“Coffee?” she asked.
“Please.”
She smiled as she poured the steaming fresh brew. She wore slim, camel-gold slacks and a soft ivory sweater with tiny buttons down the front. Her nape looked tender and sweet beneath the shining braid that lay over one shoulder. He wanted to kiss her there...and wrap his arms around her...and nibble his way down her shoulder, as he had while she’d cooked at the Hays Street house. The very thought started the wretched heat churning in his gut
He’d made it through their intimacy last night without breaking his promise, but barely. Until he had more faith in his self-control, he couldn’t let himself touch her again.
“There’s no table,” she remarked, glancing around the kitchen as if she’d just realized that fact. “Where do you eat?”
He hesitated. When he’d had his furniture moved into storage, he’d considered himself clever in the pieces he’d chosen to keep. “We have three choices. There’s a table on the veranda off my bedroom....”
Distinct uneasiness entered her gaze, which made him wonder about her morning-after reaction to their intimacy.
“Or?” she prompted.
“A sofa and coffee table beside the fireplace in my bedroom.”
“Or?”
“A reasonably uncluttered desk...in my, uh, bedroom.”
She stood perfectly still for a long moment “Are you saying that the only tablelike surfaces in the house are all in your bedroom?”
His strategic placement of furniture suddenly seemed devious. “I tend to use my room...as a private apartment,” he haltingly explained. Which was, and always had been, the truth.
“How long have you lived here?”
Uneasiness glanced through him. “A few months.” Eight. Not a good topic to expound on. She’d probably find it odd that he’d lived in a house of this size with so little furniture for eight months.
The hazy gray area between truth and deception regarding the decoration of his home made him uneasy. He’d never been less than honest with her. He didn’t like having to evade issues now. But how else could he have gotten her to break her appointment at the clinic and stay with him for any length of time, if not to decorate his house? Only one minor detail had stood in his way of a perfect plan—he’d already had the house professionally decorated a few months ago. He’d simply removed all the furniture and accessories, except for a few select items, which wasn’t too devious...was it?
“The courtyard pavilion has a table,” he remembered.
She brightened immediately. “Great!”
He carried their coffee cups; she followed with the plates. He led her through a bedroom wing, down a wide, gleaming, oak-floored hall with graceful overhead arches and high windows, to the pavilion porch that overlooked the courtyard.
They settled at a round glass table, in wicker chairs padded with plush white cushions. He was glad for the moving company’s oversight in leaving this outdoor furniture. He wasn’t sure he could have stood taking Laura to his bedroom right now.
A brisk late-November breeze gusted through the two open archways and she shivered. Her shiver reminded him of last night, when she’d been wearing nothing but a damp towel and her gaze had blazed with potent invitation.
“It’s brisk out here.” His voice sounded hoarse. “Want to go inside?”
“No, no, this is lovely. The Palladian windows in the hall are breathtaking, and this pavilion, the courtyard, the fountain...well...” she gazed around with a vibrant smile “...it all makes me want to sing.”
He lifted a eyebrow. “Do you sing?”
“No!”
They laughed, and he forced his attention to his breakfast. The omelet had been cooked and seasoned exactly to his liking. The coffee had been brewed to the perfect strength, with just the right amount of cream. And the woman seated across from him was everything beautiful, everything fine.
“You are planning to spend time with me today to discuss the house, aren’t you?”
“I’m all yours.”
She beamed. “I consider the initial consultation the most important part of the design process. It’s vital that the home reflect its owner. Your home should be your personally tailored space. Your haven for peace and comfort. The place you most want to be.” The ardor in her eyes and voice thoroughly captivated him. “This home exudes elegance, Cort. It breathes history. But it should also immerse you in the mood that most pleases you.”
He had no doubt what mood that would be. Except he needed more than a beautifully decorated house to immerse him in it.
The moment they’d finished eating and carried their plates to the kitchen, she caught hold of his hand, like a kid at a county fair eager to see the sights. The warm spontaneity of the gesture made him smile. “Come on,” she urged. “Let’s get started.”
Never one to turn down an opportunity, he wove his fingers through hers and savored the feel of her hand in his as she led him to the front entrance hall, out the door and down the steps.
She halted in the circular driveway, a good distance from the house. When she released his hand, he immediately missed the contact. Placing a firm, guiding hand on his arm, she turned him toward the house’s fanlighted, pedimented entrance. “Now, Cort,” she said from close beside him, gazing at the house with an air of solemn importance, her voice lowered in a reverent hush, “this, this, is your kingdom. And that entrance is its threshold—the first taste of home you’ll have every time you enter. The first impression your guests will receive every time they visit. Ask yourself—what feeling do you want to evoke, to experience, when you walk through that door?”
He tried to keep his gaze on the house, as he felt sure she wanted him to do, but it wasn’t easy. She was, after all, touching him, and speaking with low-key passion, and asking him what he wanted to feel, to experience, whenever he came home. Only one answer came to mind. Her. He wanted her here. The rest didn’t matter.
She was gazing at him now, he realized, waiting for his reply. She was so intensely involved in the moment that if he said something profound, he could probably bring tears to her eyes.
