For a Good Time Call

by Trish Jensen

  “Sherry!” he said, and he broke into a wide grin. “Come in!”

  She poked his chest, even as she followed him into his foyer. “You better tell me the back of your house is burnt to the ground, buster.”

  “Huh?”

  “Fire!” she yelled, then pantomimed the hanging up of a phone. “Click!”

  Confusion gave way to understanding, and his cheeks turned an interesting shade of embarrassed. “Oh, yeah, that. I . . . had a bit of an accident.”

  “What’s that smell?” she asked, as a horrifying scent assaulted her. “That’s not burnt chocolate, is it?” A hoax was worthy of censure. Ruining chocolate ranked right up there with a few of the seven deadly sins.

  His neck turned even brighter red. “I didn’t do it on purpose! It was my first attempt. Besides, I was cooking them for you!”

  “Cooking what?” she asked, dreading the answer.

  “Double fudge brownies.”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. On the one hand, what a sweet gesture. On the other hand, she mourned the death of the poor brownies. But right then the foyer actually snagged her attention. “My God, Kit,” she whispered.

  He glanced around. “Like it?” he asked.

  “I guess it’ll have to do,” Sherry said dryly, but when she saw the disappointment flash in his eyes she added, “It’s beautiful, Kit. Truly.”

  “It needs work. Want a tour?”

  Heck, yes, she wanted a tour. But she was still just irritated enough that he’d managed to shave about a decade off her life. She shrugged casually. “I suppose, since I’m already here.”

  Kit’s house did not need work. Kit’s house was perfect. Perfectly decorated, perfectly clean, perfectly . . . sterile.

  The huge marble foyer led off in several intriguing directions and Kit took her in every one: to a completely white living room, completely brown den, completely antique library, completely formal dining room. The kitchen was the industrial variety, fully equipped to prepare meals for legions. At least that’s what she gathered through the smoke.

  “You live here alone, do you?” Sherry asked, wondering why one man would want this much space.

  “I have a housekeeper,” Kit answered her, sounding defensive.

  “No doubt.”

  They returned to what Kit called his informal living room, probably the only room on the first floor that Sherry found pleasant. The overstuffed couch, love-seat and chairs were all hunter green leather, the Persian rugs worn but lovely. At the far end of the room one step led up to a raised platform which held a baby grand piano. Behind the piano was a set of French doors, leading out to a patio, and a huge lawn beyond.

  “Now this room I like,” Sherry murmured to herself.

  Kit turned to her, his brows raised. “You don’t like the rest of the house?” he asked, his tone slightly injured.

  She laid a hand on his arm. “I didn’t mean that. I meant . . . well, just that—”

  “It feels like no one lives here.”

  That was exactly what it felt like. There were no personal touches anywhere. They could be strolling through a model home. “Well, you’re a busy man.”

  “You’re a busy woman, but your place feels like a home.”

  Sherry looked up in surprise. She wouldn’t have thought Kit capable of making an observation like that. Suddenly she realized her hand was still on his arm. The heat from his body seeped through his cotton polo shirt to warm her clear to the core. She let her hand drop away reluctantly. Quite frankly, she enjoyed touching this man much too much. “Women are better at that sort of thing,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

  His hand raked through his hair. “Yeah, I guess so,” he muttered, but didn’t sound convinced.

  “Well, I better get going.”

  “No!” he said, then quickly added, “I was in the middle of inviting you to supper when the brownies self-destructed. Will you stay?”

  She shouldn’t. Being near this man was not good for her peace of mind. On the other hand, it was Saturday night, and the most exciting plans she had for the evening involved giving herself a mud facial. What could it hurt? Plenty, a voice inside her said. She ignored it. She was far too intrigued at the idea that Christian Fleming, CEO, and romance-challenged superstud, had gone to all this trouble on her behalf. “What’s for supper? I’m starved.”

  He grinned down at her, causing Sherry’s breath to catch in her throat. When this man decided to smile, he did it with a vengeance. He spread his arms, bowing slightly. “Let the games begin.”

