Across the room, Claire Welland eased herself back from the prematurely balding man who eyed her speculatively as he poured himself a drink from the punch bowl.
"You've been away for a while, haven't you?"
"Yes," she agreed, hiding a smile. He didn't know who she was, any more than she knew him.
"Claire," he said, his eyes clinging to her nametag, then lingering to study the curve of her breasts.
"That's right." Behind her, the band started playing another song she didn't recognize. Noise, she thought. Too much noise.
"Claire," he repeated again, and she wished she'd had the sense to stay out of Port Townsend this week. She had no more idea how to make meaningless conversation with people she didn't care about than she'd had fifteen years ago, the night her father insisted she attend her graduation prom.
It had been emotional torture for a nerdy teenager. Fifteen years later, she felt bored and she wished she hadn't come, but at least she'd ditched the shyness.
"Would you like to dance?"
"I'm not much of a dancer."
He wasn't wearing a nametag, which probably meant he was local, that he'd never left Port Townsend and simply expected everyone to know him.
"I'm sorry. I don't remember your name."
"Barry." His eyes lingered on her bodice again. "Let me get you a drink."
A few minutes later, when he pressed the drink into her hand, she felt the skin crawl along the back of her neck, as if someone were standing close behind her. Too close.
She turned her head and fought the urge to gasp audibly.
"Hello, Claire." His deep voice was husky with just a hint of gravel.
"Blake McKenzie," she said breathlessly. She lifted her glass and sipped, reminding herself sternly that she was a mature woman, not a dreamy teenager.
"Hey, Mac!" said Barry.
Everyone had called him Mac in school, but she hadn't. She hadn't called him anything, not to his face, but in her mind he'd always been Blake, as if she were the only person in the world—other than the teachers—who called him by his given name.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned his head, giving her a view of waving black hair curling over his collar. She took a careful breath and sipped again. If he turned back, she'd say something casual. After all, she was an adult, perfectly capable of having a cool conversation with a man who'd once turned her adolescent dreams uncomfortably hot.
He hadn't changed. Black hair, black eyes with that rebellious hint of irreverent laughter. He wore a sports jacket, better fitting than the one his shoulders had strained against the night of the grad dance, but he still had that hell-raising half grin and those big muscular hands that had been surprisingly gentle when they gripped her arms that day in Chem class.
He hadn't changed, but she had.
"Welland," said Barry, standing closer now. "Claire Welland. You're the physics teacher's daughter. I remember now. You've changed."
"Fifteen years does that," she said, wishing she'd refused to come. Then Blake turned back and her breath caught. How crazy that he could still make her nervous.
"Dance?" asked Blake.
She swallowed and told herself to stop this nonsense. He was just a man, a very muscular, physical sort of man. His eyes still had that alert watchfulness, that overlay of mischief, though he'd never turned it on her.
"What did you say?"
"Dance with me. I want to talk to you."
Crazy panic welled up, and she told herself his closeness was because of the noise, must be because of the noise.
"She doesn't dance," shouted Barry.
All these voices, sharing memories, but not her memories. Brenda, her one friend in high school, was firmly settled on an experimental farm in Michigan.
Blake touched her arm and somehow, crazily, she moved toward the dance floor with him.
"You don't want to dance with me."
"Yeah, I do." He gave her the half smile she'd seen him romance Lydia with, the same smile he'd turned on Sherry Miller before he and Lydia became a couple. It meant nothing, of course, a trick of facial structure and musculature.
"It's nice to see you," she said, realizing it was true, that afterward, she'd enjoy describing him to Jenn.
He had changed, of course. Fifteen years hadn't left him untouched. His face had always been harshly drawn, dangerous, but now the lines were deeper, the eyes quieter. Changed, but she would have recognized him anywhere.
Jenn would call him a hunk. She supposed it was something about muscles, strength that didn't come from the gym, and that smile. He must do something physical for a living, something very male. They'd have nothing in common, of course, but the man was definitely built to fuel female fantasies.
"Come on," he urged, turning that smile on her again.
"I really don't dance."
"We'll just shuffle around and pretend."
She shook off that sense of unreality and stepped into his arms. One dance, then she'd get out of here, take the telescope in the back of her SUV and go outside where she belonged, under a sky full of stars.
Moody music playing, and Blake McKenzie's arms around her. She smiled, thinking of all the times she'd dreamed this particular fantasy back in her senior year. She'd grown out of it, but Jenn would never forgive her if she didn't dance at least one dance.
"Mac!" someone shouted.
"I don't mind if you want to talk to—"
"But I mind." He turned and she found herself staring over his shoulder at the crowd of people, some faces she almost remembered, and wondering what on earth they'd talk about for the next three minutes until the song ended.
"Do you still live here?" she asked. "Work here?"
"I've got a shipyard down near the port."
"Shipyard?" It sounded very Port Townsend, but she hadn't a clue where to go from there. Even though she'd lived in here for four years, she'd never been on anything smaller than the Washington state ferries.
"I build wooden boats."
Over his shoulder, she was suddenly looking straight at Lydia, the other woman glaring back at her with fury in her eyes.
