.” She cast him a sideways smile. “Although there are other things in life besides marriage and kids, you know.”
To his surprise, a tiny gleam of wickedness lit behind her smile. His pulse leapt with memories of what had happened the last time they’d been alone in this very car. His gaze darted to the slender legs he’d been trying to ignore. Exposed by her khaki denim skirt, they looked invitingly smooth—and naked of anything but a tan. As if intentionally taunting him, she crossed her legs with a slow, sensual motion that made him smile.
Maybe dating Laura wouldn’t end in disaster after all. She seemed perfectly prepared to handle a temporary relationship. Turning back to the road, he allowed himself to enjoy the low hum of tension that had settled in his groin.
—
When they returned to the house, Laura perched cross-legged on a bar stool in Brent’s kitchen as he prepared dinner. The CD player in the den piped a random selection of husky, bluesy tunes throughout the house. Sipping from the glass of wine he’d poured, she watched him with fascination.
“Wherever did you learn to do that?” she asked as he sliced carrots with the uniform precision of a Cordon Bleu chef.
“What, cook?” He shrugged. “The rudiments I learned early on. Not that I had much choice, since my grandmother rarely turned off the TV long enough to remember I was even in the house.”
The rhythm of his chopping skipped a beat. He frowned at the uneven slice of carrot and tossed it into the sink. “After a while, even kids get tired of bologna sandwiches and ketchup soup.”
”Ketchup soup?” she asked.
”Hey, I was a kid, give me a break.” He grinned. “Besides, ketchup’s free.” Leaning toward her, he lowered his voice for dramatic effect. “See, I’d sneak in the side door of the Dairy Bar, make like I was headed for the john, and then, when no one was looking, I’d swipe the envelopes of ketchup off the tables.”
“Very clever,” she said with exaggerated awe, even as something twisted inside her at the image he painted.
“Anyway,” he said, scraping the carrots into a bowl and moving on to peel the tiny pearl onions, “my culinary skills were ripe for expanding when I landed the job as delivery boy for Adderson’s Grocery. I guess it started as simple curiosity, you know, wondering what people planned to do with all that food I put in their pantries. So I … peeked through people’s cookbooks if I delivered the groceries when no one was home.”
“Brent…” She shook her head. “Why didn’t you just ask?”
“I did,” he insisted. “Once. The woman told me to mind my business and unpack the groceries.”
“Who said that?” Her spine snapped straight.
He flashed her a grin. “Clarice.”
“Clarice?” Laura gasped. “But Clarice can’t cook, unless you like burnt
meat loaf and cornbread hard enough to break a tooth on.”
“I, eh…” he scratched the side of his neck. “I sort of figured that out later. By then, however, I was already set in my devious ways.”
“Clever ways, if you ask me.” She shook her head, marveling at how much he’d overcome in life to become the man he was, “You were quite resourceful as a kid. It’s something you should be proud of.”
“Thanks.” Finishing with the onions, he grabbed the bowl of marinated meat and turned to the gas stove. “So,” he said with his back turned, “did you ever get around to talking to your friend Greg to explain that your answer was no?”
Her shoulders slumped “I did talk to him, yes.”
”And?” Brent’s voice sounded casual, but his body looked suddenly tense.
“He seems to have developed selective hearing.” She toyed with the stem of her wineglass. “While I told him I was moving to Houston as distinctly as I know how, he seems to think I’m coming here for some sort of vacation to think things over.”
“I see. And your dad. Are you going to tell me what he said before you left?”
“I’d rather not.” She took a sip of wine and rolled it on her tongue.
“He doesn’t approve of you seeing me, does he?”
“Dad doesn’t approve of me seeing anyone.”
Brent busied himself adjusting the burner flame. “What did he say?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” She waved her glass through the air in an effort to appear blasé. “Something about the whole town knowing I was coming to Houston for a weekend of sin and debauchery.” Even with his back to her, she saw his body stiffen.
“Does that bother you?” he asked quietly.
“What, sin and debauchery?”
“No, the whole town knowing you’re here. With me.”
“Of course not.” She shrugged off the notion, until another thought occurred to her. “Does it bother you?”
“For people to know I’m spending time with a beautiful woman? I don’t think so.” He laughed as he reached for the olive oil. It sizzled and popped as he drizzled it into the pan. The garlic he added filled the room with a mouthwatering aroma as he lined up the bowls of chopped vegetables and meat. “Now, sit back and enjoy the show.”
Chapter 13
“That was wonderful.” Laura gave a sated sigh as she plopped onto the sofa. Slumping back, she placed a hand over her stomach, “I can’t believe I ate so much.”
“Glad you liked it.” Smiling, Brent took a seat beside her and grabbed the remote control, hitting the play button for the VCR. “You sure you want to watch a movie you’ve already seen?” he asked as the opening credits for Up Close and Personal began to roll. She’d spotted the tape earlier in the extensive collection in his entertainment center.
“Absolutely,” she answered. “Like I said, it’s been a while. Besides what could be more appropriate than a movie about broadcast news? Unless you’d rather watch something else.”
“No, I like this film.” He leaned forward to retrieve the bottle of wine he’d set on the coffee table and topped off both their glasses. “It’s even fairly accurate, for the most part.”
“Oh?” she prompted, eager to learn more about his line of work. “Is your newsroom as posh as the one in the film?”