  She laughed. “What’s the occasion?”

  Kit tapped the tip of her nose lightly. “I’m about to prove to you that I can be as romantic as the next guy.”

  Her grin disappeared as she stared up at him. “You are?” she squeaked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, his smile fading as his eyes took on a smoky gleam.

  Oh, Lord, she was in trouble. Her biggest defense against Kit was her knowledge that he was a slug in the romance department. If he did a good job, her defenses would fall like a house of cards.

  “Sherry?” he whispered, his knuckles grazing over her cheek.

  “Hmmm?”

  The pad of his thumb whispered over her lower lip. “You are a beautiful woman,” he said softly. “A very beautiful woman.”

  Her emotional house of cards collapsed.

  Ten

  “Just wait here,” Kit told Sherry, settling her on the love seat after pouring her an ice-cold beer.

  For some reason, she still seemed dazed. Hadn’t anyone ever told her she was beautiful before? He found that difficult to believe.

  Her lips haunted his dreams, her eyes were so lovely he could look into them forever. She was petite, yet her curves were there, in all the right female places. Even her hands, so small and soft and vulnerable, called to something elemental within him. He wanted those hands on his body so badly, his nerve endings jangled with it.

  He moved outside through the French doors and sniffed the summery air. He’d fix that. Autumn scents were the romancy kind. At least according to the first novel he’d read.

  He strolled to the roasting pit in his backyard. The dead leaves and twigs he’d gathered earlier still lay in a pile. With a disposable lighter he set off little fires all around the pile, blowing on them to help spread the flames. When he had a good blaze going, he waved his arms through the smoke, trying to scent the air around the pit. Satisfied, he returned to the house. Sherry still sat where he’d left her, seeming lost in thought. She looked up absently as he pulled the door closed.

  Kit held up a finger. “I need to get a few things. Wait right here.”

  He strode out of the room and headed for the kitchen pantry, where Mrs. Fabbersham had left the picnic basket. Grabbing the cooler from the refrigerator, he carried it and the basket back to Sherry.

  She arched a brow at him. “A picnic?”

  “Yup,” he said, just about bursting with pride. Thank you, Judith McNaught, he thought, acknowledging the romance writer as the source of his inspiration.

  “Come with me, young lady,” he said. “And bring our mugs.”

  Sherry dutifully got to her feet, a twinkle of anticipation in her eyes.

  They stepped outside, and Kit stopped her on the veranda. “Take a deep breath. What do you smell?”

  Sherry breathed in, and then her eyes closed in appreciation, a smile lighting her face. “Burning leaves.”

  “Right!” Kit boasted. “What does it remind you of?”

  Her eyes opened, and she gifted him with an expression of such pure enjoyment, his breath caught. Why had he never done this before? Why had he never realized the benefits of giving a woman a little romance? It really wasn’t all that difficult, and the results were well worth it.

  “It smells like autumn,” Sherry whispered.

  “Good girl, you get an A.” He nodded toward the pit. “Come on.”

  The barbecue pit sat just at the edge of
his yard, adjacent to the woods. When they reached it, it was still smoking, but most of the leaves had burned to ash. Kit set down the basket and cooler, then added some more kindling to the smoldering pile until he had a good little campfire going.

  Sherry stood silently, glancing around his grounds, sipping her beer on occasion. God, she filled out a pair of jeans like no woman he’d ever seen before. The denim hugged her slightly rounded bottom so beautifully it made his mouth water just to look at her from behind.

  He couldn’t wait to get his hands on that luscious rump. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on every inch of her naked, warm, silky flesh. But right now he had to practice patience, show her he was worthy of the honor.

  He prayed she’d find him worthy of the honor.

  “Can I help you with anything?” Sherry asked.

  “Nope,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “This is my party.”

  He pulled a bright red blanket from the large basket and shook it out. He laid it alongside the pit, then sat down. He patted a space beside him with one hand and reached out for his beer mug with the other.

