Brody should have enjoyed her stricken expression. He should have enjoyed seeing her eyes glaze with tears of mortification. Instead he found himself squirming.
"Cat, come on, it's … it's funny. Like with Greg. A comedy of—"
"Is that what you thought?" Blotches of color stained her cheeks. "That I was a … a prostitute?"
He sighed. Pushed his fingers through his hair. "Look. I find you waiting for me, in that getup, eager as hell, after being told—"
"There was a basket!" She slapped the table with her open palm. Water sloshed out of her glass.
"What?"
"There was a gourmet food basket! That was the damn surprise! Didn't you see it? There's always a basket waiting for the next guest of the agency." Cat pinched the bridge of her nose.
Brody swore under his breath. He groped for the cigarette pack and gave it a good tap, only to watch half a dozen cigarettes shoot out onto the floor. Squatting to pick them up, he said, "Look, I didn't think you were a street hooker or anything like that. I thought you were an expensive call girl. Real high class."
"Oh, thank you!" She swiped at her eyes before the tears could spill.
He stood, tossed the cigarettes on the counter. "Listen, what do I know from hookers? I've never used one in my life. And I don't intend to, even if someone else is paying. That's why I didn't want to do it. At first."
Brody stood watching Cat, who was hunched miserably over the table, her head in her hands. Now, looking back on it, he marveled that he could have mistaken this woman for an experienced lady of the evening. True, she'd been eager, even impatient, but she'd been nervous, as well—an irresistible blend of innocence and eroticism that had really pushed his buttons. And she'd been tight. Practically virginal.
It's been a long time for me, she'd said, and he'd tried to stop then, demand an explanation. He might as well have tried to stop breathing. He'd never had sex like that. At the time he'd tried to tell himself it was because she was a professional, but even then he'd known that had nothing to do with it. He'd never experienced those physical and emotional peaks, never felt that depth of connection with a woman.
Brody knew Cat desperately wanted out of this assignment, that she couldn't bear the thought of spending the next month working closely with him. He had no intention of granting her wish. The prospect of having this sexy, intriguing woman at his beck and call for an entire month excited him. Maybe he'd even manage to make her forget Mr. Perfect long enough for a repeat performance. If that made him a selfish bastard, so be it.
Brody placed his hand on Cat's shoulder. She flinched. "I have to ask. Were you using birth control?"
Cat tensed under his fingers. Brody held his breath. She uncovered her face and directed her glassy gaze to the tabletop. "Yes. I'm on the Pill."
Brody exhaled gustily. He squeezed her shoulder. "Well, thank God for that."
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
"Excuse me," Cat said, pulling an oven mitt onto her hand. "Those cookies should be ready."
Brody stepped away from the pot boiling on the stove top long enough for her to slide the cookie sheet out of the oven. The mingled aromas of fresh-baked oatmeal cookies and sautéed veal cutlets filled the kitchen. Cat lifted the soft cookies one by one with a spatula and deposited them on a layer of paper towels on the tabletop.
Brody poked a chunk of cooked potato with a fork. "Done."
Spot lay sprawled in the corner on the cool terra-cotta tiles, inches from his luxurious custom-made dog bed. Only his amber eyes moved as he watched his master dump the potatoes into a colander to drain, then return them to the pot and start whaling away at them with the masher.
"Doesn't that dog ever have a yen for Alpo?" Cat asked, having observed the identical ritual for three days running.
"Spot won't touch that slop. Would you?" Brody poured warm milk and melted butter into the potatoes, added a sprinkle of salt and continued mashing.
"No, but I don't lick myself or drink out of toilets either." She set the empty cookie sheet in the sink. "It just seems a little strange. I mean, you don't cook for yourself, Brody. But your dog gets this royal treatment."
"This guy's been with me a long time. Since he was a puppy. Loyalty like that deserves to be rewarded. Isn't that right, boy?"
