Considering Kate

by Nora Roberts

  “I don’t agree, but I won’t push it. I’d like to see you socially, if and when that suits you. Meanwhile, since we have similar views on this building, and I liked most of your ideas, I hope we’ll be able to work together.”

  He hissed out a breath. Cool as January, he noted. While he was flustered, heated up and churning. “You’re a real piece of work, Kate.”

  “I am, that’s true. I won’t apologize for being what I am. I’ll look forward to getting the brochures and information we discussed, and your bid on the job. If you need to get back in for more measurements or whatever, you know how to reach me.”

  “Yeah, I know how to reach you.”

  She stayed where she was, watched him stride down to the curb, climb into his truck. He’d have been surprised if he’d heard the long shaky breath she expelled as he drove away.

  Surprised as well if he’d seen her slowly lower herself to the top step.

  She was nowhere near as cool as January. She sat in the brisk breeze waiting to cool off. And for the frogs in her belly to settle down again.

  Brody O’Connell, she thought. Wasn’t it strange and fascinating that a man she’d only met twice should have such a strong effect on her? It wasn’t that she was shy around men—far from it. But she was selective. The lover she’d tossed in Brody’s face had been one of the three men—all of whom she’d cared for deeply—that she’d allowed into her life, and into her bed.

  Yet, after two meetings—no, she thought, ordering herself to be brutally honest—after one meeting, she’d wanted Brody in her bed. The second meeting had only sharpened that want into a keen-edged desire she wasn’t prepared for.

  So she would do the logical and practical thing. She’d settle herself down, clear her mind. Then she’d begin to plan the best way to get him there.

  Chapter Three

  Jack sat at the partner’s desk in what he and his dad called their office and carefully printed out the alphabet. It was his job. Just like Dad was doing his job, on his side of the desk.

  The drafting paper and rulers and stuff looked like a lot more fun than the alphabet. But Dad had said, if he got it all done, he could have some paper to draw with, too.

  He thought he would draw a big, giant house, just like their house, with the old barn that was Dad’s workshop. And there would be lots of snow, too. Eight whole feet of snow and millions and billions of snowmen.

  And a dog.

  Grandpa and Grandma had a dog, and even though Buddy was sort of old, he was fun. But he had to stay at Grandma’s. One day he’d have a dog all of his own and its name would be Mike and he’d chase balls and sleep in the bed at night.

  He could have one as soon as he was old enough to be responsible. Which could even be tomorrow.

  Jack peeked up to study his father’s face and see if it was maybe time to ask if he was responsible yet.

  But his dad had that look where he was kind of frowning but not mad. His working look. If you interrupted the working look, the answer was almost always: Not now.

  But the alphabet was boring. He wanted to draw the house or play with his trucks or with the computer. Or maybe just look outside and see if it was snowing yet.

  He butted his foot against the desk. Squirmed. Butted his foot.

  “Jack, don’t kick the desk.”

  “Do I have to write the whole alphabet?”

  “Yep.”

  “How come?”

  “Because.”

  “But I got all the way up to the P.”

  “If you don’t do the rest, you can’t say any words that have the letters in them you left out.”

  “But—”

  “Can’t say ‘but.’ B-U-T.”

  Jack heaved the heavy sigh of a six-year-old. He wrote the next three letters, then peeked up again. “Dad.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad. D-A-D.”

  Brody glanced up, saw his son grinning at him. “Smart aleck.”

  “I know how to spell Dad and Jack.”

  Brody narrowed his eyes, lifted a fist. “Do you know how to spell knuckle sandwich?”

  “Nuh-uh. Does it have mustard?”

  The kid, Brody thought, was sharp as a bucket of tacks. “How’d you get to be such a wise guy?”

  “Grandma says I got it from you. Can I see what you’re drawing? You said it’s for the dancing lady. Are you drawing her, too?”

  “Yes, it’s for the dancing lady, and no, you can’t see it until you’re finished your job.” However much he wanted to set his own work aside and just be with his son, the only way to teach responsibility was to be responsible.

