by Peggy Webb
Lance was so relieved he had to sit down. “Anything else, Dr. Clayton?”
“I’d watch her, if I were you.”
“What should I watch for? Dizziness? Nausea?”
“Flying missiles. Kat’s temper is legendary in Shady Grove, and she’s mad as hell about running off the road and you dragging her to the hospital in an ambulance.”
Lance would face a grizzly now that he knew she was okay. He hurried to her room and found her exactly as the doctor had said.
“I am so mad I could hit something,” she said.
“Hit me.” He sat on the edge of her bed, scooped her into his arms and buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair. “Go ahead, hit me. I make a big target.”
Her fists pounded his back and then she began to cry. “I’m such a mess.”
“No you’re not. You’re the dearest thing in my life.”
“I am?” Her voice was muffled against his shoulder, and her tears were wetting the front of his shirt.
“Yes, you are, and if I weren’t a man without a name, who courts danger for a living, I’d let you know exactly how dear you are.”
“You would?” She leaned back to look at him, and he kissed her tenderly on her bruised forehead.
“I would.” He brushed her hair back from her face. “Jolie, I’m an orphan from Arizona who doesn’t even know who his mother is, let alone his father. And I put my life on the line every day for the International Security Force. I have no business making promises to any woman, let alone a woman like you.”
“Like me?”
“Yes, like you.” He kissed her softly on the lips. “You’re special, Jolie, and don’t you ever forget it.”
“Oh, Lance.” She got stars in her eyes. How could a woman in her condition do that? And how could he resist her?
If he stayed where he was, he wouldn’t be able to, and that was a fact. He’d already said too much, and if he stayed he was liable to say more.
“I’ve got to see about getting you checked out,” he murmured. And then he escaped.
Jolie was in a foul mood. Her head hurt, her car had a dented front fender and the towing bill was bound to cost her a week’s salary. Then there was the hospital bill.... Even worse, she’d been nothing but trouble to Lance ever since he’d arrived.
Not that he was complaining. She wished he would. She wished he’d say, “I’ve spent all evening dealing with ambulances and wreckers and perfect strangers, without whose help I would never have managed to get your car and my motorcycle home.” Maybe that would make her feel less like a sinner being cared for by a saint.
In addition, he’d built a cozy fire, insisted she get into a warm robe and slippers, and even fetched an afghan in case she got a chill. Sitting in front of the fire in the library at O’Banyon Manor with a lump as big as a hen’s egg on her forehead, she felt like a complete fool. She had run off a road that was as familiar to her as the back of her hand.
Furthermore, she hadn’t even been speeding. She knew better, especially after that warning from Sam.
How did she manage to do the wrong thing even when she was trying to do right? That’s what she wanted to know.
And in front of Lance, of all people.
“Do you want more hot chocolate?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
“Another pillow?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Are you warm enough?” He got up and poked the fire. “I can add another log.”
“The fire’s just right.”
“Or get another blanket. Do you need another blanket?”
“For Pete’s sake!” she snapped. “Stop hovering.”
If she hadn’t been so miffed she’d have laughed at the little-boy-caught-with-his-hand-in-the-cookie-jar look on his face.
“I don’t hover.”
“Yes, you do. Just stop it. I can take care of myself.”
“Not from where I’m sitting.”
She let that pass. After all, he had rescued her from the ditch, and if it hadn’t been for him there was no telling what would have happened. On the other hand, if it hadn’t been for him, she might have had her mind on the road.
What had happened to the intimacy at the hospital? Well, not intimacy, not really, but he had been holding her and giving her tender kisses and telling her about himself. It had been so wonderful that she’d hoped it would last forever.
Jolie stared into the fire and tried to center herself. She tried to think positive, reassuring thoughts, but her mind was a cage with a wild squirrel let loose inside.
In two days her family would be home. She had a knot on her head they’d all notice, plus she was about two thousand light years away from having dinner prepared. She made a royal mess of everything, including her not-quite relationship with Lance.
“Don’t you think you ought to be in bed?” he said.
“Oh Lord.” She threw off the afghan, then marched to the fire and picked up the poker. “Why don’t you go somewhere?”
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
“I didn’t mean leave the house, I just meant do something.”
His eyes took on the predatory gleam of a panther as he headed her way. “All right.”
She didn’t like this. Not one bit.
He was so close she could see the beard shadow on his jutted-out, hell-bent-for-leather jaw.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to kiss you.”
Oh, help.
“Why?”
“To keep you from biting my head off.” He caught her shoulders and she melted all the way down to her toes. “And because I’m so damned relieved that you’re alive.”
The kiss curled her toes, shot off rockets in her head, made comets blaze through her mind. If she’d thought his other kisses had been special, she hadn’t known what special was. This one was off-the-scale wonderful. It was amazing, mind-boggling, magical.
She couldn’t get close enough. She wanted to absorb every inch of him, merge with his magnificent chest, then vanish inside his steadily beating heart.
He deepened the kiss and she felt how his body responded to her, how hers responded to him.
