by Robyn Carr
Once Mel had walked in the direction of the bar, Patrick looped his arm through Angie’s and walked her in the direction of her car. “You okay?”
“Sure. Of course. A little distressed about the situation that poor little girl is in, but I’m fine.”
“Tired? Hungry?”
“I think my cookies wore off, but I’m not fit to go anywhere with blood on me.”
“Home,” he said. “I could follow you and, while you change clothes, I can fix you something to eat. I’m not much in the kitchen, but I heat a mean can of soup, scramble some very fancy eggs, that sort of thing.”
She laughed. “Between the two of us, we could starve to death. Come on, follow me. I think I could use the company.”
“And I’d like to hear more about Meg’s situation.”
At the side of her SUV she stood on her toes and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. “Prepare to feel sad about that,” she said. “I’ll wait for you to find your Jeep.”
As she was driving to the cabin with his headlights in her rearview mirror, she wondered if he had planned something like this all along—another evening together. She wasn’t likely to be demure or shy away. She’d never known anyone like Patrick before. She’d known guys like Alex—the self-absorbed and spoiled science freak who was used to having his way with little effort. Alex was so strong academically that it never occurred to him he wasn’t perfect. When they studied together, Alex treated her like an equal; when they made out or made love, he definitely acted as though it were all about him. He was greedy. Impatient. Since she wasn’t experienced, the whole thing was usually a little clumsy. Completely dull for her.
But Patrick was bold. He was sure of himself; he acted like he knew what he wanted, what he was doing. She had no trouble picturing him on the deck of an aircraft carrier, coolly preflighting his F-18. Strong and confident, that’s how he seemed. Yet there was nothing Neanderthal about him—no club in sight. He was considerate and thoughtful—his waiting for her tonight was touching. He seemed so powerful, yet at the same time was gentle and enticing. She wondered if she was giving him more credit than he was due and didn’t expect the answer to that anytime soon. But she sure wouldn’t mind learning a few things from the hands of a master.
And then, Angie knew, she would undoubtedly sob with longing all the way to her first peace corps assignment. Because even though she’d been in another relationship—even a sexual relationship—she’d never before met anyone who instantly set in motion all the fantasies of living with true love forever.
She pulled into the clearing and he was right behind her. This afternoon she had left a light on so she wouldn’t be coming home to a pitch-black house again. It looked welcoming. Sweet.
Patrick got out of the Jeep. “So this is your hideaway.”
“Isn’t it cute?”
“Small.”
“I know. But I’m only one person. Come on, it won’t take me long to show you around.”
They stood right inside the door while Patrick looked around—kitchen and living room right inside the entrance, with her quilt and pillows still on the couch. “I guess I didn’t really tidy up,” she said, only half-apologetically. “Three nights and I haven’t made it to the bed yet.”
“I’ll build a fire. What am I going to find in the kitchen?”
“Well, that’s the beauty of having an uncle who owns a bar and grill—I raided the bar’s kitchen so I’m stocked with the essentials. Should we look through the fridge and cupboards together?”
“Nah, I can manage. Is there anything you don’t like?”
“I’ll eat anything. I’ll only be a minute.”
“Take your time. I think I’ll be busy for a while.”
“Then I might hop in the shower.”
“Go for it. I’ll get busy,” he said, going first for the stack of logs beside the hearth.
Fifteen minutes later when Angie came out of the bedroom in a comfy sweatsuit, freshly showered, she found Patrick had made a few changes. He had pushed the trunk that served as a coffee table away from the sofa. The quilt and pillows were folded and sat in the room’s only chair and the fire blazed in the hearth. His boots sat by the door and his jacket hung over a kitchen chair. He stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up and in stocking feet.
He looked over his shoulder at her and smiled. “Tomato soup and grilled cheese.”
“My favorite. You’re very handy.”
“I found a couple of trays. We can eat in front of the fire.” He had the dishes sitting out and began to serve the bowls and plates. “What would you like to drink? I helped myself to a beer.”
“I think I have some wine left. I’ll get it.”
“Tell me about the emergency,” he said. “Did it make you want medical school more or less? Did it change your ideas about the peace corps?”
“Oh, Patrick, I still have so much to learn. Megan’s injury tonight, though probably traumatic for her and her parents, was relatively minor—a laceration on her forehead close to her hairline. It needed a few stitches. But almost a year ago she had an accident and her face was cut. Dr. Michaels took her to the emergency room for stitches and, because of insurance issues, they just stitched her up without a plastic surgeon. Now she’s disfigured. If it isn’t fixed somehow, by the time she’s a young woman and her head and face have grown and matured, the scar won’t have grown with her. It could be monstrous. I’m not exaggerating.”
He handed her a tray and picked up his own. “I take it they can’t afford to get her the proper surgery?”
“Exactly. My uncle Jack has been here quite a while now—I think about eight years. There are things I’ve known about this place for a long time, but until I saw Megan’s face, I didn’t put them into perspective. There is some bounty here—people with money, with successful ranches or vineyards or businesses. But there’s also a lot of poverty, a lot of residents living from hand to mouth. Mel and Doc Michaels get a lot done and the town helps when it can—there’s a powerful sense of community here. But some things are just out of reach—like plastic surgery for an eight-year-old girl whose family has very little money. As Mel puts it, just keeping the house warm all winter is a struggle for them.”