  That was one of those sneaky circles of parenthood.

  “What happens when you don’t finish what you start?”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Nothing.”

  “Exactly.”

  Jack heaved another sigh and applied his pencil. He didn’t see his father’s lips twitch.

  God, what a kid. Brody wanted to toss his own pencil down, snatch Jack up and do whatever this major miracle of his life wanted to do for the rest of the evening. The hell with work, with responsibility, with what needed to be done.

  There was only one thing he wanted more than that. To finish what he started. There was no job more vital than Jack O’Connell.

  Had his own father ever looked at him and wondered, and worried? Probably, Brody thought. It had never showed, but probably. Still, Bob O’Connell hadn’t been one for wrestling on the rug or foolish conversations. He’d gone to work. He’d come home from work. He’d expected dinner on the table at six.

  He’d expected his son to do his chores, stay out of trouble, and to—above all—do what he was told without question. One of those expectations had been to follow, precisely, in his father’s footsteps.

  Brody figured he’d disappointed his father in every possible area. And had been disappointed by him.

  He wasn’t going to put those same demands and expectations on his own son.

  “Zee! Zee, Zee, Zee!” Jack picked up the paper, waved it madly. “I finished.”

  “Hold it still, hotshot, so I can see.” A long way from neat, Brody noted when Jack held the paper up. But it was done. “Good job. You want some graph paper?”

  “Can I come over there and help work on yours?”

  “Sure.” So he’d stay up an extra hour and work, Brody thought as Jack scrambled down from his stool. It would be worth it to have this time with his son. He reached down, hauled Jack up on his lap. “Okay, so what we’ve got here is the apartment above the school.”

  “How come they wear those funny clothes when they dance?”

  “I have no idea. How do you know they wear funny clothes?”

  “I saw a cartoon, and there were elephants in funny skirts. They were dancing on their toes. Do elephants really have toes?”

  “Yeah.” Didn’t they? “We’ll look it up later so you can see. Here, take the pencil. You can draw this line here, right against the straight edge.”

  “Okay!”

  Father and son worked, heads close together, with the big hand guiding the small.

  When Jack began to yawn, Brody shifted him, laying Jack over his shoulder as he rose.

  “I’m not tired,” Jack claimed even as his head drooped.

  “When you wake up, it’ll only be five days till Christmas.”

  “Can I have a present?”

  Brody smiled. His son’s voice was thick, his body already going limp. He paused in the living room, by the tree, swaying slightly as he had when Jack had been an infant, and fretful in the night. As Christmas trees went, Brody mused, this one wasn’t pretty. But it was festive. The mix of ornaments covered every available inch. Wads of tinsel shone in the multicolored lights Jack had wanted.

  Rather than an angel or a star, there was a grinning Santa at the top. Jack still believed in Santa Claus. Brody wondered if he would this time the following year.

  Thinking of that, of the years passed and passi
ng still, he turned his face into his son’s hair. And just breathed him in.

  After he’d carried Jack up to bed, he came down and brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Probably a mistake, Brody thought even as he poured the first cup. It would very likely keep him awake.

  Still he stood, looking out the dark window, sipping it black. The house was too quiet with Jack asleep. There were times, God knew, when the boy made so much noise, caused so much chaos, it seemed there would never be a moment of peace and quiet.

  Then when he got it, Brody wanted the noise.

  Parenting, he thought, had to be the damnedest business going.

  But the problem now was restlessness. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced for quite some time. With parenting, establishing a business, making a home, soliciting jobs, he hadn’t had much excess time.

  Still don’t, he thought, and began to pace the kitchen while he drank his coffee.

  There was enough work to be done on the house to keep him busy for…probably the rest of his life. Should have bought something smaller, he thought, and less needy. Something more practical—and he’d heard variations on those thoughts from his father since he’d dug up the down payment.

  Trouble was, he’d fallen head over heels for the old place, and so had Jack. And it was working, he reminded himself, glancing around the completed kitchen with its glass-fronted cabinets and granite counters.

