by Nora Roberts
They knew how to relax, Kate thought. Why had she never acquired this simple skill? If she were to stretch out in one of those lounge chairs, she'd be asleep in five minutes. That was how her body was trained. Or if sleep refused to come, restlessness would have her up and gone, with her mind ordering her not to waste time.
Since this appeared to be a red-letter day in the life of Kate Powell, she decided to give wasting time a try. She slid onto a seat at the bar and ordered something with the promising name of Monterey Sunset. She lingered over it for nearly half an hour, watching people come and go, catching snatches of conversation. Then she ordered another.
It wasn't so bad, this time wasting, she decided. Especially when she felt so hollowed out inside. A good feeling, she realized. As if she'd purged herself of something that had been gnawing at her too long.
It was time to repair those rents in her life, or perhaps to ignore some of them and move on. There was promise in this hollow feeling, in the possibilities of how to fill it.
Carrying her drink, she wandered through the hotel gardens, reminding herself to enjoy the scents of camellia, jasmine, to appreciate the vivid shades of the tumbling bougainvillea. She sat on a stone bench near a pair of cypress and wondered how people managed to do nothing and not go insane.
It was probably best to try it in stages, she decided. Like exercise, an hour the first time out was probably overdoing. She rose, with the idea of going back to the shop and checking inventory, then she heard his voice.
"Be sure to cross-check the details with Ms. Templeton tomorrow. She'll need to be aware of these changes."
"Yes, sir, but it will require more staff—at least two more waitpeople and an extra bartender."
"Three more waitpeople. We want this smooth. I think Ms. Templeton will agree that this is the best position for the third bar setup. We don't want staff running through the guests with ice buckets, do we? Now, Lydia, Ms. Templeton has her finger on this particular pulse."
"Yes, sir, but these people keep changing their minds."
"That's their prerogative. It's our problem to accommodate them. What I wanted to discuss with you, Lydia, is the complimentary coffee setup on the east terrace every morning. We refined that a bit at the resort a couple of weeks ago, and it's working out well."
He came around the path as he spoke, caught sight of Kate sitting on the stone bench with a pretty drink in her hand and a quiet smile on her lips. And lost his train of thought.
"Mr. De Witt?" Lydia prompted. "The coffee setup?"
"Ah, right. Check with my assistant for the memo. It's all laid out. Let me know what you think." He didn't precisely push her along, but the intent was there. "We'll go over all of this with Ms. Templeton in the morning."
Once Lydia was on her way, he stopped at the bench, looked down at Kate. "Hi."
"Hi. I'm practicing."
"Practicing what?"
"Doing nothing."
He thought it was like coming across a fawn in an enchanted garden—those dark, deep, oddly slanted eyes, the warm and humid scent of flowers. "How's it going?"
"It's not as easy as it looks. I was about to give up."
"Let's give it another minute," he suggested and sat beside her.
"I didn't think the brass worried about little things like complimentary coffee setups."
"Every detail is a piece, every piece makes up the whole. And speaking of details"—he turned her face toward his, touched his lips to hers—"you look wonderful. Really. I'd say revived."
"I feel revived. It's a long story."
He grinned. "I'd like to hear it."
"I think I might like to tell you." She thought he was someone she could tell. No, she realized, she knew he was. "I came by to tell Laura a portion of it, then decided to hang around and try the nothing experiment."
He struggled with disappointment. The way he'd found her, sitting there, it had been as though she'd been waiting for him. "Want to go into the details, over dinner?"
"I'd love to." She rose, held out a hand. "If you're cooking."
He hesitated. He'd been very careful to avoid being completely alone with her. When he was alone with her he seemed to forget little things like timing and finesse. Now she was standing there, holding out her hand, with her lips curved in a way that let him know she understood his dilemma. And was enjoying it.
"Fine. It'll give me a chance to try out the barbecue grill I picked up a couple days ago."
"Tell you what, I'll bring dessert and meet you there."
"Sounds like a plan."
