***
Since the man had come into her sphere again, Kay had every intention of teaching him a few things about relationships. Lesson one: A man didn’t kiss a woman with the impact of Vesuvius, disappear from her life and expect to show up again without retribution.
Retribution began when she opened her front door and watched Mitch’s jaw sag slightly. If he expected privacy, he certainly wasn’t going to get it.
Stix was sprawled on the sofa, the two teenagers from across the street were flat on the floor and Mrs. O’Brien from next door, in her favorite polka-dot apron, was curled up in the Morris chair. The African Queen was playing on the DVD player, and the group was munching on doughnuts. Hepburn was removing the leeches from Bogart’s back, and no one gave Kay more than a cursory look.
“You’re late,” Stix mentioned, unnecessarily.
“I knew you’d start without me.” Most efficiently, she introduced Mitch, stole his coat, piled the books in the dining room and headed for the kitchen.
A few moments later, Mitch leaned in the doorway, a look of wry amusement on his face. “You often have people just…occupy your house like that?”
“Yup. About four weekends each winter, everyone pitches in to rent a DVD. A neighborhood thing. I don’t know who decided my house was central, but somehow they always end up here. It’s my mother’s fault, really.” Flicking back her hair, she peered into the refrigerator.
“Your mother’s fault,” Mitch echoed.
“Not for renting the movies, but she always had an open-door policy around here. All ages, anytime.” Her head twisted around the refrigerator door with a quick, studying glance at him. “You look like the lasagna type. Are you staying for dinner?”
“I…yes.”
She beamed approval at him. That yes was a straightforward answer. That was lesson number two. Straightforwardness and honesty were critical to a relationship. Mitch was about to get a good solid dose of her lifestyle, and she was about to take the mystery out of the man.
“The lasagna just needs to be heated up, but it’ll still take a while. In the meantime…” She tossed a head of lettuce to him and started humming, whipping around the kitchen with practiced ease. “Shred,” she ordered him.
He shredded. She grilled…him.
He was twenty-eight, a passionate football fan; he’d lived most of his life around Coeur d’Alene but had recently bought a house in Moscow; his politics were dead wrong; he knew wonderfully crazy stories about outlaws in Idaho…and that lazy half smile was becoming a fixture.
She thought he’d be thrown by the continual hustle and bustle around the place, but she was obviously wrong. He listened soberly to Mrs. O’Brien’s arthritis woes, gave a tactful opinion on Sandra’s and Bern’s newly purchased jeans, answered the phone three times and managed to slaughter Kay in an impromptu trivia quiz while they were eating. No one else ever remembered that Babe Ruth had been a coach for the Dodgers after he retired from play.
By the time they were doing the dishes, Kay had totally forgiven Mitch for not calling; she had the feeling she would forgive him just about anything when she heard his uninhibited laughter for the first time. Stix was the only one still hanging around by then. Standing in the doorway, he was absently tossing his car keys up and down, watching her and Mitch bicker over the number of presidents who’d had Franklin in their names.
“Benjamin wasn’t,” Stix whispered to her dryly.
“Well, he should have been.” The two men exchanged glances as Kay looked at the clock. “Stix, are you crazy? You’re going to be late. You said you had a date at eight and it’s already past.”
“So give us a kiss.”
She stretched up and got a stranglehold around her neck for her trouble as she walked him to the door. “Be good,” he ordered her. “Don’t do anything I would do. Try to remember to lock your door tonight…”
“The trouble with you is that you don’t have any sisters.”
“Is that my problem?”
Mitch collapsed on the couch a few minutes later. Keeping up with Kay occasionally required a rest period. Her house had everything he’d missed for years-noise and energy and bubbling laughter. Only it wasn’t the house; it was Kay.
She served him popcorn, with white wine to wash it down, then curled into the huge overstuffed chair across from the couch, her knees drawn up and her arms around them. The chair swallowed her up. She looked as feminine and helpless as a tiny kitten, but like a relentless prosecuting attorney she kept the questions coming.