  Sherry sank to the blanket beside him and handed him his beer. Even over the fragrance of the fire, he could smell her fresh, enticing scent.

  “So far, so good?” he asked, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. His fingertips brushed its shell, and he felt the jolt of awareness through every inch of his body. He caressed her earlobe between his fingers, and watched as her blue eyes went dark and limpid. He forgot he’d even asked her a question, until she said softly, “So far, so good.”

  He bent and took her mouth, cupping her neck. It was a slow, leisurely kiss, but still it managed to make his heart beat frantically, his loins tighten painfully.

  The strength of his response reminded him that he hadn’t had sex in a good long time. Not since . . . he’d met Sherry. He hadn’t even dated other women in that time. His thoughts, his focus had been solely on this one since the first moment he saw her. And here she was, kissing him with a tender ardor that made him ache.

  And not just ache with sexual need, although she turned him on to record proportions. But there was another kind of ache she brought on. An ache in his chest that he was hard-pressed to explain.

  Kit broke the kiss, lifting his head. He stared down at this woman who affected him so deeply, wondering where all this would lead. Well, besides to bed. But then he shoved the question aside, not wanting to analyze something that had always seemed basically simple. He was a man, she was a woman, and there was a strong sexual chemistry between them. Logical reasoning would have him conclude that those facts would lead to them making love. After that, he didn’t want to think. He smiled into her dreamy eyes. “I love kissing you.”

  “You do?” she asked, her voice a husky whisper.

  “I do.”

  Swallowing, she said, “Likewise.”

  He thought of lying her down, right here, taking off her clothes and making love. This minute. This second. He wanted to, more than he wanted to take his next breath. But he prided himself on his timing. On enjoying the anticipation as much as the conquest. So he turned and pulled the cooler to them and took out another beer. Twisting the top, he lifted it. “Refill?”

  Sherry looked a little off balance, as if his change of direction confused her. She shook her head as if to clear it and held out her mug.

  After refreshing both their beers, Kit stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles, realizing with a start that this was exactly where he wanted to be, and she was exactly the person he wanted to be with. If he remembered correctly, with the other women in his life, his thoughts often strayed to other places, other events. Right now, he was all consumed with the woman beside him. Possibly because he’d never met one he enjoyed spending time with as much.

  “This is really nice, Kit,” Sherry said, staring up at the darkening sky.

  “Enjoying yourself?” he asked, inordinately pleased.

  “Very much.”

  “Good.”

  He set down his mug, grabbed two of the longer sticks from the pile beside the pit, then pulled a small knife from the picnic basket.

  “What are you doing?” Sherry asked.

  “Carving our cooking utensils.”

  “You mean . . . oh, Kit, please tell me we’re having a weenie roast!”

  “We’re having a weenie roast.”

  She squealed her delight, scrambling to her knees. “I haven’t been to a weenie roast since Girl Scout camp.”

  Kit glanced over at her. “Girl Scout camp. That figures.”

  “What figures?” she asked, her grin fading.

  “That you went to camp. You had a perfect childhood, didn’t you?”

  She tilted her head, seeming to ponder it. “I don’t think there’s any such thing. But, yes, I had a happy childhood.”

  “You said you have an older brother.”

  She smiled softly, obviously very fond of her brother. “Yes. Mark.”

  “I take it he didn’t boss you around as a kid, huh?”

  Her laughter warmed his heart. “Of course he did.” She tossed her braid over her shoulder. “But I got him back. Whenever he tried to tell me what to do, I’d threaten to tell his girlfriends about each other.”

  Kit grinned. “Ah, blackmail. Effective. Another technique learned from your mother?”

  “You got that right.”

  Shaking his head in amusement, he felt a sense of contentment settle inside him. He liked hearing about Sherry’s life as a child. “Let me guess. You got straight A’s, you dated the captain of the football team, you were homecoming queen, and you were a cheerleader. Am I right?”