Brody loaded the mashed potatoes onto Spot's special plate and shaped them into an appetizing mound. He placed the veal cutlets on the plate and began cutting them into itty-bitty bite-size pieces, in deference to the animal's sore gums and missing teeth. This was Spot's cue to rouse himself and lumber over to where the action was. He settled on his haunches, licking his chops and sweeping the floor with his tail.
"You're my good buddy, aren't you, boy? You deserve the best, don't you? Sure you do." Brody placed the laden plate by Spot's water bowl. "Besides," he told Cat, "he can't eat that canned stuff anymore. It upsets his stomach." As the dog began to devour his dinner, Brody gave his big head a couple of brisk pats and lovingly ran his hand over the thick black fur.
He took time out every day not just to prepare the geriatric mutt's food, but to walk him and play with him as well. Yesterday he'd bathed him and inspected him for fleas and ticks. The day before, Spot's creaky old hips had clearly been a little achier than usual and Brody had rushed him to the veterinarian.
Cat said, "That animal has got your number," but she couldn't deny there was something touching about the tender care Brody lavished on his old pet.
"Spoken like someone who's never owned a dog," Brody said, with that patented grin.
"I don't know how people have the patience to walk them, or clean up after them. I myself refuse to arrange my day around the bowel habits of a lower life-form."
"No cats? No birds?" He swiped a warm cookie and shoved it whole into his mouth. "Nothing to take care of?"
She resisted the urge to touch her abdomen. "No," she said. "Nothing."
During the week that had elapsed since their bizarre first encounter, Cat had tried not to dwell on the possibility that her initial plan had worked and Brody's seed had taken root in her womb. She wanted a baby, yes, but not by him. Ironically, after craving it for so long, scheming for it, she now prayed she wasn't pregnant. Then she could start fresh with someone else—the kind of man she'd originally had in mind. Greg Bannister, if she could reschedule their rendezvous. Even Anton Lind. Anyone but Brody Mikhailov, a slovenly, conscienceless scandalmonger with a devastating smile and the sexual stamina of a satyr.
"What are you thinking?" he asked. "What put that glazed look on your face?"
She blinked away the satiric reminiscences. "I was wondering why you named him Spot."
Brody shrugged. "Why not? It's a good solid dog's name. Simple. Unpretentious."
"He doesn't have a spot."
"What?"
"He's all black. Not a spot to be seen. That animal is spot-free."
A sullen glower replaced Brody's cocky grin. "Where's my milk?" he demanded, snatching up his pack of cigarettes. "You're supposed to be fixing me milk and cookies."
"You going to eat and smoke at the same time?"
"Maybe."
She opened the refrigerator and retrieved the carton of milk. Without facing him she said, "Spot, tell your master to stop making faces at me."
Cat turned back with a smug smile, gratified by his how-did-she-know? expression. "I'm a mom, remember? I have eyes in the back of my head." She reached into a cabinet for two glasses and filled them with milk.
Brody started to tuck a cigarette between his lips, but stopped to say, "Are you?" At her questioning look, he added, "A mom. For real."
Quickly she turned back to the cabinet for a plate. "Like you, I've never been married."
"That doesn't answer my question."
Cat kept her eyes on the cookies she was piling onto the plate. "No. I'm not a mom."
"That's a shame."
Her gaze flashed to his face.
"You seem to enjoy you
r job," he said. "Taking care of people. You're good at it."
She gave a dismissive half laugh. "There's a big difference between playing Donna Reed from nine to five and being responsible for another human being day in and day out."
Instead of "nine to five," Cat should have said "noon to eight," her current office-mom hours, as dictated by Brody, who saw no reason to adhere to a normal work schedule. He devoted sporadic chunks of time to his current writing project, beginning sometime in midafternoon and knocking off around two or three in the morning.
He flung the cigarette onto the counter, unlit, and took the plate from her. She followed him outside, where they took seats across from each other at the glass-topped picnic table shaded by a green-and-white-striped umbrella. Spot trotted across the deep lawn and started nosing around the rhododendrons edging the tall ash fence.
