FIRST KISS

by Marylin Pappano

  "Now answer my question. Why do you want a house here?"

  He'd given her all the logical reasons on Saturday, and they hadn't impressed her. This time he opted for simple truth. "Because you would be here. Because I'd like to live with you here where you caught your first fish and drank your first beer."

  "And slept with the first of many, many men," she said coldly.

  "Yeah," he agreed. "I'd like to live with you here where you slept with your first man … knowing that I would be your last."

  She stared at him a long time before turning away, but not before he saw what looked like the gleam of a tear in her eye. "This is crazy," she muttered, covering her face with both hands, muffling her words. "I don't want to get married. Even if I did, men don't marry women like me."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'm easy," she said with a harsh laugh. "I give them what they want without demanding a commitment first, and then they go away. If you would forget this whole marriage idea and just sleep with me, then you'd— Hell, you would forget this whole marriage idea."

  Tom shoved his hands in his pockets to resist the temptation to give her a shake or two. "You think a couple of good orgasms is all it would take?" He smiled thinly. "I don't know if you're underestimating me or overestimating yourself. Considering what I've learned about you, I suspect it's the latter."

  Her smile was equally thin and much more dangerous. "You think I can't make you change your mind about marrying me? Because—take my word for it—you'd be wrong. And just for the record, darlin', it wouldn't be merely 'a couple of good orgasms.' I'd make you forget your name."

  "Maybe. But I wouldn't forget yours."

  She looked stunned, panicked, and just a little bit… He wasn't sure what. Was it wistfulness that turned her hazel eyes shimmery? Or wishful thinking on his part?

  Once again she turned to walk away. Once again she came back. "If I decide to build a house, it will be my decision. My site. My plans. My house. The only say you'll have in the matter is if I choose to invite you over sometime. Now, I've got things to do. I'm going back to the inn. If you want to waste your time out here, go right ahead. I'm sure you can find your way back."

  His first impulse was to let her go. It would be dark soon, and he wasn't so sure he could find his way back, but he could certainly find his way somewhere. But being with an angry Holly, he was quickly learning, was better than being alone, so he started after her, quickly catching up.

  This goal was proving much harder than he'd expected. He should have realized it before. All his other goals had dealt with obtaining things—money, status, property. Obtaining a person wasn't nearly as easy, and obtaining this person…

  It would help if he were a different person. Someone like Nathan Bishop, described a lot as an all-around nice guy. Or Alex Thomas, the least snakelike of all the lawyers he knew. Like Ross, who'd been normal before he'd struck it rich and had never forgotten it. Or maybe someone like Holly's good friend J.D. As a psychiatrist, maybe he had some insight into Holly that Tom was lacking. Surely he knew ways to undo the damage her parents and years of meaningless affairs had done.

  But Tom wasn't anyone else, and didn't want to be. He just wished he understood people better. Wished he were better with words, with feelings. Wished he were persuasive enough to change the way Holly saw herself, resourceful enough to change the way she saw him.

  He wished he'd known how impossible this goal would turn out to be. He still might have chosen to pursue it, but at least he would have been prepared for the very real possibility of failure. And if he failed this time, there was no doubt the next time he would succeed.

  Because if he couldn't marry Holly, then it wouldn't matter who he did marry.

  * * *

  The sound of the grandfather clock marking midnight was so faint that Bree, in her room at the back of the house, might have thought she'd imagined it if she hadn't lain there in bed, watching the hands on her alarm clock. She'd gone to bed two hours ago, dozed a bit, and now was wide awake again.

  Things had been a little awkward around the inn that evening. Tom Flynn had moved up his scheduled trip to Buffalo by about fourteen hours, and after he had gone, Holly had gotten all moody and irritable. Margery was drinking openly again—just one drink with dinner—and the sight had pushed Holly from being angry with Tom to being angry with the world. After nearly breaking a delicate plate and spilling half a bottle of expensive wine in the dining room, Bree had retreated to her room before doing any serious damage. She didn't want to lose her job just because the boss had argued with her boyfriend.