She wove her hands in his hair and pulled him closer, and he deepened the kiss. If they kept this up her knees would buckle, but the rug was plush and she was ready. More than ready. She was on fire.
“Jolie,” he murmured against her lips.
And she whispered back, “Yes, oh yes.”
He inched away, then gazed into her eyes for a small eternity, and she saw passion as plain as if it had been written on his face with an ink pen.
Never had she wanted anything as much as she wanted him, right then, right there. She knew the exact moment he changed his mind. A giant eraser—probably called conscience—swooped down and wiped his face clean.
He stepped back, and he didn’t have to say anything. In fact, she didn’t want him to speak. She would save them both the humiliation.
“I’m going to bed,” she said.
She stalked upstairs, pulled the covers up to her chin and told herself she was not going to think about Lance Estes.
Except maybe a teensy bit.
Chapter 10
As he watched her stalk off, Lance called himself fifty kinds of a fool. He was playing with fire. Worse, he couldn’t seem to help himself. His attraction for her was the dangerous kind, the kind that tugged at his heart.
His problem was how to keep the attraction from becoming fatal. A man without a name had no business falling in love with a woman like Jolie, a woman who deserved everything.
But what if he had a name to offer her? The mission of finding his roots took on a sudden urgency.
Setting up his laptop on the mahogany desk, he tapped into the vast resources of the ISF and began a search for his first housemother at the orphanage.
It didn’t take him long to locate her. Ina Estes, now married to Lawrence Clancy, lived in Phoenix, Arizona. Lance call
ed information, and in another stroke of good luck, found her phone number listed. Even with the time difference it was too late to call and say, “I’m Lancelot from Sunshine Acres Orphanage, and I’m searching for my birth mother.”
He would make that call in the morning. He didn’t want to know why he’d been abandoned or whether he had been loved. He merely wanted to know his name.
Jolie woke up with only a slight headache. She took an aspirin and inspected the lump on her head. It had turned a garish purple with a sickly yellow perimeter. Her mother would see it and imagine death by internal bleeding. Her siblings would see it and think, That’s Kat for you. Same old klutz. Aunt Kitty would get out the herbal remedies and Aunt Dolly would either ignore it or make a big joke of it, both with high drama.
Jolie tried to cover the bruise, but makeup only called attention to it, and in addition made her look like somebody trying out for the circus. There was only one thing to do.
She pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, then scavenged in the medicine cabinet until she found a pair of scissors. Unfortunately, they were the kind used to cut bandages, but they’d have to do.
She picked up a hunk of hair, held her breath and cut. The scissors were dull, but Jolie remained undaunted. Taking a fortifying breath, she made another brave cut. Then another.
The pile of hair in the sink grew, but she had plenty left, so she was determined not to be alarmed. Bangs would hide the bruise. Anybody could cut bangs.
She made her final cut, then stood back to inspect her handiwork. The bangs were a bit uneven and more than a little ragged, but underneath a cap, who would know?
Of course, she couldn’t wear a baseball cap all the time or her family would get suspicious. Hair gel. Now there was the solution.
Jolie worked with her bangs, hoping for a creative, mod look. What she got was sticky hands and a hidden bruise.
“Oh well.”
She had other things to worry about. Christmas dinner, for one. Making it without Lance’s help, for another.
It was time for her to stand on her own two feet. If she ever wanted to become a new woman, she’d better quit depending on him and start doing things for herself.
Thank goodness he was nowhere around. For one thing, she wanted to get the baking underway, by herself. Also, she wasn’t ready to face him after last night’s kiss.
She donned her apron, grabbed her cookbook and laid out her mixing bowls. Usually she plunged in right away, but this time she read the entire recipe step by step before she did anything. Lance had taught her that.
That wasn’t all he’d taught her.... Memories of last night’s kiss threatened to undo her.
She turned the radio up to drown out her distracting thoughts, and had just started mixing the cake when the phone rang.
It was Aunt Kitty.
“Jolie, I have great news. Do you remember Josh’s friend Michael Sullivan?”
She remembered having a mad crush on him. He was blond and fun to be with, a wild Irish version of Brad Pitt. But then she’d been only sixteen the last time she saw him, and prone to flights of fantasy.
“The one who dropped out of seminary to become a private eye?”
“An undercover cop with Chicago PD,” Aunt Kitty corrected her. “Anyhow, he’s coming to Christmas dinner.”
“Great,” she said. But another guest, another casserole, was what she was thinking.
“I know. Josh is so excited. It has been years since he saw Michael.”
“I’m glad he can join us.” Jolie mentally tried to stretch the turkey for…what was the count up to now? Fifteen people?
“We’re bringing a honey-baked ham.” Jolie’s sigh of relief was cut short by Aunt Kitty’s next statement. “We decided to come tomorrow instead of waiting. There’s always so much traffic on the road Christmas Eve.”
“Wonderful,” Jolie said. What she was thinking was Help!
After she hung up, she set about baking with a vengeance.
Okay, I can do this. I can do this.
Aunt Kitty had just lopped a whole day off her cooking time. But what was one day? Jolie would simply work into the night.
