A Man of her Own

by Jan Scarbrough

  Sarah took a deep breath and turned once more on the stool to face him. “I want to find my sweet someone. My soul mate. I want to have a best friend to share my life with.”

  Lane shifted slightly to look down at her earnest gaze. She was beautiful. Her green eyes turned up at him were large and expressive. Dark eyebrows arched over them. A tumble of curls framed her face. Another fierce surge of lust caught him off guard.

  Careful, man, she’ll get to you.

  “And I want to have children. A family.” Her words were so fervently soft that he hardly heard her.

  “Children?”

  “Yes, a real family.”

  Whew! That certainly counted him out. A wife and children meant responsibility. He’d had his fill of that.

  For some reason, though, he couldn’t speak. His only reaction was to stare mesmerized into her eyes as his pulse thrummed. They gazed at each other for a long moment while the tips of his fingers seemed to tingle with the desire to touch her face.

  He shook his head to rid himself of her. “That’s a romantic notion.”

  She sniffed. “You don’t believe in romance?”

  “No,” he said with too much roughness.

  Romance hadn’t done his poor mother any good. She had four children to feed when his shiftless father had cut out on her to find “romance,” leaving Lane to pick up the pieces. He was a realist. He couldn’t be bothered with a simplistic, silly emotion.

  “So, you don’t believe in romance. Perhaps you’re just the kind of guy I need to take a lesson from.”

  “A lesson?” His brow furrowed.

  “Kissing!” She perked up. “You remember?”

  Unfortunately, he did.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? Chicken? Or don’t you kiss good enough?”

  She was baiting him.

  “This is a public place.”

  Sarah glanced around. “No one’s paying any attention to us. Not even my friends. It’s like we’re in our own little world.”

  Lane didn’t like the direction this conversation was going. At the same time, she’d challenged him. The man in him wanted to prove he could kiss her better than that skuzzy bar-hopper.

  Perversely he said, “Okay, you win.”

  “Good!” Her eyes twinkled. She swiveled on the stool to face him again.

  He reluctantly turned, watching her. She shut her eyes, leaned forward and puckered up. He hesitated a moment too long, and she opened her eyes.

  “Well, I’m waiting.”

  He stepped down from the stool. “I know.”

  Now he was on firm footing. She closed her eyes again and tilted toward him. Swallowing his last misgivings, Lane gently placed a finger under her chin and lifted it. An uncomfortable and disturbing heat began throbbing within him. He lowered his lips to hers.

  At first his kiss was tentative. Exploratory. Her lips were closed to him. He ran his tongue lightly over them. They parted. Suddenly he was swamped with a sense of heavy wanting. He needed more.

  Stepping nearer, he dropped his finger from her chin. Her urgency seemed every bit as real as his. Their bodies molded together. Her plunging décolletage pushed against his shirt. The arousing scent of her floral perfume engulfed his senses.

  Lane couldn’t stop his moan that sounded in her mouth. He couldn’t stop his arms from straying around her shoulders. His fingers delighted in the silky skin of her back and tangled in her reddish brown locks.

  Her arms slipped around his waist, drawing him even closer. A heat began to build from somewhere deep inside. It was a powerful thing. He knew she could feel his lust.

  Lane broke off the kiss and abruptly stepped back, bumping into his stool. This was insane.

  He wanted to strip her naked and lose himself in her. Soon he’d be out of control. And that was something he couldn’t risk. He didn’t need to involve himself with a woman who was looking for a husband.

  His arms dropped to his sides. Her eyes flew open and her fingertips lifted to her lips. Lane felt shell-shocked. Trembling, he turned back to the bar and drained his drink. Then he climbed back onto the stool to put distance between them.

  She shuddered and uttered a shaky sigh. Rotating on the stool, she placed an unsteady hand on her empty wine glass.

  Motionless, silent, Lane recovered from the lesson that seemed to have shocked them both.

  Tentatively, Sarah smiled at him in the mirror. His own reflection remained grim. Her smile faded. She shoved the empty wine glass away.

  She was the first to speak, seeming to want to discount the sparks that had fired between them. “So, if you don’t believe in romance, you must be divorced.”