Patrick followed her to the living room, carrying his tray.
She stood in front of the couch. “I take it you had the floor in mind, since you moved furniture around.”
“If you’re going to be comfortable.”
“It’s perfect,” she said, falling into a sit, legs crossed, without spilling a drop of soup or wine.
When he was sitting beside her, balancing his own tray, she said, “They make a difference here—Mel, Jack, Doc Michaels and a lot of other people. They work where there’s need. They’re giving back or paying forward. I think the idea of the peace corps got points tonight.”
“Most twenty-three-year-old women are saving for a party cruise or a car or the biggest, flashiest wedding money can buy.”
She laughed. “Well, first of all, I don’t really come from people like that. Oh, my mom and my aunts have a real penchant for nice things—but I think they fall into the purse and shoe category, not cruises or cars. My parents’ idea of extravagance was a trip to Russia so we girls could learn about the tragic history of that country. I visited Dachau and Auschwitz at sixteen. It was bound to give me a different perspective from most people my age. And then you have to consider my accident. Things like that can change your life.”
“I know,” he said.
“Of course you do,” she agreed softly. She stopped talking to take a spoonful of soup. It came out of a can, she knew that. But she said, “You’re brilliant. A genius. This is the best tomato soup I’ve ever tasted.”
He gave her that sexy half smile and said, “And you are an accomplished flirt.”
Six
Patrick was sure it was inappropriate to compare Angie to Leigh, but it came unbidden. For all he knew, Leigh might have been just as idealistic at twenty-three, but it was very hard to imagine. She’d been raised by a politician; she was jaded and had very specific goals. At twenty-three she’d been working on a master’s in economics, determined to understand budget and deficit issues and how those would translate into votes.
Angie wanted to make a difference in the world. Leigh wanted to win elections.
When Leigh left him it had hurt; he’d invested so much time and energy in her. But this was not the first moment he’d had the notion he might’ve dodged a bullet. Had there been good things about their relationship? Oh, many. He’d enjoyed their time together, most of which was spent in what he could only describe as high-end entertainment. If it wasn’t the finest D.C. restaurants or A-list parties attended by the movers and shakers of Washington, then it was skiing, sailing, scuba diving, traveling…all first-class. Dachau and Auschwitz? Not in a million years. Leigh worked hard and played hard. And so did he—it had suited him fine.
In fact, laid-back weekends or evenings spent with Marie and Jake—a barbecue or movie and pizza—bored Leigh to death. She behaved herself very well; she understood that Jake and Marie were important to him. Likewise, he was cordial and debonair for those sophisticated Washington events that really lit her fire. It was only recently, since Jake’s memorial where Leigh was a no-show, when it had occurred to him that perhaps Leigh liked having a decorated Navy fighter pilot as her occasional escort to the social events surrounding national government. He wasn’t there because she loved his company—he was there to boost her public image.
Patrick had always felt that having a family was important to him, but it was after Leigh left and Jake died that he realized how important. He finally knew that if his life didn’t take the shape he’d imagined—a stable relationship that included kids—something very important would be lost.
He knew his face had given away his troubling thoughts when Angie told him to put another log on the fire and relax. “I’ll clean up,” she said. “It’ll only take a minute. Then I’m going to finish the wine and I think there’s one more beer. Can I grab it for you?”
“You absolutely can,” he said. And he leaned back against the couch while she headed for the kitchen.
Just a few minutes later, dishes done, fire stoked and libations replenished, she turned the conversation to him. “What compelled you to join the Navy?” she asked.
He draped an arm around her shoulders. “I think I always wanted to fly, but who knows how much of that was internal or influenced by my older brothers—three out of four of them took to the sky. But practically speaking, it was education—I come from a pretty simple family. My dad was an electrician and my mom was a coupon-clipping, soup-making stay-at-home mom most of the time. There were times she did secretarial or administrative work, but nothing that would cover the cost of school. The five of us were either going to get loans or scholarships or have to skip college. The oldest two, Luke and Colin, were into helicopters, but Sean introduced a new idea—the Air Force Academy and fighters. With that idea, my brain caught fire! In my mind, that kind of flying looked like the way to go, high and fast. It involved a sophisticated education and an exciting life.” He shook his head. “Gotta love that plane. It asks a lot, it’s demanding as hell and it requires good instincts and reflexes. Then there’s the mission—our ground troops and ocean vessels would be lost without the kind of air support the Navy provides.”
She was quiet for a moment before she said, “Sounds like you’ve made up your mind about what comes next for you.”
“Ah, I don’t know. I want other things, too. When you deploy a lot, spend a lot of time on a ship, it’s hard to keep a handle on the other things in life. Like a family. The woman who takes on a Navy fighter pilot spends a lot of time alone. It’s not fair. It takes an amazing commitment and a special kind of woman....”
