by Nora Roberts
Megan felt control slipping from her grasp. Her need for him was overpowering, her appetite ravenous. She struggled to climb back to reality, to remember who they were. Names, places, responsibilities. There was more than the moon and the sea. And he was a stranger, a man she barely knew.
“No.” Megan managed to free her mouth from his. She struggled to her feet. “No.” The repetition was shaky. Quickly, she began to fumble with the buttons of her shirt.
Katch stood and gathered the shirttail in his hands. Surprised, Megan looked up at him. His eyes were no longer calm, but his voice was deadly so. “Why not?”
Megan swallowed. There wasn’t lazy arrogance here, but a hint of ruthlessness. She had sensed it, but seeing it was much more potent. “I don’t want to.”
“Liar,” he said simply.
“All right.” She nodded, conceding his point. “I don’t know you.”
Katch inclined his head in agreement but tugged on the tails of her shirt to bring her closer. “You will,” he assured her. He kissed her then, searingly. “But we’ll wait until you do.”
She fought to steady her breathing and stabilize her pulse. “Do you think you should always get what you want?” she demanded. The defiance was back, calming her.
“Yes,” he said and grinned. “Of course.”
“You’re going to be disappointed.” She smacked his hands from her shirt and began doing the buttons. Her fingers were unfaltering. “You can’t have Joyland and you can’t have me. Neither of us is for sale.”
The roughness with which he took her arm had her eyes flying back to his face. “I don’t buy women.” He was angry, his eyes dark with it. The appealing voice had hardened like flint. The artist in her was fascinated by the planes of his face; the woman was uneasy with his harsh tone. “I don’t have to. We’re both aware that with a bit more persuasion I’d have had you tonight.”
Megan pulled out of his hold. “What happened tonight doesn’t mean I find you irresistible, you know.” She zipped up her jacket with one quick jerk. “I can only repeat, you can’t have Joyland and you can’t have me.”
Katch watched her a moment as she stood in the moonlight, her back to the sea. The smile came again, slowly, arrogantly. “I’ll have you both, Meg,” he promised quietly. “Before the season begins.”
Chapter Four
The afternoon sun poured into Megan’s studio. She was oblivious to it, and to the birdsong outside the windows. Her mind was focused on the clay her hands worked with, or, more precisely, on what she saw in the partially formed mound.
She had put her current project aside, something she rarely did, to begin a new one. The new subject had haunted her throughout the night. She would exorcise David Katcherton by doing a bust of him.
Megan could see it clearly, knew precisely what she wanted to capture: strength and determination behind a surface affability.
Though she had yet to admit it, Katch had frightened her the night before. Not physically—he was too intelligent to use brute force, she acknowledged—but by the force of his personality. Angrily, she stabbed at the clay. Obviously, this was a man who got what he wanted. But she was determined that this time he would not have his way. He would soon find out that she couldn’t be pushed around any more than Pop could. Slowly and meticulously, her fingers worked to mold the planes of his face. It gave her a certain satisfaction to have control over him—if only vicariously with the clay.
Almost without thinking, she shaped a careless curl over the high brow. She stepped back to survey it. Somehow, she had caught a facet of his nature. He was a rogue, she decided. The old-fashioned word suited him. She could picture him with boots and six-guns, dealing cards for stud poker in a Tucson saloon; with a saber, captaining a ship into the Barbary Coast. Her fingers absently caressed the clay curls. He would laugh in the face of the wind, take treasure and women where he found them. Women. Megan’s thoughts zeroed in on the night before . . . On the feel of his lips on hers, the touch of his hand on her skin. She could remember the texture of the sand as they had lain together, the scent and sounds of the sea. And she remembered how the moonlight had fallen on his hair, how her hands had sought it while his lips had wandered over her. How thick and soft it had felt. How . . .
Megan stopped, appalled. She glanced down to see her fingers in the clay replica of Katch’s hair. She swore, and nearly, very nearly, reduced the clay to a formless mass. Controlling herself, she rose, backing away from the forming bust. I should never allow myself to be distracted from my work by petty annoyances, she thought. Her evening with Katch belonged in that category. Just a petty annoyance. Not important.
But it was difficult for Megan to convince herself this was true. Both her intuition and her emotions told her that Katch was important, far more important than a stranger should be to a sensible woman.
And I am sensible, she reminded herself. Taking a long breath, she moved to the basin to rinse the clay from her hands. She had to be sensible. Pop needed someone around to remind him that bills had to be paid. A smile crept across her mouth as she dried her hands. Megan thought, as she did from time to time, that she had been almost as much of a savior to her grandfather as he had been to her.
In the beginning, she’d been so young, so dependent upon him. And he hadn’t let her down. Then, as she had grown older, Megan had helped by assuming the duties her grandfather had found tiresome: accounts and bank reconciliations. Often, Megan suppressed her own desires in order to fulfill what she thought of as her duty. She dealt with figures, the unromantic process of adding and subtracting. But she also dealt with the illusionary world of art. There were times, when she was deep in her work, that she forgot the rules she had set up for day-to-day living. Often she felt pulled in two directions. She had enough to think about without David Katcherton.
