The Glass Shoe

by Kay Hooper

  “So why…why muddy the water?”

  “Exactly. You have no reason to do that. Are you going after the rights, by the way?”

  Amanda temporized, very reluctant to make this an issue between them. “We were, naturally. Maybe we don’t need that new system of his.”

  Ryder studied her for a moment, his eyes slightly narrowed. “I think we’re going to have to talk about that,” he said slowly. Then he shrugged, clearly pushing the matter aside for the moment.

  She knew what he was thinking about because she could read the intent behind his darkening gray eyes. Physically she responded instantly, a slow heat uncurling inside her, a tremor shaking her muscles. Emotionally she felt a little numb, having expected him to withdraw from her in anger, having been braced for that.

  It was unnerving.

  He took a half step closer, still not touching her. “Is that what you’ve been worried about? Because you thought I’d be mad when I found out who you were?”

  “It crossed my mind,” she said as steadily as she could.

  “Did you want me to be mad?” he asked perceptively. “To back off, maybe?”

  Amanda hesitated. “That crossed my mind, too,” she confessed finally.

  “You don’t have to look for excuses to push me away. All you have to do is tell me to get lost, Amanda.” His hands rose, finding her hips and drawing her slowly toward him. “Just tell me you don’t want me.”

  She saw her hands reach up with a mind of their own to rest on his chest, pale against the black of his sweatshirt, the long fingers nervous and without assurance. The insistent guidance of his hands brought her closer until she felt the hard strength of his body against her. Even through the denim of their jeans she could feel the heat of him, and when he moved subtly her breath caught in her throat.

  “Just tell me,” he repeated softly, his voice a little husky now.

  That was a fine thing to point out to her, she thought somewhat wildly. Just tell him? When he was touching her like this so that she could barely think? She forced herself to string words together, to be coherent. “You said—you’d slow down.”

  He smiled, the curve of his firm lips somehow peculiarly devilish. “Haven’t you noticed? I’m taking pains to move with extreme slowness.”

  Something escaped Amanda’s lips, and she wasn’t sure if it was a smothered laugh or a choked sound of despair. It could have been either. On the edge of her consciousness she was aware of the wind wailing softly outside, and she thought of snowbound days ahead, and of Ryder moving slowly—like a stalking cat.

  “There isn’t going to be much for either of us to do during this storm,” he said, obviously thinking along the same lines. “Except get to know each other.”

  Looking up into his darkened gray eyes, Amanda felt a wave of panic unlike anything she’d ever known before. It was raw, almost primal, as if it came from someplace inside her too deep for words. She half closed her eyes, the shock of that feeling jolting through her and leaving behind it a kind of numb bewilderment.

  “Amanda?”

  She felt one of his hands lift to her neck, his thumb pushing her chin up gently. “I don’t—” she began, having no idea what she was going to say.

  “I do,” he muttered, as if he knew. His head bent, his dark eyes fixed on her mouth.

  She couldn’t turn away, couldn’t escape him. And when his warm, hard lips covered hers, the surge of pleasure was so intense that her knees almost buckled. The hand at her hip slipped lower, shaping rounded flesh, and held her firmly against him. His other hand slid around to the nape of her neck, under her hair, the fingers moving caressingly against her scalp.

  Amanda could feel her hands move up, over the thick material of his sweatshirt. Her eyes were closed, yet she saw through her touching fingers. The shirt, rough and dark. The base of his neck, hard and warm, a pulse beating under his flesh with a quickening rhythm, a tiny heartbeat caged. Then his hair, thick and soft, like silk.

  He was kissing her with that strangely moving absorption that made her feel singular, unique. All his attention was fixed on her, on this slow exploring. There was nothing tentative about him, yet she had the odd feeling that he was somehow…gauging her response. When he finally lifted his head and looked down at her, she was sure of it. There was something like triumph in his eyes, and the curve of his mouth was stamped with an unmistakable masculine arrogance.