Testing both of them, she stretched onto her toes and closed her mouth softly, lingeringly over his. "I'm a terrific planner."
He stood where he was, his hands firmly tucked in his pockets, while she walked away. He decided one of them was about to have their plans tumbled. It would certainly be interesting to see which one it was.
Flaky, creamy, decadent chocolate eclairs had seemed the perfect choice. Kate set the bakery box on the table in his kitchen and watched him through the window. He'd left the door unlocked, in invitation. She'd accepted it, had come in to a blast of searing Bruce Springsteen, noted he'd added a couple of pieces of furniture to complement the ratty recliner.
The low coffee table with the checkerboard inlay looked expensive and unique, as did the stained-glass lamp and the thick geometric-patterned area rug. She admitted she was dying to see the rest of the house, but she made herself go into the kitchen.
And there he was in the backyard, wrestling the puppies over a sock. He looked as at home in jeans and a T-shirt as he had earlier in his tailored suit and silk tie. It made her wish she'd taken the time to swing by home and change into… anything, she thought, but this tidy pin-striped suit and sensible shoes. In compromise, she took off her jacket and undid the top button of her shirt before she went out to join him.
She stepped onto the redwood deck. A deck, she noticed, that he'd made his own with the simple addition of pottery planters filled with geraniums and pansies and trailing vines. A complex and somewhat terrifying gas grill stood shiny and new near the double glass doors, and a pair of redwood chairs, deeply cushioned in navy, were positioned to offer a view of the lawn leading down to the sea.
He'd had the yard fenced in, she noted, with wooden pickets to keep his precious pets in but still leave it all open to the view. A gate stood by the beach steps, offering easy access to the sea.
He'd planted something at regular intervals along the fencing. She could see tender young plants and the carefully packed mulch around them. She imagined he'd done the digging there himself. Some sort of trailing flowering vine, she supposed, that would, in time, grow and tumble color over the fence.
A patient man, Byron De Witt, she mused. One who would enjoy watching those vines grow and bloom and tangle year after year.
And she knew he would experience a quiet satisfaction when the first bud blossomed. Then he would tend it. The man enjoyed tending things.
Puppies yapped, the sea murmured, and the wind trailed lightly through the fluttering cypress leaves. As the sky deepened from blue to indigo splashed with scarlet, she felt a quick flutter around her heart. There were, she supposed, perfect spots in the world. It seemed Byron had found one of them and claimed it.
And so did he look perfect, she realized, with the wind in his hair, puppies at his feet. That long, mouthwatering, muscular build was tucked snug and sexy into denim and cotton. Her reaction to it, to him, completely unprecedented, was to grab hold and tear in with fingers and teeth. She wanted to taste and take. She wanted to be taken.
She wanted.
With legs less than steady, she descended the short flight of steps to the yard. The puppies dashed up to her, yipping and leaping. Even as she crouched to welcome them, she kept her eyes on Byron.
"What did you plant along the fence?"
"Wisteria. It'll take a little while to establish." He looked over to the fence line. "But it'll be worth the wait. There was always some growing on a tr
ellis outside my bedroom back in Georgia. It's a scent that stays with you."
"You've already done a terrific job with the place. It's gorgeous out here. Must take a lot of time to add all these touches."
"When you find what you're looking for, you take care of it." He crossed to her. "We can take a walk down to the beach after dinner if you like." He stroked a hand over her hair, much as he had done to the dogs' fur. Then he stepped back. "Catch this." He snapped his fingers twice. "Sit."
Butts wiggling frantically, both dogs sat. He had them offer their paws, and after some confusion, lie down. Though their bodies quivered with suppressed excitement.
"Very impressive," Kate commented. "Does everyone do what you tell them?"
"It's just a matter of asking often enough in the right way." He pulled two dog biscuits out of his back pocket. "And bribery usually works." The dogs took the treats and raced away to feast. "I've got a nice red Bordeaux breathing. Why don't I get it, and you can tell me about this interesting day of yours?"