He slanted her an indulgent glance, then looked back at the house. “Okay,” he said with a nod. “I’m getting a pretty good picture of how I’d like to see the place.”
She focused entirely on him, awaiting his vision. “How?”
“It might take some exterior remodeling,” he warned.
“Really? Exterior work?” Her interest couldn’t have been more piqued. “That will require research into the rules of historic preservation. Since this neighborhood is on the historic register, rules are very strict.” Her curiosity fairly blazed. “But we can certainly try. What’s your idea?”
He regarded the house with deep contemplation again, rubbing his chin. “A pirate ship, I think,” he mused. “Yeah...a pirate ship. We can build up the front to look like its bow. You know, put a masthead above the door. Raise a pole on the roof, and fly a skull and crossbones from it.” He glanced at her. “What do you think?”
She slugged him in the arm. Hard. “Damn you, Cort! I thought you were going to be serious about this.”
“Aw, Laura, I’m trying, but I’m not the one with artistic vision about these things. A house is a house to me. Sure, this is a damn nice one, but—”
“Don’t you care how this project turns out? Doesn’t it matter if you like what I do with your home?”
He immediately sobered at the hint of hurt in her gaze. “Of course it matters. I wouldn’t have hired you if it didn’t.”
“But I can’t do a good job without your input. The most important part of decorating a home is incorporating the tastes and personality of its owner.”
“Doesn’t pleasing the owner count for anything?”
“Well, yes, of course, but—”
“You know how you can please me?”
She cast him a wary glance, as if she was afraid to ask. “How?”
Gripping her shoulders, he turned her to fac
e the house, his gaze aimed at the entrance. “I want you to see this as your house, Laura. Your haven. Your personally tailored space. Do whatever you want with it. Cater to your artistic spirit.” His gaze shifted from the house and locked with hers. Vehemently he whispered, “Make it the place you most want it to be.”
Her gaze intensified. Searching, delving into his...yet somehow growing more unreadable. He sensed heat, but it could be his heat. He sensed surprise, and uncertainty. And...alarm?
He’d said too much. Gone too far. “I trust your instincts implicitly,” he said, striving for damage control. “You took the ramshackle old house on Hays Street and made it into a home. A warm, comfortable home. If you do that now, Laura, you can’t fail to please me.”
He lapsed into tense silence. Held his breath. Searched her eyes.
A sheen slowly welled there. “Thank you,” she whispered. She looked deeply honored and emotionally moved. Pressing her lips together, she subdued the threat of tears and smiled. “I’ll do my very best for you,” she solemnly swore.
And before he could manage another breath, she walked back to the house without so much as a backward glance at him, lost in thought and glowing with creativity.
The door closed behind her. Cort shook himself out of a trance, then ruefully cocked his head. Perhaps he’d made a mistake. Now she didn’t need him around at all. He’d blown his chance to work with her, side by side, possibly for days.
Nice work, genius.
Before he reached the house, she reappeared at the door. “Don’t think you’re off the hook.” Her voice lilted with a gentle chiding. “If I’m going to ‘cater to my artistic spirit,’ I’ll need your input to inspire me.”
He twisted his mouth in mock dismay, purely for dramatic effect. He couldn’t remember ever feeling quite this happy, and for no clear-cut reason.
In a remarkable show of mercy, she didn’t try to force him into making selections of wallpaper, fabric and carpet, as the previous decorator had. She did, however, shepherd him from room to room, asking what he liked best, and how he intended to use the room, and whether its current layout seemed less than perfect.
She had him survey each area from a variety of angles, directing his attention to certain features. She coaxed him into feeling samples of fabrics and describing what each brought to mind. They sprawled out on the plush, Oriental carpet in the library with stacks of books and magazines, and she had him point to scenes that caught his eye. She asked whimsical questions that seemed irrelevant—what were his favorite scenes in movies, the most intriguing places he’d visited, the childhood memories he considered the happiest.
He humored her. And teased. And forced her into sharing her opinions, memories and reactions. They laughed themselves silly. She slugged him a few times. He caught her in the middle of a mock scolding and kissed her.
She threaded her fingers through his hair. He pulled her closer. The kiss turned from playful to erotic. He pressed her down against the plush library carpet, and their kisses grew hungry. Ravenous. He ran his hands beneath her clothes.
The beast in him took over. He unbuttoned her sweater; unzipped her slacks. The urgency burned within him. He wanted her naked again...and to be inside her, deep inside, in any way he could....
Before he’d managed to strip off even the first piece of clothing, a distraction came in the form of a phone call. The answering machine, which he’d hooked up to the intercom to screen for important calls, blared a familiar masculine voice throughout the house.
“Laura, it’s me. Fletcher.”
She stiffened in Cort’s arms.
“I really need to talk to you,” boomed the annoyingly urgent voice, “so call me as soon as you can.”
Laura uttered a soft cry, pushed away from Cort and sat up, fumbling to readjust her clothing. “I have to call him. It sounds like something’s wrong.”
Cort cursed beneath his breath and helped her button her sweater.