"I suppose Port Townsend is a good place for wooden boats, what with the annual Wooden Boat Festival."
Someone bumped against her and Blake skillfully turned her out of range. "What about you, Claire?"
She felt warmth from his hand under hers, heat seeping through the fabric of his jacket. If she were one of his girls, a high school sweetheart, she'd slide closer now, pressing her body against that broad chest, turning her face to press lips against his throat.
Of course she wasn't, and she wouldn't.
"You're an astronomer," he murmured against her ear.
She carefully put a little more distance between them. No wonder Lydia had looked as if she were wandering around on another planet. The man had very potent sex appeal. "How do you know I'm an astronomer?"
"That form you filled out. Do you teach? Work in an observatory?"
"You read my information form?"
"Yes." He grinned, reminding her of all the times she'd seen him sitting outside the principal's office. "Tell me about life as an astronomer."
"Why?" She pulled back and looked at him suspiciously. Had he turned into the sort of man who came on to every new woman who crossed his path?
"Tell me about your work, Claire, and I'll tell you why I want to know."
"It's too noisy to talk here."
"Let's get out, then."
"I didn't mean—"
But he'd grabbed her hand and was leading her away.
She jerked him to a stop. "Look, Blake, I'm finding this a little strange."
"Come on. We'll talk outside."
"Why should—"
Someone bumped into her, throwing her against him. He slipped his arm around her, for protection she supposed, looked over her head and said coolly, "Hello, Wayne."
"Just wanted to take your lady here for a spin," said an alcohol-hazed voice. "Dance with me, lady?"
"Too late," said Blake. "We're leaving."
"Hey, Mac, that's not fair." The man who'd wanted her to dance stumbled a little, then grinned foolishly. "Hey, gorgeous, wanna dance?"
"Back off," said Blake softly in a voice that sent shivers down Claire's spine. Then he turned their bodies to place himself between her and her inebriated admirer.
"Hey, no 'fense," slurred the man.
"Where's your purse, Claire?"
"Back at the table." She'd go with him, she decided, and take advantage of his invitation—whatever sort of invitation it was—to get out of here. Then, outside, with the stars overhead, she'd say good-bye and thanks for the dance.
They'd almost reached the stairs when Lydia appeared in front of them and put her hand on Blake's arm.
"Mac, where are you going?"
"Slipping out. You remember Lydia, Claire?"
"Yes, of course." Claire was very aware of Blake's hand at her back, his fingers burning through the blue dress. Lydia looked furious and Claire realized the affair between these two was far from over.
Then they were past Lydia, a vague nausea crawling in Claire's throat.
"Blake, I don't think—" She stopped at the top of the stairs and he stopped too. "I don't think this is a good idea. Why don't you go back to Lydia? I was about to leave anyway, and I don't—"
Someone shouted out, "Mac!" and he waved a hand absently.
Was the man friends with everyone?
"We can't possibly talk here," he said.
She shook her head, pulled away from his hand, and walked down the stairs ahead of him, but he caught up with her at the bottom.
"Are you staying here?" His low voice vibrated along her veins.
"No." Did he want her to invite him to her room? What did he want? She'd had just one drink... only one, unless that punch Barry gave her was spiked, but her head was spinning.
She didn't stop, just kept walking through the lobby.
The woman behind the desk greeted Blake and Claire kept walking. When she got to the door, he held it for her.
She stopped on the step outside and turned to face him.
"Look," she said, sliding her hands into her pockets, except the blue dress didn't have pockets, so her fingers just curled into fists and pressed against her thighs. She felt disoriented because she'd expected darkness outside. Summer in the northwest, and the sun lingered unexpectedly late.
"Blake, it's been nice talking with you, dancing with you." She smiled, because she'd remember that part, and maybe she'd remember the way Lydia had looked at her so jealously. That had to be good for a woman's ego, even if she wasn't interested in the man.
The lines of his face seemed oddly harsh in twilight.
"Wee need to talk. Where would you like to go? A walk on the floats down at the waterfront? A drive along the coast? Somewhere quiet we could have a drink?"
"No thanks. I... you should probably go back inside. Lydia's upset."
He touched her chin with the side of his index finger and all she could do was stare up at him. This was not her scene, certainly not her sort of man. She had no idea why he wanted to spend time with her, perhaps to make Lydia jealous. If so, the strategy had already paid off.
"I'm not hitting on you, Claire, although I do have ulterior motives. Let me take you somewhere we can talk." His lips curved in that dangerous half smile, and she forced herself to smile back. She didn't know what he wanted, but she had enough sense to know she'd better get away from him before she made a real fool of herself.
"Look, Blake, I'm tired and I'm heading back to my unit. I'll just—"
"No one's called me Blake since my mom died."
"I didn't know she'd died. I'm sorry."
He brushed his thumb against her chin. If he wasn't hitting on her, why did he keep touching her? Why did she let him?
"It was a long time ago. I'm sorry about your dad. I know you lost him last summer. He was a good guy."
"I didn't know you... did you have him for physics class?"
"We didn't get on too well back then." He grinned, that bad-boy smile designed to set hearts out of rhythm. "We got to know each other a bit in recent years. He was pretty good about coaching my kids when they needed it."