  “No, I’ve never been married.”

  How could she sound so casual after what had just happened? The kiss had knocked him for a loop. When they’d kissed, it seemed to him her reaction had been the same.

  What had happened between them? It had to be lust, pure and simple. His body had already been needy. He’d just taken advantage of the situation. He was no better than that lewd lounge lizard she’d kissed first.

  “And I don’t plan on getting married,” he added for good measure.

  She seemed bothered by his bluntness, but persisted. “If you don’t want to get married, what do you plan to do with the rest of your life?”

  Lane gave her a negligent shrug. “That appears to be the question of the moment.”

  In his heart, he knew he had no important goals now that his duty to his family was done. How could a woman he’d just met at a bar put her finger on his very real dilemma? And how could a simple kiss shake him to the core of his being?

  Hell, he had to get away from her. Standing, he tossed money onto the counter.

  “I’ll see you around,” he said backing away from the barstool.

  She flicked a glance his way. “Sure thing.”

  He was lying. And they both knew it. He’d never see her again. This was a bar. This was all a game. Yet somehow when he turned and strode out of the darkened room, he couldn’t remove from his mind the disillusionment shining so brightly in Sarah’s eyes.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Chef Lane plated a roasted rack of lamb. His spotless, white cotton coat and tall white toque proclaimed his authority, an authority no one in the kitchen of Louisville’s famed Racetrack Restaurant dared question. “Executive chef” was stamped in his regal bearing and in the quiet way his experienced hands arranged a sprig of fresh rosemary garnish on the plate.

  Outside he was a picture of silent reserve and efficiency. Inside, Lane’s mind jammed like a hard rock band.

  When he’d finally fallen asleep this morning after three o’clock, he’d dreamed of the young woman at the bar and had awakened in a deep sweat. Somehow she had gotten under his skin and burrowed her way into his subconscious.

  Later in the day, when the executive chef at his Louisville restaurant called complaining of the flu, Lane had gladly agreed to fill in. This was his flagship after all, and, like all the others in his chain, ultimately his responsibility. Besides, he knew the busy activity of a gourmet kitchen would be just what he needed to clear his jumbled mind and distract his over-heated libido.

  Too bad his plan hadn’t worked.

  As he began to plate another order, Lane relived the taste of the woman’s luscious lips and the feel of the silky strands of her hair curling around his fingers. In his mind, he smelled her delicate perfume and saw again her exposed flesh pushing the bounds of decency in that sexy black dress.

  Quit thinking about her.

  His own weakness had put him in this position. He should never have kissed her. She’d made it perfectly clear her goal in life was marriage. She was man-hunting. Better for him to have left well enough alone.

  Lane made a sound deep in his throat. He didn’t need this distraction. He had other worries. Like what he would do with the rest of his life.

  Now that he’d done his duty to his family, his life had become
as empty as a glass of spilled wine. Running his restaurant business had always left him with little time of his own. But things were different now. He didn’t need as much money. He didn’t need to work as hard.

  Maybe he needed a break. A vacation. Now there was a fresh thought.

  Or maybe he just needed a simple sexual encounter with that sexy young woman. That would ease his sudden physical hunger and divert him from his strange feeling of emptiness.

  He drew a short breath. Why had he suddenly developed a one track mind?

  A tuxedo-clad waiter pushed through the kitchen’s swinging door. “I swear I’ve seen that woman before.”

  “Maybe she’s a regular,” a young sous-chef named John answered.

  “Yeah, but I think I’ve seen her when I worked in New York.”

  Lane glanced up.

  John shrugged. “Could be a celebrity here for the Derby.”

  Lane followed their conversation as he set the entrée under the warmer. He usually discouraged kitchen chatter, but this exchange had piqued his curiosity. He lowered his famous evil-eye to quiet the idle gossip. Yet he respected this waiter and decided to see for himself if a famous person was in his restaurant.

  Shoving a shoulder against the swinging door, Lane entered another world. The Racetrack’s dining area was intimate and elegant, from its crystal vases of pink astromeria to its warmly lit brass lamps glowing upon rose-colored table linens. To play up the racetrack theme, the dark green walls of all his establishments were decorated with framed watercolors of racing thoroughbreds. Soft classical music created a sense of relaxation and well-being, a soothing ambiance perfect for fine dining.