  Before he’d met Sherry, he’d have said that derisively. But with her, things felt different. He wanted to hear all that.

  Sherry chuckled. “I was first runner-up for homecoming queen, and I dated the captain of the soccer team. Otherwise, you’re dead on.” She took a healthy slug of beer. “Am I that predictable?”

  Kit started sharpening the second stick. “Not predictable. Just . . . I don’t know, comfortable with yourself. Confident.” His pitch lowered. “Happy.”

  “I guess I’m happy. Although, I haven’t accomplished everything I want in life, not by a long shot.”

  He set down the second stick and glanced at her. It had grown dark enough that they needed the illumination of the fire to see one another. The light from the flames danced over her face, as if highlighting one adorable feature at a time. It glowed around her, making her appear somewhat ethereal. “What else do you want, Sherry?”

  She hugged her knees to her chest. Staring into the fire, she said, “Well, I guess I dream the usual dreams. Falling in love, getting married, starting a family.”

  Kit’s heart pinched painfully. He swallowed some beer before commenting. “Of course.” He reached out and brushed hair from her cheek. “You want to hear something funny?”

  “What?”

  “For the first time in my life, I’m sorry I’m not capable of fulfilling a woman’s dreams. You make me wish . . .” His voice trailed off.

  She sucked in an audible breath. “You’re sure about that, are you?”

  Kit busied himself spearing a hot dog on each stick, then he handed one to Sherry and held his over the open flame. “Very sure.”

  “Why, Kit?” she asked, adding her weenie to the fire. “What happened to you when you were younger?”

  A painful drumbeat began in his chest. He considered not answering her, but then changed his mind. If nothing else, she deserved an answer. “When Rachel and I were five, our mother made the decision to give us up for adoption.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “It wasn’t her fault!” he said quickly. “She didn’t have any choice. She just couldn’t take care of us.”

  “I’m sure. I can’t imagine a mother taking that drastic a measure unless she’s run out of choices,” Sherry said.

  The understanding in her voice caused his throat to tighte
n. “Anyway, Rachel and I went to different foster homes. Within a year she was adopted by a wonderful family. She had a childhood much like yours.” He twirled his hot dog to char the other side. “In fact, you remind me of her in some ways. Happy with yourself.”

  “And you’re not? Happy with yourself, I mean?”

  He shook his head. “Not in the same way. I mean, I’m proud of some of my accomplishments. I worked my way through college, and I climbed the corporate ladder at a pretty fast clip.”

  He drank more beer before getting on with the painful part. “But I wasn’t as lucky as Rachel. My foster family was a nightmare. My foster mother and father couldn’t stand each other. Or any of the kids they took in, for that matter. Why they did it, I’ll never know.” He took a breath. “Mr. Howard was a drunken bully, who liked nothing better than tormenting his foster kids. The more defiant we were, the more he abused us.”

  “And let me guess, you were a defiant young man.”

  “I was a defiant young man,” he agreed.

  “And Mrs. Howard?”

  Kit snorted. “She didn’t mind defiance. She minded happiness. She couldn’t stand to see us laugh, smile, play. If she caught us enjoying ourselves, she’d assign a disgusting chore to wipe the smiles off our faces. If she had to be miserable, she wanted to make sure she had company.”

  “Oh, Kit!”

  His laughter was tinged with bitterness. It was a horrible sound, even to his own ears. “So you see, my role models weren’t the best. I decided a long time ago that I’d never get myself trapped in a situation like that as long as I lived. It was a conscious choice then. Now it’s just . . . ingrained, I guess. I don’t have whatever it takes.”

  “You could learn.”

  “No,” he said, looking directly in her eyes to make sure she understood the truth of what he was saying. He respected her enough to give her that. “I know myself too well. I don’t have whatever gene rules that part of a person. It’s just not there for me.”

  Sherry’s heart was crying. It explained so much. His bleak expressions, his rusty laughter, his need to be free. Most especially, his need to be in control.