He felt rusty, as though he was just learning to talk again. Of course, he’d talked to people for years-about politics, geology, sports, local affairs. On any number of topics, he could talk knowledgeably-it was talking about himself that he’d shied away from. Kay kept coaxing up things he barely even remembered.
“I don’t believe it, Cochran. You were actually kicked out of kindergarten?” She giggled.
“I skipped out during rest hour. Who wanted to nap? And one day I put a napkin full of butter on the teacher’s chair…” He shrugged, then cleared his throat. “I just didn’t seem to be cut out to sit in a classroom.”
“But you’ve got degrees, you said. In geology and mineralogy. You speak German and Italian and Chinese. You must have turned into a student sometime.”
“Well, I did. The other was before-” He checked himself.
They’d been doing so well! Kay could have cheerfully dumped the bowl of popcorn over his head for clamming up again. At least they seemed to be safe talking about their childhoods. She was willing to settle for that. For a while.
“The only time I ever got in trouble was in fifth grade,” she told him. “Judy Whitaker called me skinny. I glued her desk shut.”
“Were you?”
“Skinny?” Kay nodded morosely. “I started out a plump kid, but then it all disappeared. Every other girl was getting these nice little bumps on her chest and I was still concave. I probably would have gotten into a lot less trouble if I’d said I was sorry for sealing the desk, but I told the principal I was glad, glad, glad.”
“What happened?”
“The PingPong paddle.” She lifted her wineglass in salute. “They don’t allow that in the schools anymore. Child abuse and all that, but to tell the truth, it was only my pride that hurt for a week. The principal was shaking with laughter the whole time.”
“Ours was a ruler. I cashed in for decking Stoney Laker. He hit my girl.”
“How old?”
“Second grade. My first and only engagement,” he added. “God, I loved her.” He popped a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “She could play the best damn game of marbles…” He kept his voice deliberately serious, because that seemed to make her laugh and he loved the sound, loved the way the corners of her eyes crinkled and her hair cascaded back. Only by accident did his eye suddenly wander to the windowed wall, where a clay pot filled with dirt stood, a scrawny stick emerging from it. “What is that?” he asked.
“My fig tree.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t. I absolutely adore plants. They refuse to grow for me, but that one-that one-is coming back. I feed it, water it, talk to it, turn it…” She uncurled from the chair long enough to refill his glass. “Cochran,” she remarked as she set down the bottle, “I wouldn’t say what you’re thinking if I were you. That plant is coming back.”
“Are we-” he cleared his throat politely “-talking reincarnation or…?”
“Not to threaten you or anything, but I’ve strangled little old ladies who cast aspersions on my fig tree,” she informed him.
She was close, oh so close, when she bent over to set down the wine bottle. Her lips were damp from her last sip of wine.
And she was laughing. He wanted to capture that laughter, bottle it, never let go of it. A warning bell in his head told him not to touch her; he didn’t want to start something. He wanted her…too much. And he couldn’t bear the thought that he might be awkward with
her.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” Kay said lightly, “but I’ll warn you one more time. I’m more than a little sensitive on the subject of my brown thumb. Retaliation for insults will be both prompt and devastating.”
“You’ve got me terrified,” Mitch said, smiling.
She knew it was coming. She could tell from the look that had been in his eyes all evening. And suddenly he wasn’t smiling anymore.
He was reaching for her.
Chapter Six
Mitch was not shy. How on earth had she ever come to the conclusion that he was shy?
When it came to pursuing something he wanted, Mitch had a downright uncivilized streak. His lips swooped down and claimed, and the next time she opened her eyes the couch was a long distance up, the carpet was cushioning her back and the only scenery around was Mitch, stretched out next to her.
So fierce, the desire in his eyes. Such an incredible blend of tenderness and stark wanting. She murmured something, feeling the luxury of Mitch’s fingers sweeping roughly through her hair as he bent over her yet again to take her mouth. The sensation was like sinking a very long distance into a fathomless darkness.