  The long hours, sweat and lack of personal life had been worth it. Every time he saw customers enjoying his food and receiving the excellent service he expected from his staff, Lane’s heart soared with pride.

  His satisfied gaze circled the room until his sense of well-being suddenly tumbled. He recognized the “celebrity.” She sat at a corner table with an old acquaintance, Henry Carlisle.

  Amelia Broadus. “Old Broad Ass” to his fellow New York chefs. The woman had been one of the toughest food critics in the City. The bane of his youth. Eight years ago, her two-star review had cost him his job at Ripley’s.

  Luckily he’d been able to turn that misfortune into an opportunity to be closer to his family and start his business. He’d made lemonade out of a lemon, so to speak.

  But what in the hell was she doing here? In Kentucky of all places?

  He thought he’d escaped her ilk when he’d moved back home. The local food critic didn’t have a razor-edged pen and her reviews were tempered, fair and honest. Miss Broadus, however, wrote her poison-pen critiques with a perverse pleasure.

  Lane suppressed a groan. Another Amelia Broadus review. What rotten luck.

  Knotting his fingers into a fist, he backed into the kitchen.

  “Do you know her?” the waiter asked.

  “No. But by the looks of her, she’ll be a big tipper.” He set his mouth into a straight line.

  “Just what I need tonight.” The waiter left the kitchen with another order.

  Lane returned to the stove and sampled the linguine for consistency. He’d learned his lesson in New York. You never told the staff when a restaurant critic was present. Too many things could go wrong. Like the bowl of wild mushroom soup a nervous waiter at Ripley’s had dumped on the lap of Miss Broadus. It hadn’t helped that his sea bass had arrived at the table cold and that they’d run out of the Silverado fume blanc wine she’d ordered.

  Icy knowledge chilled Lane’s blood. She was there to review his restaurant. Him. His service, his staff, his food.

  A six-top came in, all of the guests ordering filet mignon, and Lane had to supervise its preparation. Then the line cook ran short on grill space. As the pace picked up in the kitchen, he pushed the unwelcome food critic out of his mind, because— bottom line—chef-restaurateur Lane Williams was a big player in Louisville. Amelia Broadus and her kind didn’t have the power to hurt him or his thriving business.

  He paused to glance with approval around his kitchen. Only the dark-haired woman whose kiss was like drinking insanely expensive Bordeaux had any power over him.

  Lane went back to expediting, convinced he’d get a good night’s sleep. All he needed was a winning ticket at the track tomorrow to douse the flame of desire the little miss had so innocently ignited.

  ***

  Sarah’s slender fingers encircled a frosty mint julep glass. She brought it to her lips and took a tentative sip of the bourbon and sugar mixture, a sprig of mint tickling her nose. Lowering the glass, she flicked the mint aside and took another sip.

  Thank goodness half a glass of crushed ice diluted the alcohol. The last thing she needed was a buzz. And certainly not while sitting in Uncle Henry’s prestigious box at Keeneland. Around them, privileged racing fans surged through the grandstands, all waiting for the running of the Blue Grass Stakes.

  The racetrack was lovely in the spring with its relaxed, park-like setting. Stately old pin oaks, sycamores and maple trees filled the paddock area where she’d recently watched jockeys mounting their horses before a race. Too bad the Keeneland’s biggest day was marred by the threat of rain.

  But the gloomy weather somehow mirrored her mood. Since her chance meeting two nights ago with the tall stranger at the bar, Sarah had found herself rather depressed, her mind disjointed, and her temper ragged.

  All because of one kiss. How had a simple kiss that had started out so flirtatiously, ended so poignantly?

  What was it about him? She’d felt so connected to him, as if a mysterious line linked them together. Was that how it felt when you met your soul mate? Her pulse suddenly rushed faster at the notion, and she lifted her gaze from her mint julep glass. Could the man at the bar have been her Prince Charming?