“Like Marie.”
“She would be a good example.”
“No wonder you think of her as the ideal wife. I have a friend, Connie—I’ve known her since junior high. She’s always loved firemen. She chased fire trucks and went to firefighter bars. No surprise she married one eventually. Now she still loves firemen but she hates their hours. Her husband is gone a good third of every month and it’s driving her crazy. She’s stuck alone while he’s out pulling women from burning buildings. She wants him to quit and go to work for her father. Now why would you marry a guy in a job you find powerful and sexy and then not want him to do that job? Or how about all the girls who want a doctor and then find out how hard it is to be married to a doctor? The way I see it, you pick the whole person. You have to look him over really carefully. If he has the qualities you need in a partner, you sign on. And he looks you over, making sure of the same things. If you do that, there’s only one option—you support their career choice because there’s no other choice. You can’t remake people, for God’s sake. You have to love them for who they are.”
Patrick stared at her. His mouth might’ve been open a little bit. How had Leigh put it? I don’t think we’re going in the same direction. I’m not going to compete with the Navy. I need a full partner. In other words, she was looking for someone who could dedicate himself to her goals. And here was Angie, talking about choosing a partner based on the whole package, not on how well you can mold them to suit you.
“Are you sure you’re twenty-three?” Patrick asked her.
“My sisters and I are not very much alike,” she said. “We’ve always enjoyed different things. We sometimes throw in with one another when it’s not our number-one choice. Baby girl is an athlete—I go to as many games and meets as I can because it shows support. I’m not going to dump her because her athletic events bore me or are inconvenient—she’s my sister! But sometimes I read while she’s running track or playing basketball and even that makes her think I don’t love her.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask—but the middle sister?”
“Piano and violin. Concert ready. I enjoy that a little more than basketball, track and other sports. But, hey, these are the same sisters I sent to the emergency room when I started experimenting with mixing household cleaners. I think I owe them.”
He laughed at her. “I think you do. A piece of advice—before you have children, be sure you can afford full-time watchdogs.”
“I know, right?”
He leaned toward her and kissed her briefly, looking into her eyes. “Your lips are soft,” he whispered. “And perfect.” He kissed her again, this time deeper. He slipped an arm around her waist and gently lowered her to the floor. He could feel her body responding to his, her hands reaching up to wrap around him, to encourage him. As much as he wanted to keep going, a small part of his conscience tugged at him. “Listen,” he said, pulling back slightly, “we shouldn’t. We’re just passing through.”
She simply looked up at him with those sweet, pretty eyes and, against his better judgment, he kissed her again. This time he tongued open her lips and played inside her mouth, moaning low in his throat. Her fingers tangled in his hair, as though trying to pull his mouth even closer to hers. Against her lips he whispered, “Why do you have to taste so damn good, feel so good. Angie, I want you and you’re the last person I should be wanting.” He leaned over her, his hands busy with her torso, running up and down her sides, grazing a breast, devouring her mouth with his. “My ears are ringing. Tell me to stop before this—” But Angie shook her head, her lips red and swollen from his deep kisses, her eyes filled with longing. “Stop me,” he whispered. “Push me away. This is such a bad idea. Before I go completely deaf, tell me no....”
“Patrick,” she whispered. “Paddy…”
“Yes?” he asked, his eyes sleepy and sexy and gazing into hers.
“Do you always talk this much?”
>
He smiled for just a second before he took her mouth by storm and rolled with her on the floor until his body covered hers. His lips on her neck, her ear, her temple, her mouth again, always looking for a better, even deeper taste of her. When he broke away for a moment she said, “I like that.” She was a little breathless.
“We’re going to go real slow, just take our time getting to know each other. Nothing happens that you’re not ready for. All you have to do is put one hand on my chest, like this,” he said, taking her hand and placing the palm against his chest. “You don’t even have to say anything. This is all about you, Ange. I don’t even have to kiss you again unless you feel like it.”
She was still for a second. Then she grabbed the front of his shirt in her fists and pulled his mouth against hers.
Patrick took full advantage of her decision, moving along her with sweet passion. She moaned against his lips; her urgency thrilled him. Mouths open, tongues playing, lips sliding, tilting right, then left, he devoured her. He couldn’t get deep enough into her mouth. This response from her had him hard in an instant, but he was determined to move slowly even though her body felt tight with needy determination.
Patrick knew that, by her age, a lot of young women had had more than one serious boyfriend; they at least knew what they wanted. Patrick had been with a number of women, beginning when he was seventeen, and many of them, though young, had things to teach him. He sensed this was not the case with Angie. She’d had other concerns—like being valedictorian to every class she attended, even coming out with two degrees. You didn’t get honors like that by spending a lot of time making out.
He pulled her fully into his arms, her body flush against his, and kissed her wildly, madly. He gently and slowly toyed with one breast, waiting for that hand to stop him. Instead, she grabbed his wrist and slid his hand under the soft fabric of her sweatshirt where he found… Ahhh, naked. Her perfect, small breast filled his hand and he groaned, running a thumb over a hardened nipple.