  Still, work was the bottom line, and he really had to carve out the time to deal with the rooms he’d put off.

  Hard to find time when there were only days left until Christmas.

  Then, there was the job due to be completed the next afternoon. And on the heels of that came the school holiday. He should have lined up a baby-sitter—he’d meant to. But Jack disliked them so much, and the guilt was a slow burn.

  He knew Beth Skully would take Jack at least part of the time. But after a while, it felt like imposing. In an emergency, he could call on his mother. But that was a tricky business. Whenever he passed Jack off in that direction, he felt like a failure.

  He’d make it work. Jack could come along with him some of the time, go to his pal Rod’s some of the time. And in a pinch, he’d visit his grandmother.

  And that wasn’t the problem at all, Brody admitted. That wasn’t the distraction, lodged like a splinter in his mind.

  The splinter was Kate Kimball.

  He didn’t have the time nor the inclination for her.

  All right, damn it, he didn’t have the time. Whatever he did have for her was a hell of a ways up from inclination. He dragged a hand through his mass of sun-streaked hair and tried to ignore the sheer sexual frustration eating at his gut.

  Had he ever felt this much pure physical hunger for a woman before? He must have. He just didn’t remember clearly, that was all. Didn’t remember being churned up this way.

  And it really ticked him off.

  It was only because it had been a long time. Because she was so openly provocative. So unbelievably beautiful.

  But he wasn’t a kid anymore who could grab pretty toys without considering the consequences. He was no longer free to do whatever he liked, when he liked. And he wouldn’t want it any other way.

  Not that taking her up on her obvious invitation had to have consequences. In the long run. Even in the short. They were both adults, they both knew the ropes.

  And that kind of thinking, he decided, would only get him in trouble.

  Do your job, he told himself. Take her money. Keep your distance.

  And stop thinking about that amazing, streamlined body of hers.

  He poured a second cup of coffee—knowing he was damning himself to a sleepless night—then went back to work.

  The next afternoon, Kate opened the door to find Brody on her doorstep. Her pleasure at that was sidetracked by the bright-eyed little boy at his side.

  “Well, hello, handsome.”

  “I’m Jack.”

  “Handsome Jack. I’m Kate. Come in.”

  “I’m just dropping off the drawings, and the bid.” Brody held them out, kept a hand firm on Jack’s shoulder. “My card’s in there. If you have any questions or want to discuss the drawings or the figures, just get in touch.”

  “Let’s save time and look them over now. What’s your hurry?” She barely looked at him, but beamed smiles at Jack. “Brr. It’s cold out there. Cold enough for cookies and hot chocolate.”

  “With marshmallows?”

  “In this house, it’s illegal to serve hot chocolate without marshmallows.” She held out a hand. Jack’s was already in it as he bolted inside.

  “Listen—”

  “Oh, come on, O’Connell. Be a sport. So, what grade are you in, Handsome Jack?” She crouched down to unzip his coat. “Eighth, ninth?”

  “No.” He giggled. “First.”

  “You’re kidding. This is such a coincidence. We happen to be running a special today for blond-haired boys in first grade. Your choice of sugar, chocolate chip or peanut butter cookies.”

  “Can I have one of each?”

  “Jack—”

  “Ah, a man after my own heart,” Kate said, ignoring Brody. She straightened, handed Brody Jack’s coat and cap and muffler, then took the boy’s hand.

  “Are you the dancing lady?”

  She laughed as she started back with him toward the kitchen. “Yes, I am.” With that sultry smile on her lips, she glanced back over her shoulder at Brody. Gotcha, she thought. “Kitchen’s this way.”

  “I know where the damn kitchen is.”

  “Dad said damn,” Jack announced.

  “So I hear. Maybe he shouldn’t get any cookies.”

  “It’s okay for grown-ups to say damn. But they’re not supposed to say sh—”

  “Jack!”

