"I think it's already perfect," he told her.
But again, she didn't notice that they were discussing two entirely different things. Instead, she reached into the cabinet again and jerked hard, yanking a big, metal… thing… out of its jaws. Unfortunately, to win the war of the roaster, she had to concede the battle of the posture, and once again, fell backward onto her… roaster. And as she threw her head back without concern and blew an unruly curl off her forehead, Schuyler couldn't help but chuckle.
"Here," he said, moving forward, extending his hand. "Let me help you."
Without hesitation, she reached up and tucked her hand into his, letting him pull her up to a standing position. She tried to set the roaster on the counter as she stood, but he had tugged a bit too hard—though he really, honestly, truly hadn't meant to—and even when Caroline was standing, she just kept moving forward, until she had careened against him, coining to rest with her torso nuzzled against his.
Immediately, the big metal roaster fell to the floor with an almost deafening clatter. But all Schuyler heard was the sound of bells, rattling an alarm at the back of his brain.
As always, he ignored that alarm, and dipped his head to Caroline's to kiss her.
He had never realized what softness tasted like, what gentleness smelled like, what tenderness sounded like. Not until Caroline Beecham melted into him, curving her palms over his shoulders, curling her arms around his neck, threading her fingers through his hair. When she did, Schuyler intensified the kiss, cupping a hand under her chin and over her jaw, to tilt her head to the side and hold it in place while he plundered her mouth at will.
She sighed, a soft murmur of surrender, and he nearly lost himself completely to the sound. Without warning, he was overcome by a need to completely possess her, as if in doing so, he might transfer some of her warmth, her happiness, her ability to care, into himself. So what else could he do but end the kiss as quickly as he had started it, and take a step away?
"Well, that was certainly…" He took a deep breath and released it slowly. "Life altering."
Caroline blinked her eyes quickly, as if she were a mechanical doll, and wondered what on earth had happened to make the Earth tilt on its axis the way it clearly had. Then her gaze focused again, taking in the sight of Schuyler Kimball in a tuxedo, and she was surprised the Earth hadn't gone spinning completely out of its orbit and crashing into the sun. Because what else could explain the explosion of heat that rocked her as a result of one kiss?
She swallowed hard and had no idea what to say. "Ah… you like tomato soup?" she asked, uttering the first thought to brave entry into her brain.
"Tomato soup?" he asked. But he seemed to be not at all affected by what had just transpired between the two of them. "Well, I like the kind they serve at The Chart House. It's got leeks in it, and this funny little green herb that looks like fur. Do you make yours that way?"
She shook her head. "No, I open a can. I was about to have that and a grilled cheese sandwich for supper. How will that be?"
He kissed his fingertips before spreading them wide. "Vive les tomates et la frontage."
She smiled. "Nothin' like home cookin'."
"Yes, that's what I meant," he said.
She still couldn't believe he was standing here in her apartment looking so… so… Wow. By the time their evening had concluded last night, she'd changed her mind significantly about Schuyler Kimball. But that didn't mean she felt as if she were up to the task of taking him on. Not even on her own turf this way. Nevertheless, he was here now, and she told herself she might as well make the best of it. Of him. Of herself.
Last night, she had realized that the man he presented to the rest of the world, the one he had been on the other occasions when she'd met him, wasn't the real Schuyler Kimball at all. On the outside, he was a wealthy, sophisticated, vaguely eccentric billionaire who cared about little other than his own satisfaction. Outwardly, he didn't seem as if he had a care, a heart, a soul.
But deep, deep inside, he did indeed have a heart. And a soul. And a care. He was simply too frightened to acknowledge any of them.
In many ways, he was like Chloe. In fact, he was like a lot of the children who came to Van Meter. None of them understood the source or comprehended the nature of the gift they'd been given. None of them could figure out the whys or whats or wheres or hows of it. And few of them knew quite what to do with the gift they had so arbitrarily received. That was part of the program at Van Meter, to teach the children how to handle and nurture and grow their gifts. And how to stay human in a world that tried to exploit them, a world that was becoming less human with every passing year.
Schuyler had never had the opportunity to learn how to do those things. No one had ever taken the time to teach him. And something inside Caroline responded to that lost quality about him. Certainly he was no child. And certainly she was drawn to him in a way that went far beyond her role as an educator. But she could no more resist trying to reach inside him to teach him about himself than she could resist performing the same gesture for one of her students.
And last night, at some point in the evening, as they'd shared a small table in the corner of a deli, bathed in the flickering red and green light of the neon Killian's sign, she'd made him laugh, a genuine, heartfelt laugh, and had broken through the first layer.
But there hadn't been time for more. By then, it was after midnight, and Caroline had needed to get home. So Schuyler had instructed his driver to drop her back at the school to retrieve her car, and then the two men had followed her home to make sure she arrived safely. Schuyler had walked her to her front door, even though she'd assured him such chivalry was unnecessary.
Chivalry, he'd assured her right back, had had nothing to do with it. Then they'd stood there awkwardly for some moments without speaking. And then he'd lifted a hand to a strand of her hair that had come loose from its knot, had wound it lightly around his finger, and had told her, very, very softly, goodnight.