The feeling was delicious. Mitch was delicious. And the rush of desire kept coming, her inhibitions jettisoned like the unwelcome cargo they were. Before, his embraces had been so preciously careful. She was not fragile and didn’t need to be treated as if she were, and his swift, drugging kisses, the strain of his lean muscles against her, the wildly possessive caress of his hands-well, she reveled in them. No man had ever made her feel so infinitely needed, as if the touch of her actually inflamed him, as if her closeness was something he could not get enough of.
His features were in shadow. Still, she could see the etched grooves in his forehead. She reached up to touch, wanting to erase whatever had caused those mysterious pain lines. With even that simple caress, she heard his ragged intake of breath. When he lifted his head for air, her lips felt abandoned, still trembling from the wanton pressure of his mouth on hers.
“Mitch,” she murmured, raising her eyes to his, “has anyone ever told you that you’re a lethal kisser?”
His brows lifted just slightly. “No,” he said shortly, but there was a curious sound of unexpected laughter in his voice. It was gone when his mouth hovered over hers again. “Did anyone ever tell you exactly what you do to a man when your eyes look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like a witch’s promises. Like spells. Like this.” He hovered only a moment before tenderly claiming her lips again. And if she’d just lain perfectly still, he might have been able to control it at that. But she didn’t lie still; her fingers curled in his hair and gently tightened, inviting the sweet ravishing of her mouth. He could feel the groan rumbling from deep in his throat even before he heard the sound.
She was so…responsive. He’d never intended to make the pass; something had just happened when he touched her. And he’d never intended to drag her down to the carpet like some uncouth caveman… He had to regain control. Otherwise he’d risk losing her when she suddenly discovered herself grappling with a hurricane rush. No. There was no way he wanted to push making love.
He just wanted to revel in the sheer luxury of wanting her.
Her spine curved toward him when his hand smoothed down the back of her soft angora sweater. Her body lay pliant, infinitely moldable, her breasts fitting to his chest, her thighs suddenly grazing his. Like a banked fire that suddenly burst into flame, he felt every muscle clench in response to her closeness. Control slipped.
“Mitch?” she murmured. Eyes closed, she savored the nuzzling of his mouth on her throat, the lush sensations of his hand rubbing up and down her back. She kneaded his rough wool sweater at his shoulders, guessing at the smooth, warm skin that would be beneath it, feeling the powerful muscles tense beneath her hands. It wasn’t enough.
Her hands slipped down to his waist and slowly skimmed up again inside the sweater, her fingers delighting in the first contact with his skin. It was like hot satin under her fingers as they splayed on his flat stomach. Her palms crept up just a little farther, but before they reached his chest Mitch swiftly stole her hands and swung them around his neck.
Her lashes lifted. She found herself staring up into an incredibly dark pairs of eyes, brilliant-dark with desire…but there was something else. Something beyond those rapid-fire kisses he suddenly pressed on her mouth, one after the other.
“Kay?”
“Hmm?”
“What other plants do you grow?”
Her hands stilled. “Pardon?”
“What other plants?”
He was crazy. “Ivy. Philodendron. But it’s only the fig tree I get violent about.” She felt his forefinger very gently trace her profile, from forehead to nose, down to the exact shape of her lips. Yet when his mouth once more hovered over hers, she said gently, “What’s wrong? A minute ago, you-”
“Nothing.” But the kiss didn’t happen. He just looked at her, and then away, his hand smoothing her hair over and over, his touch as whimsically elusive as the kiss of a butterfly. “There’s a scar on my chest,” he said quietly. “A large one.”
So that was the reason he’d so brusquely pulled back. “It hurts you?”
“No. But you might not have wanted to…”
Touch it? “Fool, Mitch,” she whispered fiercely, almost angrily. Questions about what had happened to him burst in her head; she ignored them. Not now. Now it didn’t matter.
She raised herself up, kneeling over him, ignoring his sudden harsh breath. As her fingers pushed up his sweater, her lips teased kisses on a straight line up from his navel. She felt the odd smooth skin of the scar that started between his ribs. She couldn’t see it in the semidarkness; she didn’t need to see it. Her lips pressed the length of that soft blade of a scar, right over his heartbeat…and that heart of his turned wild for her lips, a fierce pulse that leaped at the stroke of her tongue.