Why a man virtually unknown to her should so successfully upset the delicate balance of her world, she didn’t know. She shook her head. Instead of dwelling on it, she decided, she would work out her frustration by finishing the bust. When it was done, perhaps she would be able to see more clearly exactly how she perceived him. She returned to her work.
The next hour passed quickly. She forgot her irritation with Katch for going fishing with her grandfather. How annoying to have seen him so eager and well rested when she had peeked through her bedroom curtain at five thirty that morning! She’d fallen back into her rumpled bed to spend another hour staring, heavy-eyed, at the ceiling. She refused to remember how appealing his laugh had sounded in the hush of dawn.
The planes of his face were just taking shape under her hands when she heard a car drive up. Katch’s laugh was followed by the more gravelly tones of her grandfather’s.
Because her studio was above the garage, Megan had a bird’s-eye view of the house and drive. She watched as Katch lifted their fishing cooler from the back of the pickup. A grin was on his face, but whatever he said was too low for Megan to hear. Pop threw back his head, his dramatic mane of white flying back as he roared his appreciation. He gave Katch a companionable slap on the back. Unaccountably, Megan was miffed. They seemed to be getting along entirely too well.
She continued to watch the man as they unloaded tackle boxes and gear. Katch was dressed much as he had been the day before. The pale blue T-shirt had lettering across the chest, but the words were faded and the distance was too great for Megan to read them. He wore Pop’s fishing cap, another source of annoyance for Megan. She was forced to admit the two of them looked good together. There was the contrast between their ages and their builds, but both seemed to her to be extraordinarily masculine men. Their looks were neither smooth nor pampered. She became engrossed with the similarities and differences between them. When Katch looked up, spotting her at the window, Megan continued to stare down, oblivious, absorbed with what she saw in them.
Katch grinned, pushing the fishing cap back so that he had a clearer view. The window was long, the sill coming low at her knees. It had the effect of ma
king Megan seem to be standing in a full-size picture frame. As was her habit when working, she had pulled her hair back in a ribbon. Her face seemed younger and more vulnerable, her eyes wider. The ancient shirt of Pop’s she used as a smock dwarfed her.
Her eyes locked on Katch’s, and for a moment she thought she saw something flash in them—something she’d seen briefly the night before in the moonlight. A response trembled along her skin. Then his grin was arrogant again, his eyes amused.
“Come on down, Meg.” He gestured before he bent to lift the cooler again. “We brought you a present.” He turned to carry the cooler around the side of the house.
“I’d rather have emeralds,” she called back.
“Next time,” Katch promised carelessly, before turning to carry the cooler around the side of the house.
***
She found Katch alone, setting up for the cleaning of the catch. He smiled when he saw her and set down the knife he held, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her thoroughly, to her utter astonishment. It was a kiss of casual ownership rather than passion, but it elicited a response that surprised her with its force. More than a little shaken, Megan pushed away.
“You can’t just—”
“I already did,” he pointed out. “You’ve been working,” Katch stated as if the searing kiss had never taken place. “I’d like to see your studio.”
It was better, Megan decided, to follow his lead and keep the conversation light. “Where’s my grandfather?” she asked as she moved to the cooler and prepared to lift the lid.
“Pop’s inside stowing the gear.”
Though it was the habit of everyone who knew him to refer to Timothy Miller as Pop, Megan frowned at Katch.
“You work fast, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. I like your grandfather, Meg. You of all people should understand how easy that is to do.”
Megan regarded him steadily. She took a step closer, as if testing the air between them. “I don’t know if I should trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.” Katch grinned again and ran a finger down the bridge of her nose. “Not for a second.” He tossed open the lid of the cooler, then gestured to the fish inside. “Hungry?”
Megan smiled, letting herself be charmed despite the warnings of her sensible self. “I wasn’t. But I could be. Especially if I don’t have to clean them.”
“Pop told me you were squeamish.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Megan cast a long, baleful look over her shoulder toward the house. “What else did he tell you?”
“That you like daffodils and used to have a stuffed elephant named Henry.”
Megan’s mouth dropped open. “He told you that?”
“And that you watch horror movies, then sleep with the blankets over your head.”
Megan narrowed her eyes as Katch’s grin widened. “Excuse me,” she said crossly, pushing Katch aside before racing through the kitchen door. She could hear Katch’s laughter behind her.
“Pop!” She found him in the narrow room off the kitchen where he stored his fishing paraphernalia. He gave her an affectionate smile as she stood, hands on hips, in the doorway.
“Hi, Megan. Let me tell you, that boy knows how to fish. Yessiree, he knows how to fish.”