  “I definitely do,” he said.

  She wanted to wipe that look off his face, conscious of a bitter resentment that he could do this to her. How could he and be so detached from it himself? She was shaking, her legs weak; she was filled with a heated dizziness that sapped strength. Her whole body ached with a yearning she’d never felt before. She tried to make her arms stop clinging to the strong column of his neck, but they wouldn’t move. It made her furious.

  “Cage your ego, will you?” she managed to say in a voice that was supposed to be biting but quavered instead.

  He looked surprised. “It isn’t ego.” The hand at her nape moved slowly down her back until it joined the other one to curve over her bottom. “I’m glad you want me as much as I want you, that’s all.”

  It isn’t just that. It’s—Amanda didn’t have to complete the thought in her mind. She knew what that final word was. Final—dear Lord.

  That was why she responded to him like this, why she lost herself in this raw, compelling desire for him. That was why she had felt sheer panic sweep over her with such stunning force.

  Because she was falling in love with him.

  The panic was still there, hovering on the edge of her consciousness, but Amanda knew that was only a woman’s instinctive fear of her own vulnerability. There was, after all, no other reason for fear. Whatever his own feelings for her, Ryder’s desire had been obvious long before he’d found out who she was. It was her he wanted. Not her company. Not her bank account.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice roughening a bit.

  Amanda realized that she’d gone totally still as realization flooded through her. She looked up at him, aware suddenly that he wasn’t as much in control as she’d thought he was. And he definitely was not detached. There was a tightness around his jaw that spoke of something tautly reined, and the hands holding her against him were restless, kneading slowly. Even through the thick material of their jeans she was burningly conscious of the hard ridge of desire pressed so intimately to her yielding softness.

  “I’m…not thinking of anything,” she said finally, her voice low.

  Ryder gazed into her wide green eyes, wanting just to yank her up into his arms and find a bed. There was something aloof in her, and it was driving him crazy. She couldn’t be reserved with him once she was his, he was sure of that. Reasonably sure, anyway. With Amanda it was difficult to be sure of anything. She baffled him, and he wasn’t accustomed to being puzzled by a woman.

  She possessed the damnedest control he’d ever run into. As prickly as brambles, she was wary, guarded, allowing very little of herself to escape. He knew she’d been hurt, and the way she sometimes looked at him with a kind of defensive uncertainty made him long to get his hands on whoever had done that to her.

  Given her background, he would have expected her to be—what? More casual about a possible affair? No, not that exactly. But…well, less surprised, perhaps? Yes, he thought, that was it. She was surprised by him, by this desire between them. Surprised by her own response.

  Well, hell, he was surprised about himself. He’d certainly enjoyed several relationships during the past, but most of his attention—single-minded, he knew—had been fixed on building his company. But now, with Amanda, he was aware that the center of himself had shifted somehow, his focus changed. He felt oddly intent, hungry in a way he’d never felt before. And the feeling was intensifying.

  She felt it too; that was what he’d discovered. She felt this overpowering desire. Her response to him was instant, passionate. In his arms the barriers dissolv
ed, and she took fire.

  Fire…

  “Ryder?” She was a little uneasy, wariness creeping into her heartbreaking eyes.

  Something nagged at him, some vague thing on the tip of his mind, but he ignored it. He bent his head and kissed her, holding his own desire rigidly in check despite the screaming insistence of every nerve in his body. The faint stiffness he’d felt in her melted away as she responded and he heard that kitten-like sound she had made before. Damn, it went through him like an electrical current, that little sound in the back of her throat, that little soft purr of pleasure.

  Kissing her was more exciting than sex had been with other women, and the promise of what was to come had him on the ragged edge of control. He wasn’t a patient man by nature, but he had learned to be patient if the goal was worth it. This goal, he thought, was quite definitely worth it.