She lifted a hand, laid it on his chest. Felt the heat, the rhythm. "There's something I think I want to say to you."
"All right. Let's go inside." He thought it was best to get into the brightly lit kitchen, away from the sumptuous sunset and seductive night air.
But she kept her hand on his chest and stepped closer. It must have been their color, Byron thought, that made her eyes glow so erotically through the twilight shadows.
"I was going to avoid men like you, on a personal level," she began. "It was to be a kind of principle, a rule of thumb. I'm very fond of rules and principles."
He arched a brow. "And generalities?"
"Yes, and generalities, because they usually have some basis in fact, or they wouldn't have gotten to be generalities. I'd decided after a couple of unfortunate experiences that when something, or someone, looked too good, it was probably bad for me. You may be bad for me, Byron."
"Have you been working on this theory long?"
"Actually I have, but it may need some further adjustments. In any case, I didn't like you when I first met you."
"Now there's a surprise."
She smiled and disconcerted him by moving closer. "I didn't like you because I started wanting you the first minute. That was uncomfortable for me. You see, I prefer wanting things that are tangible and that can be acquired through time, planning, and effort. I don't like being uncomfortable, or wanting someone I don't understand, who is in all probability bad for me, and who doesn't fit my requirements."
"You have requirements too?" He didn't care for the sensation of being annoyed and aroused at the same time.
"Absolutely. One of the main requirements is a lack of demand. I don't think you're an undemanding man, and that's, undoubtedly, going to be my biggest mistake. One of the other things I really, really hate to do is make mistakes. But I'm working on being more tolerant of myself."
"Is that something else you're practicing, like doing nothing?"
"Exactly."
"I see. Well, now that we've established that this fledgling relationship with me is practice for your personal tolerance, I'll start dinner."
She laughed and put her other hand on his chest. "I irritate you. I don't know why I find that so funny."
"It doesn't surprise me, Katherine. You have an abrasive, contrary nature and like nothing better than stirring things up."
"You're right, absolutely right. It's terrifying how easily you understand me. And the more patient you are, the more compelled I am to poke at you. We are so completely wrong for each other, Byron."
"Who's arguing?" He curled his fingers around her wrists, intent on pushing her hands aside.
"Take me to bed," she said simply, and slid her hands through his loosened grip to his shoulders. "Now."
Chapter Twelve
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He wasn't easily shocked. But her simple demand rocked him back as efficiently as a short left jab. He'd been sure she was ending what had barely begun between them. He'd been prepared to be coldly furious, but to school himself into not giving a damn.
Because it was undoubtedly unwise to touch her, he kept his arms at his sides. "You want me to take you to bed, now, because it's a mistake, because you've theorized that I'm bad for you, and because we're completely wrong for each other."
"Yes. And because I want to see you naked."
He managed a laugh, and would have stepped back, but she locked her hands at the back of his neck. "I think I need a drink," he muttered.
"Byron, don't make me get rough with you." She moved in, her body bumping his, her arms tightening. "I've been working out. Sort of. I think I could take you if I had to."
Telling himself to be amused, he pinched her biceps gently.
The tiny muscle gave like putty. "Yeah, you're a regular Amazon, honey."
"You want me." She nipped her way up his throat. "If you don't, I'll have to kill you."
The little blood left in his head shot straight to his loins. "I think my life's safe. Kate—" Her hands raced busily to the snap of his jeans. "Don't—Christ!" And tugged at his zipper. "Hell," he muttered, and gave in to the animal long enough to savage her mouth with his.
She made a sound in her throat like a cat purring over prey.
"Hold on." He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back. "Just hold on one damn minute." He panted out a breath, then another. "You know the trouble with flings?"
"No, what's the trouble with them?"
"I'm trying to remember." He wanted to rub his hands over his face, but he didn't dare release her. "Okay, I've got it. However momentarily satisfying they are, you end up dissatisfied. That's not the way it's going to be here. This isn't going to be a fling. You're going to have to accept that."
