by Nora Roberts
she had just received from Katch into their savings. “We’ll have to have a more exact amount so we can decide how big a loan we’ll need.”
“Banks take a dim view of lending great lumps of money to people my age,” Pop murmured.
Because she saw he was tired and discouraged, she spoke briskly. “Don’t be silly.” She walked back to the stove to set on the kettle. “In any case, they’d be lending it to the park, wouldn’t they?” She tried not to think of tight money and high interest rates.
“I’ll go see a few people tomorrow,” he promised, reaching for his pipe as if to indicate their business talk was over. “You’re having dinner with Katch tonight?”
“Yes.” Megan took out cups and saucers.
“Fine young man.” He puffed pleasantly on his pipe. “I like him. Has style.”
“He has style all right,” she grumbled as the kettle began to sing. Carefully, she poured boiling water into cups.
“Knows how to fish,” Pop pointed out.
“Which, of course, makes him a paragon of virtue.”
“Well, it doesn’t make me think any less of him.” He spoke genially, smiling into Megan’s face. “I couldn’t help noticing the two of you on the wheel the other night. You looked real pretty together.”
“Pop, really.” Feeling her cheeks warm, Megan walked back to fiddle with the dishes in the sink.
“You seemed to like him well enough then,” he pointed out before he tested his tea. “I didn’t notice any objections when he kissed you.” Pop sipped, enjoying. “In fact, you seemed to like it.”
“Pop!” Megan turned back, astonished.
“Now, Meg, I wasn’t spying,” he said soothingly, and coughed to mask a chuckle. “You were right out in public, you know. I’d wager a lot of people noticed. Like I said, you looked real pretty together.”
Megan came back to sit at the table without any idea of what she should say. “It was just a kiss,” she managed at length. “It didn’t mean anything.”
Pop nodded twice and drank his tea.
“It didn’t,” Megan insisted.
He gave her one of his angelic smiles. “But you do like him, don’t you?”
Megan dropped her eyes. “Sometimes,” she murmured. “Sometimes I do.”
Pop covered her hand with his and waited until she looked at him again. “Caring for someone is the easiest thing in the world if you let it be.”
“I hardly know him,” she said quickly.
“I trust him,” Pop said simply.
Megan searched his face. “Why?”
After a shrug, Pop drew on his pipe again. “A feeling I have, a look in his eyes. In a people business like mine, you get to be a good judge of character. He has integrity. He wants his way, all right, but he doesn’t cheat. That’s important.”
Megan sat silently for a moment, not touching her cooling tea. “He wants the park,” she said quietly.
Pop looked at her through a nimbus of pipe smoke. “Yes, I know. He said so up front. He doesn’t sneak around either.” Pop’s expression softened a bit as he looked into Megan’s eyes. “Things don’t always stay the same in life, Megan. That’s what makes it work.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Do you . . . Are you thinking of selling him the park?”
Pop heard the underlying hint of panic and patted her hand again. “Let’s not worry about that now. The first problem is getting the rides repaired for the Easter break. Why don’t you wear the yellow dress I like tonight, Meg? The one with the little jacket. It makes me think of spring.”
Megan considered questioning him further, then subsided. There was no harder nut to crack than her grandfather when he had made up his mind to close a subject. “All right. I think I’ll go up and have a bath.”
“Megan.” She turned at the door and looked back at him. “Enjoy yourself. Sometimes it’s best to roll with the punches.”
When she walked away, he looked at the empty doorway and thoughtfully stroked his beard.
An hour later, Megan looked at herself in the yellow dress. The shade hinted at apricot and warmed against her skin. The lines were simple, suiting her willow-slim figure and height. Without the jacket, her arms and shoulders were bare but for wispy straps. She ran a brush through her hair in long, steady strokes. The tiny gold hoops in her ears were her only jewelry.
“Hey, Megan!”
The brush paused in midair as she watched her own eyes widen in the mirror. He wasn’t really standing outside shouting for her!
“Meg!”
Shaking her head in disbelief, Megan went to the window. Katch stood two stories down. He lifted a hand in salute when she appeared in the window.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Open the screen.”
“Why?”
“Open it,” he repeated.
“If you expect me to jump, you can forget it.” Out of curiosity, she leaned out the window.
“Catch!”
Her reflexes responded before she could think. Megan reached for the bundle he tossed up to her, and found her hands full of daffodils. She buried her face in the bouquet.
“They’re beautiful.” Her eyes smiled over the blooms and down at him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he returned. “Are you coming down?”
“Yes.” She tossed her hair behind her shoulder. “Yes, yes, in a minute.”