His kids. Of course he'd be married, despite Jennifer's prediction that he'd be divorced or single.
"Listen, I—" She realized she'd put one hand on his chest, could feel his heart, a steady beat against her palm, and her old fantasies threw her off balance.
She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. I used you as an excuse to get out of that party. I had a king-sized crush on you back in high school, so it was nice to talk to you, to dance, but this is making me uncomfortable. I've never been much on parties. I really don't belong here at this reunion."
He led her down the sidewalk toward the parked vehicles. "You can't tell a guy you had a crush on him, then drive off and leave him hanging. You had the biggest damned blue eyes I ever saw, hidden behind those glasses. They're not hidden now. Contact lenses?"
"Yeah." He'd thought of her eyes? She wasn't sure she believed him, but she seemed to be taking on his speech mannerisms. "I really—"
"I do want to talk to you. I'm hoping you can help one of my kids."
He was married. Of course he was, though heaven knew where his wife could be. One thing was for sure, if he were married to her, Claire wouldn't send him off alone to a reunion where Lydia would be present.
Maybe Lydia was his wife.
"You want me to do something for one of your children?"
He guided her to the left. "Why don't we take my truck, go somewhere I can tell you about it? I'll drop you back here afterward." He opened the passenger door on a red pickup truck and held out a hand to help her in.
Why not?
Did she really imagine he would drive her somewhere and attack her? He wanted her to do something for one of his children. So he'd admitted to having kids, and any minute he'd start telling her about his wife. She was perfectly safe, and it wasn't as if she had pressing plans for what was left of the night. Orion wouldn't be clearly visible until the moon set.
She took his hand and stepped up into the truck.
He drove down the hill into the town, along the waterfront. She didn't know what to talk about, so she said nothing. At school, he'd ridden a motorcycle, generally with a girl tucked in behind him, usually Lydia. She wondered what it would be like to sit behind him on a motorcycle, clinging to his body with the highway whipping past underneath them.
Damn Jenn, she thought wryly. None of this would be happening if her friend hadn't arranged the condo, hadn't made those comments about having an affair with the town bad boy.
"Tell me about your wife," she forced herself to say, because this wasn't high school and he wasn't her big fantasy. She was a woman with a life she valued, and he was a man with ties, commitments, children. Whatever images her crazy imagination came up with, he'd told her clearly that he wasn't hitting on her.
And she didn't want him to. Of course she didn't.
He turned into a small parking lot and parked against an old brick building. "It'll be noisy inside," he said, "but if we can get one of the tables outside, we should be able to talk."
She got out of the truck quickly, because she didn't want him coming around to open the door, didn't want to slide down out of the truck with him standing so close. Jenn was right, it was past time for her to have an affair. Somehow, without knowing it, she'd let herself get to a state where she couldn't seem to think of anything but... men and women.
Sex, she told herself bluntly. It's only hormones, and you'd better get it under control right now.
He took her arm and led her toward the sound of music. She was too aware of his hand at her back as they followed the server into the crowded lounge, through an archway and out onto a wooden deck. The server showed them to a table at the edge of the deck, looking over the harbor and the reddening sky. Blake held a chair for her.
Clo
uds, she thought. The setting sun threw its warmth and color over cumulus puffs that hadn't been there an hour ago.
"You won't see any stars tonight," said Blake, sitting across from her.
"No," she agreed, surprised.
When a waiter appeared, she ordered wine. He ordered beer.
"What about food. Do you want something to eat?"
"No, thanks. The banquet was more than enough."
"I missed it. I need something." He ordered a large plate of nachos and when the waiter left them alone with only one other couple on far side of the patio, he leaned toward her, his arms on the table.
"It's too bad you missed dinner," she said nervously. "Rosemary chicken, rice, baby asparagus spears."
"Let's talk about something other than food. I haven't eaten since breakfast. Tell me about astronomy."
"I study the sky. There's nothing exciting I can tell you." She wished he'd stop watching her with such intensity. It did strange things to her insides.
The waiter appeared with her wine and she curled her fingers around the glass and sipped slowly, focusing on the sweet taste, willing her attention away from the lazy way his eyes narrowed as they studied her.
"Doesn't it excite you?" he asked.
She felt the heat in her face and blessed the fading daylight. He couldn't know her thoughts. "Doesn't what excite me?"
"Astronomy."
"Yes, of course, but—"
"Why?" He was still leaning forward, watching her, listening. It didn't make sense that he was interested, but she found herself answering.
"When the sun's gone, and there's no moon, I look up and the sky is filled with pinpoints of light. Filled with patterns, clusters, symbols. Humans have been watching the stars since the first man looked up, wondering what they are, what they mean. Wondering if heaven looked back through the darkness, or God. When we understood more, we began to wonder if there were other worlds like ours, other men—or beings who weren't men: ET, Klingons, Alpha Centaurians. Wherever you are in the world, if you go up on a mountaintop after dark and look up, the sky is filled with mystery. And the magic thing about it is that the more we learn, the more we explore with telescopes and space probes, and the more questions we answer—" She spread her hands. "The more we know, the more questions we have."
Seeing Stars Page 2