He hadn't looked back as he'd made his way down the hallway to the stairs, and she had been certain she had seen the last of him. Even though she'd wanted with all her heart to spend a few more minutes with him—just long enough to see if she could notch another chink or two in his facade—she had thought for sure he wouldn't allow it.
But now here he was, of his own free will, and there was no way she would let him off that easily again.
"Had I known you were coming," she said, trying to pick up the thread of their conversation, "I would have been better prepared." She had thought she was talking about dinner, but somehow, the words came out suggesting something else entirely.
He seemed to understand that fully, because his gaze never strayed from her face as he responded, "Yes, well, that makes two of us."
She bent to pick up the roaster from the floor and settled it once again on the counter. Although it was black and unremarkable, it was all she had that would hold such an enormous bouquet. She could trim the stems and treat the roaster like a massive rose bowl, and when she was finished, it would make for a lovely centerpiece. She hoped. She withdrew a pair of shears from one drawer and began to snip the stems, one by one, nearly overcome by the sweet aroma of the blossoms, nearly overcome by the man who had brought them.
And she wished she knew what to say.
"They really are quite lovely," she began.
"Yes, they are," he concurred.
"And I appreciate your bringing them," she added lamely. "No one has brought me flowers for a long time."
"Haven't they?"
She shook her head and focused on the task she was performing, because she was much too frightened to meet his gaze. "No."
"Has there been no one since your husband?"
Her fingers faltered in their task, and she nearly snipped off her fingertip. "Ah, no," she said, still trying not to look at him. "No, there hasn't been. There was no one before him, either," she added quickly. For some reason, she needed for Schuyler to know that. Sh
e didn't know why it should make such a difference—or even if it would make a difference where he was concerned—but it was important that he understand how seriously she took something like physical intimacy.
But all he offered in response was, "I see."
She did finally glance up at that. "Do you?" she asked, meeting his gaze levelly. "Do you really?"
He nodded. "Yes, I do. And I think…"
"What?"
He shook his head. "Nothing. It's just not surprising, that's all."
"Does it make a difference?" she asked.
He seemed puzzled. "A difference in what?"
"In your reasons for being here."
He seemed to give that some thought, then told her, "No. It doesn't. My reasons for coming here are quite simple, actually."
"And just what would those reasons be?"
Neither his gaze nor his voice faltered the slightest bit as he told her, "I came to see you, Caroline. Because I missed you."
Her heart hummed at the way he offered up the admission so plainly, so succinctly. "You just saw me last night."
"Yes, and it was a long, long time ago."
This time her heart skipped a beat or two at his assertion, and she wondered just how seriously she should take what he said. He was a charming, handsome, wealthy man, she reminded herself. He was in no way the kind of man with whom she should involve herself. He couldn't possibly take seriously anything that might develop between them. There would be nothing lasting, nothing permanent with him. So why did she find herself so drawn to him?
For a long moment, they only gazed at each other in thoughtful silence, then Caroline returned her attention to the pile of roses on her counter. One by one, she lifted, snipped, arranged, until the roaster was full of the fragrant blossoms. At no time did she or Schuyler speak to each other. He only sat down on one of the high stools lined up along the counter and watched, very intently, every move she made.
When she was finished, she filled a watering can and emptied it into the roaster, then held the final product aloft in two hands. "There," she said, satisfied with her handiwork. "What do you think?"
"I think it's beautiful," he told her. "You have a way with flowers."
She smiled, then made her way to the kitchen table in the dining area that sat catty-corner to the living area. "Thanks," she said as she situated the bouquet carefully in the middle.
"Just like you have a way with kids," he added.
She made a few additional adjustments to the arrangement, then turned around to face him. "Thanks," she said again.
He rose from the stool and covered the few steps between them, then lifted his hand to run his thumb lightly over her cheek. "Just like you have a way with disillusioned, lonely billionaires," he added softly.
She had to tip her head back to look at him, because he stood a good half foot taller than she when she was in her stocking feet. She wanted to say something in response to his statement, but feared that whatever came out would simply be too revealing, too suggestive, too dangerous. So she said nothing at all, only lifted her hand to circle his wrist with loose fingers. Beneath her thumb, his pulse was pounding, something that was totally at odds with the cool, collected image he presented. She took heart in knowing that he was no more immune to the heat and awareness burning up the air between them than she was.
Gently, she removed his hand from her cheek, but not before he brushed his fingertips lightly over her lips. Impulsively, she kissed each as they passed, then knew the folly of her gesture when his pupils expanded with wanting. Hastily, she took a step backward, and retreated once again into the kitchen.
"I'll just, um… start dinner, shall I?" she asked, her voice faint and uncertain, and none too steady.
"Yes, why don't you?" he suggested. But he, too, seemed to be interested in something else other than the preparation of a meal.
Which was all the more reason, she told herself, why they needed to slow down.
Feeling more and more awkward with every passing moment, she opened all the cupboards necessary to gather the ingredients for their feast. But even after she'd amassed everything down to the salt shaker, she still felt as if something very important were missing. She glanced down at her clothes, at the very comfortable—but none too formal—shirt and leggings that were her at-home uniform. Then she looked back up at Schuyler.