  Now everything was quiet. Their only guests were somber businessmen, all there for meetings at McKinney Industries. The kitchen staff had gone home several hours ago, and she'd heard Holly pass her door earlier, too.

  Deciding she wasn't likely to fall asleep anytime soon, Bree got up, pulled on her robe, and headed for the kitchen. The pastry chef seemed to like her when he wasn't busy being petulant over one thing or another, and that evening he'd set aside one of his special desserts for her. She would have just a taste of chocolate with raspberry sauce and whipped cream, then find a book or magazine to read until she could sleep again.

  A few lights burned in the kitchen, showing long gleaming counters, racks of scrubbed pots … and Holly. She too was dressed for bed, and her auburn hair, always so perfect during the day, looked as if it hadn't seen a comb in months. An empty dessert plate with traces of raspberry sauce sat on the table, along with a dozen sheets of paper. Clutching a pencil in one hand, she was bent over yet another sheet.

  Bree was hesitating in the doorway, considering returning to her room, when Holly spoke without looking up. "Come on in. Get whatever you wanted."

  With a deep breath, Bree found the dessert in the refrigerator, got a fork, and sat down across from Holly. "Hav-having trouble sleeping?" she ventured.

  "No. I enjoy being up in the middle of the night when my work day starts around six."

  Properly chastened, Bree took a few bites before curiosity got the best of her. "What are you drawing?"

  Holly added one last line, dropped the pencil, and slid the paper toward her. It was a fairly good drawing of a lake with trees all around and a house in the foreground. It was built from logs, but there was nothing at all primitive about it. The lines were simple, elegant, with sharp angles and soaring peaks. Other sketches showed different views of the same house. Bree liked the back view best, where the deck extended ten feet over the water. "Is this the house you and Mr. Flynn are building?"

  Sliding both hands through her hair, Holly said through gritted teeth, "We are not building a house. We're not building anything. And we're not getting married!"

  So the argument, and Tom's leaving earlier than he'd planned, had been more serious than Bree realized. "You called off the engagement?"

  "We were never engaged! He asked me to marry him. I told him no. He didn't listen."

  Bree figured her boss was pretty close to taking off her head, but she swallowed hard and pushed on anyway. "Why don't you want to marry him? He seems—he seems to really care for you."

  Holly's response was a snort, followed by a curt question. "How old are you?"

  "T-twenty-two."

  "Twenty-two. Ever been married?"

  Bree shook her head.

  "Then spare me the advice. Grow up. Live a little. Have a few relationships before you presume to advise me on my affairs."

  Knowing she should keep her mouth shut—should take her dessert and flee to her bedroom—Bree hesitantly pointed out, "From what I hear, you do fine with your affairs. It's just the relationships that are impossible."

  For a moment they were surrounded by utter silence. The refrigerator, the furnace, the wind dancing wildly through bare branches outside—all went silent. Even her own heart seemed to stop beating for a moment.

  Then Holly slowly, regally, stood up and glared coldly down her nose. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear enough. Shut up. Mind
your own business. Don't speak to me."

  This time she made it almost to the door before Bree screwed up her courage again. She spoke quickly, hurling the words across the space, and prepared to take cover. "If you really, truly don't want to marry him, why are you so upset about arguing with him? Why do you care so much that he left early?"

  Holly stood frozen. An eternity passed before she slowly turned. With her hair standing on end and the anger radiating from her eyes, she looked like the wicked witch in some twisted children's storybook. "Who are you?" she demanded. "Why have you come here to torment me at the same time Tom has chosen to do so?"

  "I'm not tormenting you."

  "Oh yes you are. Trust me."

  "I'm just curious about people and why they do things. When I was going to college, I thought I might be a psychologist someday. People interest me." It wasn't entirely a lie. She had taken one semester of college courses before deciding she couldn't handle work and study at the same time, and she'd aced the one psych course she'd taken. She would have taken more if she'd had the chance.