  But when he raised his head and looked down at her, he felt his control slip yet another notch. Her eyes were sleepy with passion, her face was a little flushed, beautifully rosy. And her mouth…lips parted, moist, slightly swollen from his kisses.

  “I don’t know how much longer I can wait.” He heard the words escape him, heard the guttural sounds of them, and knew it was the stark truth.

  For an instant, just a fleeting second, he thought she was going to give in to the desire between them. But then uncertainty and doubt clouded her eyes. He wondered what she was thinking.

  Expectations. That was what she’d said. That she’d expected a man to be honest with her and he hadn’t been. Was that bothering her now? Did she think this involvement was casual for him? Was that it? An appetite to be satisfied and she just happened to be handy? “Amanda—”

  She pulled her arms from around his neck and pushed against his chest. Reluctantly he released her. Dammit, he felt like an adolescent, consumed with the urge to grab her. He reminded himself fiercely that he wasn’t a teenager, that he could control himself. It only half worked, but half was good enough.

  Turning toward the fire and staring down at it, she said in a low, hurried voice, “I don’t mean to be a…a tease. But I don’t know you very well, and—”

  “And nice girls don’t sleep with strangers?” He was getting control of his voice, at least. It didn’t sound quite so intense as before.

  “I guess. We’re raised that way.” A faint smile touched her lips.

  “Just tell me you want me,” he said, a little surprised by his need to hear her admit it. But it was a need he couldn’t control, couldn’t mute; his need was something that had to be satisfied.

  She half shrugged, a helpless movement, and sent him a flickering glance. “I haven’t been able to hide that very well. You—you have to know it.”

  “Tell me, Amanda.” He reached out and gently turned her face toward him, his fingers lingering almost compulsively to stroke the warm flesh of her throat.

  She stared up at him, unnerved by his intensity. He knew it, of course he did. He could see it. Her legs were still weak, and she was trembling. But he wanted her to say it, and she couldn’t fight the demand in his eyes.

  “I want you,” she said unsteadily, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

  He stroked her cheek once, lightly, with just the tips of his fingers, and then his hand fell to his side. He was surprised at the effort it took to stop touching her. “I don’t want us to be strangers in bed, Amanda,” he said quietly.

  He was willing to give her time, she realized. How much time she didn’t know. If the storm outside fulfilled its promise, they could be snowbound for days. Virtually alone, cut off from the world. The solitude would provide an intimacy with few barriers between them. But there were precious few barriers anyway. She knew that if he had gone on kissing her, holding her, if he had said, “Now,” she wouldn’t have been able to protest.

  She nodded slowly. “Then, maybe I should go and dig out that deck of cards.”

  —

  It wasn’t at all easy to be less self-conscious around a man who assumed—with some justification—that you’d be sharing his bed eventually, but Amanda was gradually able to relax. It helped that Ryder had backed off somewhat, his intensity gone or hidden now, and that he possessed an easy charm and a sense of humor.

  By the fourth hand of gin she was even able to laugh at his expression when she won.

  “You’re lethal,” he said with some feeling. “And I’ve seen dealers in Vegas with less dexterity.”

  “I have two younger cousins who are fond of card games,” Amanda told him. “Neither is of age yet, but I have the sneaking suspicion that Samantha got an expert to show her how to deal—and she taught me.”

  Ryder eyed her thoughtfully. “How are you with trivia?”

  “Are you by chance referring to that trivia game I found in the closet with these cards?”

  “I was, yes.”

  “Well, if you feel brave…”

  “Your cousins are fond of trivia, too?”

  “No. I just read a lot.”

  “I think I feel brave,” Ryder said, and went to get the trivia game.

  They opted not to use the game board, deciding that they would each simply use the dice to select the categories and collect tokens for correct answers. Whoever ended up with the most tokens would be the winner.