  “But sometimes he says that, too,” Jack finished in a conspirator’s whisper. “And once when he banged his hand, he said all the curse words.”

  “Really?” Absolutely charmed, she pulled a chair out for the boy. “In a row, or all mixed up?”

  “All mixed up. He said some of them lots of times.” He gave her a bright smile. “Can I have three marshmallows?”

  “Absolutely. You can hang those coats on the pegs there, Brody.” She sent him a sunny smile, then got out the makings for the hot chocolate.

  And not a little paper pack, Brody noted. But a big hunk of chocolate, milk. “We don’t want to take up your time,” he began.

  “I have time. I put in a few hours at the store this morning. My mother’s swamped. But Brandon’s taking the afternoon shift. That’s my brother’s ball mitt,” she told Jack, who instantly snatched his hand away from it.

  “I was only looking.”

  “It’s okay. You can touch, he doesn’t mind. Do you like baseball?”

  “I played T-ball last year, and I’m going to play Little League when I’m old enough.”

  “Brand played T-ball, too, and Little League. And now he plays for a real major league team. He plays third base for the L.A. Kings.”

  Jack’s eyes rounded—little green gems. “For real?”

  “For real.” She crossed over, slipped the glove onto the delighted Jack’s hand. “Maybe when your hand’s big enough to fit, you’ll play, too.”

  “Holy cow, Dad. It’s a real baseball guy’s mitt.”

  “Yeah.” He gave up. He couldn’t block anyone who gave his son such a thrill. “Very cool.” He ruffled Jack’s hair, smiled over at Kate. “Can I have three marshmallows, too?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The boy was a jewel, Kate thought as she prepared the hot chocolate, set out cookies. She had a weakness for kids, and this one was, as her father had said, a pistol.

  Even more interesting, she noted, was the obvious link between father and son. Strong as steel and sweet as candy. It made her want to cuddle both of them.

  “Lady?”

  “Kate,” she said and put his mug of chocolate in front of him. “Careful now, it’s hot.”


  “Okay. Kate, how come you wear funny clothes when you dance? Dad has no idea.”

  Brody made a small sound—it might have been a groan—then took an avid interest in the selection of cookies.

  Kate arched her eyebrows, set the other mugs on the table, then sat. “We like to call them costumes. They help us tell whatever story we want through the dance.”

  “How can you tell stories with dancing? I like stories with talking.”

  “It’s like talking, but with movement and music. What do you think of when you hear ‘Jingle Bells,’ without the words?”

  “Christmas. It’s only five days till Christmas.”

  “That’s right, and if you were going to dance to Jingle Bells, the movements would be happy and fast and fun. They’d make you think of sleigh rides and snow. But if it was ‘Silent Night,’ it would be slow and reverent.”

  “Like in church.”

  Oh, aren’t you quick, she thought. “Exactly. You come by my school some time, and I’ll show you how to tell a story with dancing.”

  “Dad’s maybe going to build your school.”

  “Yes, maybe he is.”

  She opened the folder. Interesting, Brody thought, how she set the bid aside and went straight to the drawings. Possibilities rather than the bottom line.

  Jack got down to business with the hot chocolate, his eyes huge with anticipation as he blew on the frothy surface to cool it. Kate ignored hers, and the cookies. When she began to ask questions, Brody scooted his chair over so they bent over the drawings together.

  She smelled better than the cookies, and that was saying something.

  “What is this?”

  “A pocket door—it slides instead of swings. Saves space. That corridor’s narrow. I put one here, too, on your office. You need privacy, but you don’t have to sacrifice space.”

  “I like it.” She turned her head. Faces close, eyes locked. “I like it very much.”

  “I drew some of the lines,” Jack announced.

  “You did a fine job,” Kate told him, then went back to studying the drawings while Brody dealt with the tangle of knots in his belly.

  She looked at each one carefully, considering changes, rejecting them, or putting them aside for future possibilities. She could see it all quite clearly—the lines, the angles, the flow. And noted the details Brody had added or altered. She couldn’t find fault with them. At the moment.