It was hot and sunny, but Cat was comfortable, thanks to a mild breeze and her summery outfit of loden-colored walking shorts, sleeveless white T-shirt and sandals. After the first day, she'd dispensed with the stuffy buttoned-up look she'd wrongly assumed would help establish a professional atmosphere. Nothing about Brody Mikhailov, his place of business or his work habits was even remotely professional. This office-mom gig was more like baby-sitting.
Which sort of made sense, she reflected, since her client was the quintessential Peter Pan—a lost boy refusing to grow up.
"So you don't want kids?" Brody said, dunking a cookie in his milk and leaning back in his chair.
Cat had hoped he'd abandoned this particular conversational thread. "I didn't say that." She forced a light tone. "Maybe someday. You never know what the future holds."
"Ever think of settling down with Mr. Perfect in Alaska?"
"That's really none of your concern, Brody."
He looked across the yard for a moment, to where Spot was sniffing the base of the back fence. He took a long swallow of milk. "I've been wondering about something. That night. When you thought I was Greg."
"I don't want to discuss—"
"Did you think this guy you'd fallen for was rejecting you because you came on so strong in the sex department?"
She stared at him, at a loss for how to respond. "I mean, once you realized how turned on I was, what did you think when I didn't want to do it?" he said. "Which was because of, you know, who I thought you were at the time, but you didn't know that. What did you think was going through my head? Greg's head?"
"What does it matter?" she said tightly, still mortified at having been mistaken for a prostitute.
"Just curious. You say you love this guy. You must've gotten some kind of insight into his character after three years of lovey-dovey E-mail. Were you surprised when 'Greg' said no? Is he the kind of chest-thumping throwback who's too insecure to let the little lady assert herself sexually?"
"I can't imagine what makes you think you have the right to ask that."
"Never said I had the right. I said I'm curious. And I think you should be, too."
"What does that mean?"
"It just means if you're thinking of settling down and playing house with this guy, you might want to find out what you're getting yourself into. That's all."
Spot ambled over, and Brody reached into his pocket for a doggie treat.
"What about you?" Cat asked, trying and failing to rein in her wayward tongue. "Do you ever want kids?"
"No." He didn't hesitate. And he didn't smile.
Something kicked hard in Cat's chest. "Why?"
"That's a good question to ask someone who does want them. 'Why?'"
"You don't like children?"
"I like them. Well, I don't dislike them. I just think people should be made to get some kind of license to have them. Prove they're fit parents."
"Yeah, yeah, I've heard all that before—especially from confirmed bachelors terrified of giving up their independence and their bad habits and their little black books."
Something in the way she said that last part brought Brody's head up. Cat cursed inwardly and grabbed a cookie.
The grin returned. "My fault for leaving it lying around. And it's maroon, not black."
Her face burned. "It's also not that little."
The damn thing was bulging with women's names, addresses and phone numbers, as well as the occasional scribbled reminder: birthday, dress size, wine preference, favorite night spot. Plus a few telling notations: "Clingy." "Kinky." "A+++."
What did a woman have to do to earn an A+++?
What grade had he given her?
Brody arched his back and rotated his shoulders. "You know what I could use right now? A shoulder rub." At her wary look he added, "What? You office moms don't do shoulder rubs?"
She sighed. "Yes. We do shoulder rubs."
"Great." He beckoned to her. "I'm all stiff."
Cat circled the table and stood behind Brody. During the last three days, she'd done everything humanly possible to avoid touching him. Now she stared down at his short, dark hair and, resisting the urge to smooth the willful waves, placed her hands on his shoulders over his white T-shirt. His flesh felt hard and hot through the thin material. His subtle masculine scent rose to her nostrils, making her recall things she didn't want to recall. She began kneading the tight muscles at the base of his neck.
He said, "Wait a sec," sat forward to pull off the shirt and settled back in the chair.
Cat scowled, her hands hovering an inch above his bare skin. She'd been on the alert for three days, determined to nip any untoward behavior in the bud. Did this qualify? The truth was, a simple shoulder rub was indeed within her job description, but there was nothing simple about this particular assignment.