  "Why did you quit school?"

  "Money. The college wanted it. I didn't have it." She shrugged. "It was okay. I mostly wanted to go because it had been important to my dad. But he didn't prepare for it before he died." She shrugged again. "He thought he had time. He didn't intend to die so young."

  "They never do." Holly came back, sat down again. She glanced at the sketches, then gathered them in a neat stack. "I was about to graduate from college when my father died. It was like I was a little kid again, awakened in the middle of the night by a nightmare. Only this time he wasn't there to hold me. I thought he would always be there. Even though I was grown and out of the house, I truly couldn't imagine that one day he might be gone."

  The nightmarish feeling was one Bree remembered well. The day her father had died, she had gone home from school to find her mother sobbing brokenheartedly. Bree had questioned her and gotten no answers. Growing more frightened, she'd dissolved into tears herself before Allison had finally choked out, "Your father's dead."

  Across the table, Holly dragged her hands through her hair again. "I—I'm sorry. I swear, I'm not normally short-tempered. But that man…"

  For a moment, Bree concentrated on her dessert. After the last bite, she licked the fork clean, then said, "He's awfully handsome."

  Holly grinned unexpectedly. "Yes, he is."

  "Nice could, too."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Great mouth. Looks like a great kisser."

  "The best." There was more than a little dreamy satisfaction in Holly's sigh.

  It made Bree smile. "Of course, he's closer to my mother's age than mine."

  "Gee, thanks for reminding me that you're a mere child." Holly gathered her papers and stood up once more. "Good night, Bree."

  "Night." She sat alone at the table for a while, drawing patterns with the fork in the sauce that remained in her dish. When finally a yawn screwed up her face, she put her dishes in the sink and headed back to bed. This time she went right off to sleep.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  « ^ »

  Not since her father's death had Holly gotten close enough to any man to miss him when he was gone, but by Friday evening she couldn't deny she missed Tom. She'd picked up the phone a half-dozen times to call him, had even gone so far as to call Ross and get his cell phone number, but something had stopped her. Pride? Common sense? One last-ditch effort at self-protection? He would be back. He had to come back, and when he did, she would…

  Greet him coolly as she always had before his birthday? Pretend the last few weeks hadn't happened? Apologize?

  She didn't have a clue. But she would find out soon. It was eight o'clock, and according to Maggie, Tom was due back sometime after eight. She had a bottle of wine and two glasses in the library. The lights were turned low, a fire crackled in the fireplace, and her favorite CD was on the stereo. The scene was set for seduction—or romance. She didn't care which one.

  Provided he was even speaking to her, she thought as she paced to the west window. He hadn't said one word to her since his last comment at the pond on Tuesday. I'd make you forget your name, she'd bragged to him, and he had quietly responded: Maybe. But I wouldn't forget yours.

  Sometimes it seemed as if she'd been forgotten by everyone who mattered in her life. Her parents. Her boyfriends. She had wonderful friends, but there was no doubt she was less important in their lives than they were in hers. They all had husbands and families, and all of them but Melissa had or were having babies. That didn't change the way they felt about her. It was just that their priorities were different.

  It was just that she was different.

  She'd always been different. When she'd first realized it, back when she was six or seven years old, she'd tried to hide it. She'd pretended her life and family were as normal as everyone else's. Later, when she'd discovered eager adolescent boys and sex, she'd flaunted her differences. She'd played up her sexuality, used it and abused it, figuring that if she was open and up front, if she had no secrets, no one could hurt her.

  Maybe it was time now to be normal.

  "I would ask if you missed me, but I'm not sure my ego could take the answer."

  Startled, she whirled around to find Tom standing in the doorway. His overcoat was folded over one arm, his briefcase gripped in one hand, and his dark hair sported the finger-combed look. He looked handsome and tired and… Hell, purely incredible.

  She summoned a cool smile but got one that was quavery. "I didn't hear you come in."

  "You were lost in thought."