  It was a relaxing game to play, and an informative one when two people were tentatively getting to know each other. They pulled the thick cushions off the couch and sat on the floor with the big coffee table between them and the fire burning brightly beside them. Nemo, clearly feeling left out of things, dragged his rug closer and sprawled out near Amanda, thumping his tail companionably against the floor whenever a remark was addressed to him.

  “All right,” Ryder said when Amanda had selected a category. “Brace yourself. What type of betting is used in horse racing?”

  “Pari-mutuel.”

  “Damn. Take a token and roll the dice again.”

  She did, and he went on to the next card. “Who was Napoleon’s first wife?”

  “That’s easy. Josephine.”

  He looked at her suspiciously but with a gleam of amusement in his eye. “Have you memorized these cards?”

  “Are you kidding? Look how many there are. Tell him, Nemo. Tell him I’m playing fair. Besides, I’m bound to miss one. Sooner or later.” She took another token and rolled the dice again.

  Ryder studied another card. “This is a good one. What does a nihilist believe in?”

  Amanda frowned, working it out in her mind. “A nihilist. Nihilist. Annihilate. To destroy completely, to nothing. He believes in nothing.”

  “Maybe we should have stuck to gin,” Ryder said ruefully.

  She grinned at him and took another token. “Persevere. My next category is”—she rolled the dice—“sports. Not my strong suit.”

  He smiled evilly after looking at the card. “How many men does a Canadian football team field?”

  She didn’t have to frown this time. “Now, there you’ve got me. I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Twelve. My turn.”

  His category was geography. Amanda read the question silently, then giggled. “If you can answer this, you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din. What’s the principal language of Trinidad and Tobago?”

  Ryder blinked. “English.”

  “Give the man a cigar.”

  “I’ll take a token.” He did, then rolled the dice. “The category is literature.”

  “And the question is: What writer was nicknamed Papa?”

  “Hemingway.”

  “Oh, a literate soul. I had no idea.”

  “Don’t scoff. Bite her, Nemo. The next category is—entertainment. Question?”

  “What symbolized justice and law to the Lone Ranger?”

  “ ‘Who was that masked man,’ ” Ryder murmured almost as if by rote, then added, “A silver bullet.”

  Amanda tried not to think about masks. “At least you aren’t gloating,” she said.

&nb
sp; “I’ll do that later. When I win.”

  She made a rude noise and went on to the next question. Ryder answered that and another one successfully, but was baffled by how many feet apart the stakes were for men’s horseshoe pitching. Forty.

  Amanda was momentarily puzzled by the question asked her, but only because her answer didn’t seem to make sense. “The difference between two square miles and two miles square is—two square miles. That is—I mean, two miles square is—is actually four square miles, so the difference is two square miles.”

  Ryder looked at the card in his hand and nodded slowly. “Well, you’re right. I’m not quite sure how you got there, but the correct answer is certainly two square miles.”

  “I could draw a diagram,” she offered solemnly.

  “No. Thank you, but no. There are some mysteries in life destined to remain so.”

  Amanda nodded. “Me and the sphinx. The next category is geography. Read on.”

  “Where’s the Sea of Tranquility?”

  “No earthly boundaries in this game, I see. It’s on the moon. ‘Tranquility Base here. The eagle has landed.’ ”

  “It’s funny how we remember some phrases so well, isn’t it?” he remarked, reaching for the next card.

  “I think it’s because we learn by rote,” Amanda said consideringly. “We learn to connect things to other things. The moon landing. Pearl Harbor.”

  “ ‘A date which will live in infamy.’ ” Ryder nodded. “You may be right. Ready for the next question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Who painted the Sistine ceiling?”

  “An easy one. Michelangelo.”

  “Okay. What does TKO stand for?”

  “Technical knockout.” Amanda smiled suddenly. “I’m not totally dumb about sports. I just know a few select things.” And she proved that by correctly stating that the two categories of harness racing were pacing and trotting. She had, however, no idea that there were two heads on a croquet mallet. “They have heads?”