"I can't believe you wore a tuxedo," she told him. "I feel horribly underdressed."
His mouth curled into a predatory smile, and his eyes flashed with a predatory fire. "Well, if it makes you uncomfortable, I could take it off," he told her, without hesitation, without batting an eye.
She shook her head quickly. "No. No, that won't be necessary." She had no idea what possessed her to do it, but she heard herself add, "Not yet, anyway."
He narrowed his eyes at her, then, with only a brief hesitation, reached for his bow tie and rugged it loose. Caroline opened her mouth to object, but something—something totally unmitigated and utterly confusing inside her—halted her from doing so just yet. She watched with what she hoped was only veiled interest as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the kitchen counter beside him, then freed the top two studs of his shirt. His cufflinks followed, each of them clattering onto the counter with finality behind the studs he had already tossed there.
Finally, she found her voice. But all she could manage to utter was, "Schuyler."
Not surprisingly, he ignored her protest and reached for another stud on his shirt. Then again, she supposed what she'd said really hadn't been much of a protest at all. So she tried again.
"Schuyler."
"What?"
"You shouldn't… I won't… We can't…"
But no matter which way she tried to word it, any objection she might have uttered simply would not come. So Schuyler did. Slowly, as he freed yet another stud and tugged his shirt tail free of his trousers, he drew nearer. With fluid grace and clear intent, he covered the space of the tiny galley kitchen, until he stood in front of her, loosing the last of the studs. That one, he simply tossed over his shoulder without care, and it went sailing to the floor, skittering across the linoleum, right under the refrigerator.
Solid gold, she was certain, had now joined the dust bunnies, the stray cat kibble, and the petrified Froot Loops under her refrigerator. Somehow, the knowledge of that both aroused and comforted her.
"Schuyler," she tried yet again.
But he reached for her hand and tucked it beneath the fabric of his shirt, splaying her fingers open over the smooth, heated skin beneath. Soft coils of hair wound easily about her fingers, as if trying to entrap her, and hold her there against him forever. Every bump and ripple of flesh and muscle that she encountered felt as if it came alive under her touch. It had been so long since she had touched a man this way, so long since she had enjoyed even the most innocent intimacy with another human being. So long since she had wanted to share intimacy with another human being.
Telling herself she was foolish to do so, she closed her eyes and lifted her other hand to join the first, nudging it under his shirt, trailing her fingers over the same path her others had already traveled. He felt so good beneath her hands, so hot, so alive, so… She sighed deeply, then filled her hands with him, stroking, palming, caressing, enjoying.
A rough sound of satisfaction rumbled up from inside him, and Caroline felt it, absorbed it, through her fingers as well as her ears. When she opened her eyes, she saw that he was ravenous, and knew that the hunger blazing in his eyes was nothing more than a reflection of her own.
"We shouldn't do this," she told him. "It would be a terrible mistake."
"Why?" he demanded. He lifted his hand to her hair, skimming his palm over one long tress before winding it around his finger. "What would be so terrible about the two of us making love? I think we'd rather enjoy it."
"But it wouldn't mean the same thing for you as it would for me," she told him.
His gaze shot from the hair wound around
his finger to her face. "Who says it wouldn't mean the same thing for me?" he demanded.
"It couldn't. Schuyler, I—"
"Don't," he interrupted her. "Don't try to analyze what this is about. It doesn't matter where it comes from, or even where it's going. This is about us, Caroline. You and me, right now, and the way we are when we're together."
"But—"
"For me, that's enough," he told her. "Because what's here right now, between you and me…" He inhaled deeply and released the breath slowly, raggedly. "God knows it's more than I've ever had with anyone else."
She held his gaze for a moment more, then forced herself to look away. Because if she didn't, she knew she would do something she really shouldn't do.
"But what's between us now," he continued, "isn't enough for you, is it?"
"I don't know," she told him honestly.
"Caroline, I…"
But whatever he had wanted to tell her, Schuyler halted himself. Instead, slowly, he unwound her hair from his finger and took a step away. When he did, Caroline found herself with her hands still extended toward him, but where a moment ago they had been filled with heat and life, now they groped for cool, empty air. So she dropped them back to her sides.
For a moment, Schuyler only stood there looking at her, and for a moment, she thought everything would be okay. Then a shutter fell over his eyes, and he turned toward the studs and cuff links scattered about her counter. With one swift, fluid gesture, he swept them all into the palm of his hand and dumped them in his trouser pocket. Then he scooped up his jacket and shrugged back into it.
He looked utterly and completely lost, she thought. His black hair hung restlessly over his forehead, and his shirt hung open over his bare chest. His collar was twisted and one of his cuffs stuck out of his jacket at an odd angle. More than anything, Caroline wanted to go to him, wanted to smooth him out and calm him down, but something in his posture forbade it. As if punctuating the image, he straightened then, lifting his chin almost defiantly.
"When you decide what will be enough for you, Caroline," he told her, "call me."
Her Man Friday Page 25