His hands slid under her arms, lifting her, pushing her back down on the carpet. More control was slipping. His loins were on fire, aching with the need to make love to her, and the rush of heat in his bloodstream kept surging faster. The flood rose higher until the dam was ready to burst. The touch of her lips on his bare skin was too explosive; he couldn’t handle it. A stark feeling of inadequacy jammed him in the stomach, a fear he wouldn’t be lover enough, a fear he’d never be able to satisfy this richly giving woman. He had to stop.
Yet she murmured a fierce yes when his mouth found hers again. He couldn’t deny himself one last kiss. He couldn’t stop his hands from slipping down her back to mold her bottom, cradling her to the aching heat of his arousal.
“Mitch?” She was suddenly feverish, her whole body aching. The smell of him surrounded her, warm and male. A rampant drug seemed to have taken hold of her body and left it trembling. Mitch was the name of that drug. She’d known the first minute she’d laid eyes on him that touch would be different with him…but not that she would feel borne away to some place where she didn’t give a damn if it was too soon, or if it was right, or if it made sense to crave his loving with such abandon.
His palm curled over her breast, cradling the orb through her sweater, rubbing and kneading it until she thought she’d go mad. He was a sorcerer, a magic man. He touched her as if she were precious. He touched her as if he wanted to ingrain desire in her flesh. He touched her as if every response she gave were a delight he wanted to give back tenfold.
And to her shock, she was deprived of that touch abruptly. Her eyes flickered open, startled to see his face hovering above her. His brow was dotted with moisture. His breath was coming unevenly and he looked like a man suffering torment.
In contrast, she’d never heard a more gentle voice. “When,” he murmured firmly, “was the last time you played football?”
***
“Touchdown!” Kay shouted gleefully. “I did it again!”
Her voice echoed in the empty
stadium. Bleachers stood hollow, sucking in the moonlight, while the long grassy playing field lay shrouded in darkness.
Mitch’s eyes gleamed at her, dancing with amusement. “So let’s see if you can throw it this time.”
“I threw it last time.”
“A foot and a half.”
They had flung their coats in the grass somewhere. It had to be past midnight, and although it had stopped snowing, the temperature was at least freezing, yet Kay was hot as a firecracker from running so hard. Exuberantly, she whipped back her hair, planted her feet just so, grabbed the football firmly and wiggled her rear end.
“You’re not supposed to be pitching, you crazy fool. You’re trying to throw a football.”
She hurled the football. It landed behind her. “Just wait a minute,” she shouted, and got ready to throw again. This time she threw the ball at least ten feet; Mitch naturally caught it, damn him, but then he had to get past her.
He was fast, but he was also a big lug. Something in the way she moved inevitably seemed to make him laugh, and that slowed him down considerably. In seconds, she’d touched him. In seconds, he was flinging the ball toward her again.
She caught it and feinted left. So did he. She darted right. So did he. She stopped dead, staring with open mouth up into the empty bleachers. “Good heavens, what is that?” she hissed.
He glanced back. She whirled past him, bounced the ball on their makeshift goal and shouted, “Touchdown!” She added demurely, “My thirteenth. I thought you said you could play this game.”
“Come over here!” he roared.
She cocked her head, grinning at him. “Give me one good reason why I should risk getting within a mile of you.”
“You’re terrified of me,” he said smugly.
“You bet your sweet booties I am.” She darted backward, holding out a hand defensively when she saw two determined eyes closing in on her. “Now, just take it easy-take it easy, Mitch.”
They were playing touch, not tackle. He tackled, at the ten-yard line. He not only tackled but tickled, and when she was gasping for breath he kissed her, gathering her up like so much putty, twisting her so that his was the body against the cold, damp grass. Her mattress was the long, strong length of him. Her lips matched his in tenderness, in sharing, in a precious promise of intimacy that locked the breath in her lungs, silenced her laughter.
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