  Too bad she’d failed to ask for his phone number. Tracy and Kate had chided her for the oversight. But she doubted his phone number would be of much use. After his mind-boggling kiss, the enigmatic stranger had backed off. Maybe her inexperience had been too telling. He’d called her a baby, hadn’t he?

  The age difference didn’t bother her, but his body language had pushed a knife into her heart. She’d gotten his message loud and clear. He wanted nothing to do with the likes of her. Disappointment prickled behind her eyes. Her first impulsive foray into the singles’ bar scene had been a failure.

  “Sarah, dear, give us your pick for the next race.” Aunt Amelia turned from the front row of the box to speak to her. “Henry wants to place our bets.”

  Sarah focused on her aunt. “Yes, ma’am, give me a minute.”

  She balanced the mint julep on the empty chair beside her and unfolded her Daily Racing Form. Before her marriage, her aunt had been able to make up her mind. Now she seemed concerned about pleasing her husband, deferring to him in almost everything, even her simple betting picks.

  Amelia Broadus, now Carlisle, briskly tapped her dimpled fingers on the metal railing that surrounded the box. She wore her bottled blond hair in a style reminiscent of old sixties television shows on Nick at Nite. For this occasion she’d donned a traditional, wide-brimmed hat festooned with flowers.

  “I’m thinking about the number six horse,” Sarah said, her experience as a track brat paying off.

  Her father had been a horse trainer, hitting the small Midwest racing tracks with his string of second-rate claiming horses. She’d loved her dad, but hopping from town to town after her mother’s death, never settling down, had been hard. That life ended when she was fourteen. After her father’s fatal heart attack, a part of her had never recovered from the loss of both parents, even with Aunt Amelia’s kindness.

  She glanced up. “The trainer has a reputation for doing well with horses coming off a layoff. His filly hasn’t run for five months.”

  “Yes, yes.” Amelia acknowledged with an impatient wave of her bejeweled hand, a diamond and emerald wedding ring glea
ming more brightly than all the rest. “But hurry, dear, Henry’s waiting.”

  Inwardly she grinned, not put off by her aunt’s curt orders. Amelia’s bark was worse than her bite. Too bad her readers didn’t know that.

  Henry stood and put down his newspaper. “We have plenty of time. Don’t rush, Sarah.”

  Bless Henry! She threw him a look of gratitude. Since Mr. Henry Carlisle had come into her aunt’s life like a white knight in shining armor and swept her off her portly feet, Amelia had not written any scathing food critiques. Retirement seemed to suit her.

  “I’ll take an exacta box on numbers six and three.” Sarah opened her purse and dug out four dollars.

  She handed the money to Henry, who winked conspiratorially at her.

  “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me?” He gave a formal little bow before climbing the concrete stairs to the upper level.

  Amelia watched him go. “I strongly expect Mr. Carlisle was humoring me,” she confided, a carefully manicured fingernail touching her chin.

  “He’s a mighty good sport to have me underfoot all the time.”

  Amelia’s complexion flushed, and her eyes glazed over like a woman in love. “Yes, he’s been a darling,” she said with a sigh.

  Sarah sighed too. She envied her aunt. Mr. Carlisle was half Amelia’s size, balding with huge spectacles. But he was a caring, gentle man. A nice guy. The kind of guy a woman would wait a lifetime to find.

  Amelia picked up the newspaper Henry had left on his chair. “Come up here and sit by me until Henry returns.”

  Sarah complied, slipping into Henry’s vacated folding chair.

  “I just don’t know what to do about my problem. What are we going to do without Gloria?” Amelia shook her head and toyed with the paper. “My Derby party is less than three weeks away now. I swear the thought has me tied into knots.”

  Sarah nodded in agreement. Problem? It was a downright calamity.

  Gloria was Amelia’s personal cook and housekeeper. She was British and very professional, and controlled Amelia and Henry’s newlywed household as if she’d been in attendance for centuries, not just the six months of their marriage. Unfortunately, three days ago she’d fallen and broken her ankle. Not only that, she’d been ordered to stay off her feet for four weeks. Fortunately, her sister-in-law had offered to help her through her convalescence, so Amelia and Henry had put Gloria on a flight to Chicago.