“Not exactly,” he chuckled. “Behind the slick, fancy sets, newsrooms are usually cluttered and chaotic, kind of like a war zone.” Settling back against the sofa, he stretched his arm out behind her. “What I meant by accurate is the way they portray the Robert Redford character, Warren Justice. Newsmen like him, ones who really care about informing the public, are a dying breed. These days it’s all ratings and show biz.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Yeah, it does, actually. It bothers me a lot.” His fingers toyed with the ends of her hair. When she glanced sideways, he seemed more interested in her than in the movie. “I can’t imagine ever doing anything else, though. And every once in a while, I get to write a story that matters.”
“Like what?”
He told her of the special reports he’d done, from land development scandals to political corruption. As she listened to him talk, she lost track of the movie. He had a passion in his voice when he spoke about uncovering truth and informing the people. Most of the stories he told, though, were from his days in the field, before he’d landed a spot on the anchor desk.
“I still don’t understand why you gave up reporting.”
“Because the anchor job is one step closer to what I really want to do.”
“Which is?”
“News director.” He grinned. “Now there’s a job that matters. The director I have now, Sam Barnett, is a bit like that.” He gestured toward the TV, where Warren Justice was badgering Tally Atwater, a hungry, green reporter, to find the heart of the story, to dig beyond the surface for the human element that would make people care. “Connie, my producer, thinks Sam’s an outdated dinosaur, but I admire the way he cares more about reporting the news than providing entertainment.”
Rather than glance at the screen, her eyes remained on Brent. “You really love it, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I really do.” He turned and smiled at her. And in that moment, she realized she loved him. Truly loved him. Not as a childish crush on the cutest boy in town, but with the quiet depth of a woman’s love for a man. She loved his confidence and discipline, his integrity and drive.
As she listened to him talk about his dreams, she longed for his happiness as much as she longed for him to return her love. Whether he would ever feel this same overwhelming pull of the heart toward her, she did not know. For now, however, it was enough to sit quietly beside him, to listen to his voice and believe in the possibility of sharing those dreams.
“Listen to me.” His smile turned self-mocking. “I sound like Clark Kent: Truth, Justice, and the American Way.”
To her surprise, his cheeks darkened with embarrassment. “No,” she insisted, and lifted a hand to his cheek, “you sound wonderful.”
The moment her hand touched him, his gaze locked with hers. The doubt in his eyes gave her the courage to not draw away. So many things swelled in her heart, longing to be voiced, but she knew her feelings would frighten him away. “Someday,” she said quietly, “I know you will make a fabulous news director.”
A stillness settled between them. He lifted a hand to touch her face. For one flicker of a moment, she thought she saw everything she felt reflected in his eyes. But as he leaned toward her, her eyes drifted closed, and all she could do was feel. The brush of his lips on hers was like a whispered question, and she answered with a sigh. His hand trembled as his fingertips trailed from her cheek to her neck, and she trembled in turn.
She wanted this—oh, how she wanted it. No matter what the future held, she would have this night forever. She leaned into him, her mouth urgent as she tried to convey her decision without words. His body stiffened for a moment, hesitating before his tongue plunged into her mouth, delighting in what she offered so freely. As she stroked his arms and his chest, his muscles hardened beneath her touch, and her own body strained in response.
His mouth left hers in a desperate quest down her neck, stopping at the barrier of her blouse. She arched her back to beckon him lower, but he didn’t respond.
Lifting her lashes, she found him staring at her body, his face lined as if some battle waged within. He moaned as he brought his mouth back to hers, hard, demanding. She opened her blouse with trembling hands. He needed no further encouragement to ease her down onto the couch.
She welcomed his weight and the hardness of his arousal pressing against her thigh. His hand splayed across her rib cage. Her breast ached in anticipation, yet he made no move to touch the nipples that puckered against the lace of her bra. A whimper escaped her as she deepened the kiss, begging him to touch her.
His lips broke away, and she heard his ragged breath.
“No. Wait. Stop.”
She
blinked up at him, too stunned to comprehend.
Had she misread his attraction? Or had he changed his mind at some point during the kiss? “I’m sorry. I—”
She grabbed at her blouse to cover herself, but his hand stopped her. When she looked into his eyes, she saw tormented desire rather than rejection.
“Do you have any idea how badly I want you right now?” he said.
Relief spread through her. “I rather hoped you did.” She managed a shy smile. “Because I want you, too.”
With a moan, he captured her lips, teasing and tasting. His hand moved down over her skirt, then up along her bare thigh. She quivered as his fingers slid beneath her panties to cup and squeeze her bottom. Only, when she pressed her hips against his, he pulled away.
“Wait,” he rasped, tearing his mouth from hers. “We have to stop.”
“Why?” She frowned up at him.
“Because…” A line formed between his brows as his gaze dropped to her half-exposed breasts. “I didn’t invite you here for a one-night stand.”
“And I didn’t come here for one.” She fought down equal measures of uncertainty and frustration. She longed to tell him she’d waited half her life for him, and she didn’t see any reason to wait anymore. “Brent,” she sighed, cupping his face so he would look at her. “We practically grew up together. Would it be so wrong if we sort of skipped the ‘getting to know each other’ stage?”
A laugh escaped him. “I never know what to expect from you.” Leaning down, he kissed her lips, gently, sweetly. She lifted her arms to pull him closer.
“Naw-uh.” He pulled back, grinning. “If we’re going to do this, let’s do it right.”
Before her dazed senses could sort out the words, he stood and pulled her up to stand beside him. Her blouse gaped open, and she reached to close it. Stopping her, he took her hand in his and brought it to his mouth. “Even on short notice, I think I can manage something a bit more romantic than the sofa.”
Apparently, in rising, she’d left her boldness behind for his words brought a blush of heat into her cheeks. She tried to duck her head, but he lifted her chin with a chiding smile, “Never be embarrassed by the things that give you pleasure.”
Drive Me Wild Page 12