What was wrong with him? she wondered. Men weren't supposed to complicate sex. "Fine, we'll call it something else."
"There are strings, Kate." His hands still on her shoulders, he began slowly backing her toward the house. He could already see her naked and gleaming. "Trust. Honesty. Affection. Once I touch you, no one touches you but me."
"They're not exactly lined up around the block waiting to get their hands on me." Her feet bumped into the steps. Automatically, she stepped up, back again. He was looking at her in that way that made her both nervous and eager. As if he were looking beyond, to what no one else had seen, even herself. "I don't sleep around."
"Neither do I. I consider intimacy a serious business. And I'll have intimacy from you, Kate, in bed and out. That's bottom line."
"Look—" Her throat was burning dry, her hormones bouncing. "This isn't a business contract."
"No." He backed her easily through the kitchen. "It's a personal one. That's much more involved, much more important. You put the deal on the table." He swept her into his arms. "I'm defining the terms."
"I—Maybe I have terms of my own."
"Better put them out here then. This deal's about to close."
"We need to keep this simple."
"Not an option." At the top of the stairs, he turned left, carried her through a doorway and into a room washed with the last vivid light of the western sky.
"We're healthy, unattached adults," she began, talking fast now. "This is a mutual physical relationship."
"There's more to sex than the physical." He smiled as he laid her on the bed. "I guess I'll have to show you."
He kissed her, a long, slow, lazy meeting of lips that lingered until every nerve in her body was vibrating like the strings of a plucked harp. Eager for more, she dragged him closer so that all the heat swirling through her seemed to center on their mouths.
He could have taken her in one greedy gulp. Knowing it, he eased back. "Honey, where I come from, we pace ourselves." He linked his fingers with hers so that she couldn't tear down his defenses with those narrow, nervous hands. "Now relax." He lowered his head to trail nibbling kisses along her jawline. "And enjoy." Down her throat. "We've got all the time in the world."
>
She thought he would kill her with patience, rip her to shreds with gentleness. His lips were soft, smooth, deliciously, devastatingly slow as they cruised over her face. Each time they met hers, he took the kiss just a degree deeper, just a whisper warmer. Her muscles went from hot wires to soft wax.
The change aroused him mercilessly. The sound of her breathing, low and deep and slow, the thrill when a breath ended on a moan, a sigh. Her quivering impatience slipped into mindless pliancy. When he unbuttoned her shirt, revealing the simple white camisole beneath, she did nothing more than murmur her pleasure.
Fascinated by the simplicity of her form, he traced his fingertips over the soft cotton, then up over softer flesh. The most subtle of curves, he mused as her breath began to quicken again at his feathering touch. Linking fingers again, he nuzzled the cotton aside, flicked his tongue over her nipple.
She arched in response, biting back a groan. So small, he thought, so firm. So sensitive. He swept his tongue under the cotton, moistening her other breast, and felt her quake beneath him.
So he suckled slowly, gently, darkly pleased with the way she writhed under him, with the quick, helpless whimpers that sounded in her throat as he increased pressure and speed.
When he felt as if he might die if he didn't plunge into her, when her hips were pistoning as if she would explode if he didn't fill her, he drew back and slipped out of bed.
"What? What?" Dazed, desperate, she sat up.
"The light's going," he said quietly. "I can't see you. I want to see you." There was the abrasive scratch of a match striking, the flare of light that softened as flame was touched to the wick of a candle, then a second, a third. And the room was suddenly rich and romantic with wavering light.
She pressed a hand to her breast, shocked to realize that the hot, quivering nerves inside belonged to her. What was he doing to her? She wanted to ask, but was afraid of the answer.
Then he tugged the T-shirt over his head, tossed it aside. She let out a breath of relief. Now—it would be now. And all these twisting sensations would smooth out into the understandable.
He stepped out of his shoes. She was only mildly surprised when he slipped hers off as well, slid his hand up her leg to just under the hem of her rucked-up skirt.