Lance heard the music coming from the kitchen before he smelled the sweet, spicy fragrance of baking. He pictured Jolie humming and moving to the lively music, and his hormones immediately went into overdrive.
He started to bypass the kitchen altogether and head straight to the gym in the basement.
Coward.
The music was loud and she was dancing, just as he imagined. Unnoticed, he catalogued every detail: her long ponytail swaying to the beat of B. B. King, the tufted, punk-rock bangs, the crooked chocolate cake with the split-apart top.
“Oh!” She put her hand over heart. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Good morning.” Trying to act normal, he headed to the coffeepot. “New hairdo?”
“Yes. Does it cover the bruise?”
“It does.” He could guess why she’d done it: the bruise was another badge of failure. Touched, he added, “The bangs look nice.”
“You really think so?”
“Yes. They’re sassy and lively. Like you.” He poured two cups of coffee and hoped she’d wouldn’t notice how deeply personal his observation was.
She was wearing perfume again, the fragrance that clouded his senses and settled over him like a caress. He sat on a bar stool as far away from her as possible.
“I see you started the baking without me.”
“Yes. Actually, I want to do it all by myself. I need to.” She picked up the platter holding the pitiful, lopsided chocolate cake. “What do you think?”
“Congratulations. You did it.”
“Yeah, except the top layer split.”
“A little extra icing will fix that.”
She caught her tongue between her teeth, and he nearly came undone. Gripping his coffee cup, he tried to ignore that sweet, pink tongue.
“Listen, Lance… I’m sorry about last night…that I was so much trouble and all.”
“No problem.”
He stared at her, every nerve jingling, alive in ways he’d never believed possible. The telephone jarred him out of his spell.
When Jolie answered, he picked up his coffee and started to leave, but she motioned for him to stay put. With her hand over the mouthpiece, she said, “It’s just Elizabeth.”
Sipping his coffee, he watched Jolie’s expression change from lively good humor to growing alarm.
“Well,” she said to her sister, “isn’t that great?… No, no, it’s wonderful…the sooner the better.”
“What’s wrong?” Lance asked after she’d hung up.
“Elizabeth is not coming home the day after tomorrow.”
“What happened? Did her flight get cancelled?”
“No.” Jolie plopped on to the bar stool beside him, the picture of defeat. “She got through filming early and changed her ticket. She’s coming home tonight.”
He clung to his coffee cup, staunchly resisting the urge to put his arms around her and say, “There, there, sweetheart.”
“I’ll never get all this done with her breathing down my neck,” Jolie said, then told him about the rest of the family and the guests they were bringing along.
“Yes, you will.” Lance set down his coffee, picked up the spatula and began to patch the split cake with icing. “We’ll finish today. I’m going to help you.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I should just call the deli.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“No. If I have Christmas dinner catered after saying I was going to cook it, I’m living up to everybody’s expectations.”
“All right, then. Roll up your sleeves and let’s get to work. We’ll have everything except the turkey done by the time Elizabeth’s plane arrives.”
“But still, I won’t be the one who did it.”
“Yes, you will. I’m merely going to pitch in and help.”
“I don’t know.”
“I do.” He tied on his apron. “This is an emergency. Get your cute little butt moving.”
This turn of events gave him the perfect excuse to be near Jolie all day. If the untimely descent of relatives hadn’t occurred, what excuse would he have found? Watching her sweet face and the quick movements of her small hands, noticing how she never got near the flour canister without coming away smudged, hearing how she hummed under her breath even when she didn’t know the tune, Lance knew he would have moved heaven and earth to spend this last day alone with her.
Even if he was determined to keep his hands off of her, even if she didn’t know how he softened every time she looked up and smiled at him, he was still grateful for this gift of time with the woman who had somehow found her way through his barriers and into his heart.
Cakes and pies and cookies were lined up in a row on the cabinets, all neatly covered with plastic wrap. Congealed salads and casseroles waiting to be baked crowded the shelves of the refrigerator. Ingredients for a green salad were sliced and bagged separately, waiting to be assembled.
The dishes were clean, the kitchen spotless.
What Jolie wanted was to collapse into a hot tub and not move for two hours. What she had was barely enough time to get to the airport to meet Elizabeth’s plane.
“I’ll go pick her up,” Lance said.
“No. I will.” She amended her statement because of manners. “Thank you, anyhow.”
“It’s still raining.”
“I know that. I can drive in the rain.”
He gave her that look. Lord, if she didn’t want so badly to hug him, she’d strangle him.
“Be careful,” he finally said.
“Don’t worry.”
She left him standing in the kitchen doing just that. She could tell by the way he stood, stiff-backed and tight-faced. Why did she always manage to have that affect on him?
Maybe she was fated to be the kind of woman who worried a man to death, instead of a well-put-together, take-charge woman like Elizabeth, who could melt a man’s heart with a single glance. That is, if Elizabeth wanted to. Her sister was not the romantic kind. Unlike Jolie, who had thought of nothing except romance ever since Lance came to Shady Grove.