"Something wrong?" he asked, without turning.
Only everything. Cat lowered her hands and took up where she'd left off. His skin was smooth and sun bronzed, and he hadn't been lying about the stiff muscles. As she rotated the heels of her palms and pressed inward with her thumbs, Brody moaned and let his head drop forward. Cat found his appreciative response unexpectedly gratifying, and she deepened the massage, leaning into him, isolating and working the muscle groups.
She'd given shoulder rubs before, but she couldn't recall having had so much shoulder to work with. She devoted herself to each side in turn, molding the tight, sinewy flesh until she felt it relax. His little grunts and sighs of pleasure brought a gentle smile to her lips.
"You are so good at this," he groaned, and raised his head with what seemed an extraordinary effort. He reached up and laid his hand over hers, brought it to his lips for a light kiss. "Your turn," he said, rising.
"What?"
He pressed her into his vacated seat and moved behind her. "When's the last time you had a shoulder rub?"
"That's my job, remember?" she said, trying to push out of the seat, only to be unceremoniously shoved back down.
"To you it's a job—to me, a delightful diversion."
Then his big, powerful hands went to work, and her next objection was lost in a shuddering moan of pure hedonistic bliss so intense it was practically sexual. Cat tried to laugh off her embarrassing reaction, but his magic fingers never let up, and all she could do was whimper.
"How's that?" he asked.
Her reply was unintelligible. He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, rolling over and through her. Cat collapsed onto the table, her cheek pillowed on her folded arms, her muscles turning to pudding under his talented hands.
He said, "This would be even better on bare skin."
She responded with a snort that said nice try.
His hands stroked down her back and up her sides. The little shock of pleasure as his fingertips grazed the sides of her breasts made her breath catch. He repeated the caress, and she told herself she really ought to stop him, this was dangerous territory, but it just felt too damn good. Soon, she told herself. In a minute. Maybe two.
Ten minutes later he finished with a few light strokes, squatted next to her and tucked her breeze-ruffled hair behind her ear
. His penetrating gaze was softened by the hint of a smile.
"Feel like playing hooky?" he murmured, as his broad palm slowly moved down her spine to the waistband of her shorts. His knuckles glided back up her side, over her ribs, and lingered at the sensitive outer edge of her breast, skimming back and forth. Even through her shirt and bra the teasing feather strokes stole her wits.
Play hooky. Code for doing again what they'd done the other night. Her body hummed, from the tips of her breasts to the secret place that pulsed with desire for him.
Brody scooted closer and tipped his head onto the table so they were eye-to-eye. Sunlight slanted under the umbrella, glinting in his dark beard stubble and turning his twilight eyes to the clear bottomless blue of a secluded lagoon. His expression was both tender and intense, and her heart slammed into her ribs as she struggled to remind herself why she mustn't play hooky with this man.
He touched his lips to hers. Lightly. And again.
"Remember the terrace?" he whispered.
She remembered. The two of them venturing naked onto the penthouse terrace in the hot night after hours of loving. Standing at the rail staring into velvet shadows on shadows that should have been the bejeweled, midnight city watching in all directions. Brody moving behind her, their bodies instinctively angling, flexing, joining with the practiced ease of longtime lovers. Rocking together in a languid rhythm that needed no words.
Two becoming one in the dark.
Cat sat up. "Don't do this, Brody." He started to speak, and she hushed him with a finger to his lips. "Let's just get through the next month."
After a moment he rose and backed away, folded his arms over his bare chest. "So tell me. Did Mr. Perfect ever make it to New York?"
She thought fast. "Yes. We've been seeing each other. He'll be in town for … for a few weeks." Perhaps Brody would stop trying to get her back in bed if he thought she was actively involved with Greg.
His expression, so warm and intimate only moments before, was now flat, unreadable. "Does he know about us?"
"That's none of your—"
"Does he?"
"No."
IN THE DARK Page 5