  "Probably. How was Buffalo?"

  He took a few steps into the room and laid his briefcase and coat on a chair. "Busy. McKinney Industries now owns majority interest in Transglobal Shipping."

  "Congratulations."

  "We're rebuilding our Alabama factory. Construction starts as soon as the debris is cleared from the site."

  "I'm sure your Alabama town is relieved."

  "I'm sure they are. And I hired another assistant to help run the Buffalo office when I'm here."

  "Is she incredibly beautiful?"

  He looked genuinely blank. "I didn't notice."

  Holly's smile blossomed as she started across the room. "Good answer. Would you like a glass of wine?"

  "Yes, please."

  She crossed to the tray on the table and poured wine. As she picked up the glasses, Tom reached from behind and laid a box on the tray. She handed him a glass, then sipped from hers as she studied the box. It was wrapped in heavy navy-blue paper and secured around the middle with translucent silver ribbon and a silver foul sticker. "What is this?"

  He moved to the opposite side of the table. There he met her gaze, but he didn't answer. Clearly, he wanted her to open it without a lot of questions.

  The box was the right size for jewelry. Ross McKinney had been big on giving jewelry, too. If she described the wrapping and the sticker to Maggie, no doubt she'd be able to tell her which very exclusive Buffalo store it had come from and just how serious such a gift was.

  "It's too late for Christmas, and too early for my birthday. Valentine's Day is already past, and we don't have any anniversaries to celebrate… What's the occasion?"

  "No occasion."

  Finally she traded her glass for the box. One fingernail under the ribbon loosened the foul seal, and the ribbon curled away, leaving the paper to unfold slowly an inch or two. The box inside was dark green, and nestled on its green velvet lining was a stunning, dazzling, eye-popping necklace. Five rows of diamonds stretched from one end of the clasp to the other, each stone perfectly rounded, the even rows offset from the others by half a stone. It was a magnificent piece.

  Holly swallowed hard as she lifted it from the velvet and let it dangle across her palm. Even in the dim room, the gems twinkled and sparkled like stars in the darkest sky. They captured all the light in the room and reflected it back brighter, warmer. She cleared h
er throat. "Oh, Tom, it's beautiful."

  Some tension that she hadn't been aware of drained from him. Had he actually worried that she wouldn't like it? What woman wouldn't think it was fabulous?

  Setting his drink aside, he reached for the necklace. "Let me put it on—"

  She drew back. Part of her wanted to let him do it, if for no other reason than to feel his could warm behind hers, his fingers brushing her skin, his breath gently stirring her hair. The part of her that loved jewelry wanted to let him just to see how such a fabulous piece would look on her. But the part of her in charge of keeping the rest of her together refused. "I—I can't accept this, Tom."

  The tension returned, underlaid by disappointment and confusion. "Why not?"

  "It's too much."

  "Too much what? Too dressy? Too showy?"

  "Too extravagant. Too much money."

  Clearly, her answer didn't enlighten him. Was he truly not aware of the sorts of gifts their relationship allowed versus the relationship that would justify a gift like this? Probably. The women he'd favored before her had been interested in his money and had welcomed, if not demanded, such amazing gifts.

  "But it wasn't that much. And you said you liked jewelry. Would you prefer emeralds? Rubies? Sapphires?"

  She supposed it wasn't that much with an income like his, but for the rest of the world, herself included, it was too much. "No, the diamonds are beautiful. They're incredible. But, Tom, we don't have that kind of relationship." Carefully she tugged the necklace from his loose grip and returned it to the box. She closed the box with a snap and pressed it into his hands. "This is the kind of gift you give someone special. Someone you have a serious relationship with."

  He pressed the box back into her hands, then clasped his hands around hers so she couldn't let it go. "Then it belongs to you."

  It was a roundabout way of saying she was special, but she appreciated it all the same. "Thank you for the sentiment," she said over the lump in her throat. "But I can't accept it."

  "I want to marry you. How much more serious can things get?"