ZIPPING HER SLACKS, Laura rushed from the library, feeling hot and disoriented, and highly aware that the call had probably saved her from herself. She’d been lost again; lost in the heat and mindless desire that Cort provoked so easily. Would she have stopped before going too far? Would Cort have diverted their passion in some creative way, as he had last night?
One thing she knew for sure: they couldn’t carry on like this for long. She had to either be strong and keep him at a safe distance, or...or what? Resort to the use of condoms and pray they wouldn’t break?
The chance of a defect is slim, she told herself. Millions of people rely on condoms every day. But one had broken on them before, and scared the joy right out of their relationship. An accident like that would certainly scare her now. Too much!
She was already reading profound emotion into things he said and did. The warmth she’d thought lost forever had somehow blazed back to life, and not only because of their sexual chemistry. Or so she could too easily convince herself....
She closed her bedroom door, drew her calling card out of her purse and placed a call to Fletcher from the bedside phone. She had to be strong enough to resist Cort, as well as her own inclination to read meaning into his casually caring ways. She had to be smart enough to guard her heart and control her own future.
“Fletcher,” she said into the receiver, relieved to hear his voice again. He was part of the sane, orderly world she’d left behind, and the sane, orderly future she had carefully planned. She desperately needed a reminder of both right now. “Is something wrong?”
“Laura, I’ve been worried sick about you. Are you okay?”
“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said. About Cort’s motivation. Maybe I was wrong to encourage you to go. Has he tried anything with you? Does he expect you to sleep with him?”
She sank slowly onto the bed, stunned by the questions. Her first impulse was to reprimand him for talking about Cort that way. Cort didn’t deserve the disrespect and suspicion that those questions implied. Has he tried anything with you. Does he expect you to sleep with him. Her very heart flinched. But how could she admonish Fletcher when she herself had been the one to first question Cort’s motivation?
“Laura? Oh no...I was wrong to send you, wasn’t I?”
“No, Fletcher. I’m glad I’m here. Things are going fine. There’s no need for you to worry.”
“Are you telling me he’s been keeping it strictly business? ” He let out a dry laugh. “I find that hard to believe.”
Sharp, conflicting emotions tore at her. The strongest was indignation. How dare he pursue the issue when she’d told him not to worry? How dare he question Cort’s behavior in his own home? At the same time, she knew he was asking out of concern for her, and maybe guilt that he had pushed her into an awkward situation. She was being unfair to Cort and to Fletcher by not making it clear that her relationship with Cort had changed.
“Uh, Fletcher...” Laura cleared her throat, feeling inexplicably awkward. Why should she hesitate to tell Fletcher the truth? They prided themselves on their honest, open relationship. “You don’t have to worry about what Cort does in that respect. I′m not worried.” Liar! “What I mean is—” What did she mean? “Cort and I have reached a personal understanding. And because of it, we’ve become... closer.”
“Closer? Does that mean you’re sleeping with him?”
Anger stirred in her, and she bit back a sharp reply. But then confusion set in. Didn’t Fletcher have the right to ask her that? As the chosen father of her future baby—her parenting partner—perhaps he did have a moral right. He wouldn’t want her conceiving another man’s baby if he planned to claim paternity. “No,” she finally answered. “I’m not sleeping with him.”
“You hesitated,” he charged. “Why?”
“Fletcher! Do you think I’m lying?”
“No, not lying,” he said, clearly miserable. “I know you wouldn’t lie. But there’s something you’re not belling me.”
“I’m not sleeping with him, and he’s not behaving in an inappropriate manner. What else do you need to know?”
A few beats of uncomfortable silence passed. “I saw the video.”
She frowned. “Pardon me?”
“B.J, gave me the computer disk with pictures from the Hays Street house. I knew you and Cort were a couple before I moved in, but you didn’t seem especially close while I was there. Not like in those pictures.”
Laura immediately realized why. Fletcher had moved in after the condom crisis; her relationship with Cort fell into two distinct categories—before and after the crisis. “What do those pictures have to do with anything, Fletcher?”
“You were all over each other. Constantly. And the way you looked at him... The way you kissed him...” A sick, anxious feeling wormed its way into Laura’s stomach. Fletcher was upset. Far too upset. He’d never spoken to her with such bleak emotion. “You were so damn in love with him.”
A pang went through her. “So what?” She clutched the phone tightly. “What does that matter now?”
“Are you still in love with him?”
″No.”
“Can you swear to that, Laura? We’re supposed to have a baby together, you and L Raise a child. Start a family. What’s going to happen to us if you’re with Cort?”
“I won’t be with Cort!”
“I wish I could believe that.” His voice broke, and she pressed her hand to her heart, terribly afraid that he was fighting tears. “Those pictures explained a lot.” He sounded so forlorn, she could have wept. “I’ve been with you for fifteen years. Fifteen years, Laura! While Cort was off doing his own thing, I was there for you.”
“Fletcher.” She forced words out through a constricted throat “I don’t believe you’ve been completely honest with me.”
“I’ve always been honest with you.”
“You swore it wouldn’t disrupt our relationship if either of us had an affair.”
The Daddy Decision Page 14