His obvious delight with Katch caused Megan to clench her teeth. “That’s the best news I’ve had all day,” she said, stepping into the room. “But exactly why did you feel it necessary to tell that boy that I had a stuffed elephant and slept with the covers over my head?”
Pop lifted a hand, ostensibly to scratch his head. It wasn’t in time, however, to conceal the grin. Megan’s brows drew together.
“Pop, really,” she said in exasperation. “Must you babble about me as if I were a little girl?”
“You’ll always be my little girl,” he said maddeningly, and kissed her cheek. “Did you see those trout? We’ll have a heck of a fish fry tonight.”
“I suppose,” Megan began and folded her arms, “he’s going to eat with us.”
“Well, of course.” Pop blinked his eyes. “After all, Meg, he caught half the fish.”
“That’s just peachy.”
“We thought you might whip up some of your special blueberry tarts.” He smiled ingenuously.
Megan sighed, recognizing defeat.
Within minutes, Pop heard the thumping and banging of pans. He grinned, then slipped out of the room, moving noiselessly through the house and out the front door.
“Whip up some tarts,” Megan muttered later as she cut shortening into the flour. “Men.”
She was bending over to slip the pastry shells into the oven when the screen door slammed shut behind her. Turning, she brushed at the seat of her pants and met the predictable grin.
“I’ve heard about your tarts,” Katch commented, setting the cleaned, filleted fish on the counter. “Pop said he had a few things to see to in the garage and to call him when dinner’s ready.”
Megan glared through the screen door at the adjoining building. “Oh, he did, did he?” She turned back to Katch. “Well, if you think you can just sit back and be waited on, then you’re in for a disappointment.”
“You didn’t think I’d allow you to cook my fish, did you?” he interrupted.
She stared at his unperturbed face.
“I always cook my own fish. Where’s the frying pan?”
Silently, still eyeing him, Megan pointed out the cabinet. She watched as he squatted down to rummage for it.
“It’s not that I don’t think you’re a good cook,” he went on as he stood again with the cast-iron skillet in his hand. “It’s that I know I am.”
“Are you implying I couldn’t cook those pathetic little sardines properly?”
“Let’s just say I just don’t like to take chances with my dinner.” He began poking into cupboards. “Why don’t you make a salad,” he suggested mildly, “and leave the fish to me?” There was a grunt of approval as he located the cracker meal.
Megan watched him casually going through her kitchen cupboards. “Why don’t you,” she began, “take your trout and—”
Her suggestion was interrupted by the rude buzz of the oven timer.
“Your tarts.” Katch walked to the refrigerator for eggs and milk.
With supreme effort, Megan controlled herself enough to deal with the pastry shells. Setting them on the rack to cool, she decided to create the salad of the decade. It would put his pan-fried trout to shame.
For a time there were no words. The hot oil hissed as Katch added his coated trout. Megan tore the lettuce. She sliced raw vegetables. The scent from the pan was enticing. Megan peeled a carrot and sighed. Hearing her, Katch raised a questioning eyebrow.
“You had to be good at it, didn’t you?” Megan’s smile was reluctant. “You had to do it right.”
He shrugged, then snatched the peeled carrot from her hand. “You’d like it better if I didn’t?” Katch took a bite of the carrot before Megan could retrieve it. Shaking her head, she selected another.
“It would have been more gratifying if you’d fumbled around and made a mess of things.”
Katch tilted his head as he poked at the sizzling fish with a spatula. “Is that a compliment?”
Megan diced the carrot, frowning at it thoughtfully. “I don’t know. It might be easier to deal with you if you didn’t seem so capable.”
He caught her off guard by taking her shoulders and turning her around to face him. “Is that what you want to do?” His fingers gently massaged her flesh. “Deal with me?” When she felt herself being drawn closer, she placed her hands on his chest. “Do I make you nervous?”
“No.” Megan shook her head with the denial. “No, of course not.” Katch only lifted a brow and drew her closer. “Yes,” she admitted in a rush, and pulled away. “Yes, blast it, you do.” Stalking to the refrigerator, she yanked out the blueberry filling she had prepared. “You needn’t look so pleased about it,” she told him, wishing she could work up the ann
oyance she thought she should feel.
“Several things make me nervous.” Megan moved to the pastry shells and began to spoon in the filling. “Snakes, tooth decay, large unfriendly dogs.” When she heard him chuckle, Megan turned her head and found herself grinning at him. “It’s difficult to actively dislike you when you make me laugh.”
“Do you have to actively dislike me?” Katch flipped the fish expertly and sent oil sizzling.
“That was my plan,” Megan admitted. “It seemed like a good idea.”
“Why don’t we work on a different plan?” Katch suggested, searching through a cupboard again for a platter. “What do you like? Besides daffodils?”
“Soft ice cream,” Megan responded spontaneously. “Oscar Wilde, walking barefoot.”
“How about baseball?” Katch demanded.
Megan paused in the act of filling the shells. “What about it?”
“Do you like it?”
“Yes,” she considered, smiling. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