***
Katch drove quickly and competently, but not toward Restaurant Row as Megan had anticipated. He turned toward the ocean and headed north. She relaxed, enjoying the quieting light of dusk and his effortless driving.
She recognized the area. The houses there were larger, more elaborate than those in and on the very outskirts of town. There were tall hedges to assure privacy both from other houses and the public beaches. There were neatly trimmed lawns, willows, blossoming crape myrtle, and asphalt drives. Katch pulled into one set well away from the other homes and bordered by purplish shrubbery.
The house was small by the neighborhood standards, and done in the weathered wood Megan invariably found attractive. It was a split-level building, with an observation deck crowning the upper story.
“What’s this?” she asked, liking the house immediately.
“This is where I live.” Katch leaned across her to unlatch her door, then slid out his own side.
“You live here?”
Katch smiled at the surprised doubt in her voice. “I have to live somewhere, Meg.”
She wandered farther along the stone path that led to the house. “I suppose I really didn’t think about you buying a house here. It suggests roots.”
“I have them,” he told her. “I just transplant them easily.”
She looked at the house, the widespread yard. “You’ve picked the perfect spot.”
Katch took her hand, interlocking fingers. “Come inside,” he invited.
“When did you buy this?” she asked as they climbed the front steps.
“Oh, a few months ago when I came through. I moved in last week and haven’t had a lot of time to look for furniture.” The key shot into the lock. “I’ve picked up a few things here and there, and had others sent down from my apartment in New York.”
It was scantily furnished, but with style. There was a low, sectional sofa in biscuit with a hodgepodge of colored pillows and a wicker throne chair coupled with a large hanging ivy in a pottery dish. A pair of étagères in brass and glass held a collection of shells; on the oak planked floor lay a large sisal rug.
The room was open, with stairs to the right leading to the second level, and a stone fireplace on the left wall. The quick survey showed Megan he had not placed her sculptures in the main room. She wondered fleetingly what he had done with them.
“It’s wonderful, Katch.” She wandered to a window. The lawn sloped downward and ended in tall hedges that gave the house comfortable privacy. “Can you see the ocean from the top level?”
When he didn�
��t answer, she turned back to him. Her smile faded against the intensity of his gaze. Her heart beat faster. This was the part of him she had to fear, not the amiable gallant who had tossed her daffodils.
She tilted her head back, afraid, but wanting to meet him equally. He brought his hands to her face, and she felt the hardness of his palms on her skin. He brushed her hair back from her face as he brought her closer. He lowered his mouth, pausing only briefly before it claimed hers, as if to ascertain the need mirrored in her eyes. The kiss was instantly deep, instantly seeking.
She had been a fool—a fool to believe she could talk herself out of being in love with him. A fool to think that reason had anything to do with the heart.
When Katch drew her away, Megan pressed her cheek against his chest, letting her arms wind their way around his waist. His hesitation was almost too brief to measure before he gathered her close. She felt his lips in her hair and sighed from the sheer joy of it. His heartbeat was quick and steady in her ear.
“Did you say something?” he murmured.
“Hmm? When?”
“Before.” His fingers came up to massage the back of her neck. Megan shivered with pleasure as she tried to remember the world before she had been in his arms.
“I think I asked if I could see the ocean from the top level.”
“Yes.” Again he took his hands to her face to tilt it back for one long, searing kiss. “You can.”
“Will you show me?”
The grip on her skin tightened and her eyes closed in anticipation of the next kiss. But he drew her away until only their hands were touching. “After dinner.”
Megan, content with looking at him, smiled. “Are we eating here?”
“I hate restaurants,” Katch said, leading her toward the kitchen.
“An odd sentiment from a man who owns one.”
“Let’s say there are times when I prefer more intimate surroundings.”
“I see.” He pushed open the door to the kitchen and Megan glanced around at efficiency in wood and stainless steel. “And who’s doing the cooking this time?”
“We are,” he said easily, and grinned at her. “How do you like your steak?”
There was a rich red wine to accompany the meal they ate at a smoked-glass table. A dozen candles flickered on a sideboard behind them, held in small brass holders. Megan’s mood was as mellow as the wine that waltzed in her head. The man across from her held her in the palm of his hand. When she rose to stack the dishes, he took her hand. “Not now. There’s a moon tonight.”
Without hesitation, she went with him.
They climbed the stairs together, wide, uncarpeted stairs that were split into two sections by a landing. He led her through the main bedroom, a room dominated by a large bed with brass head– and footboards. There were long glass doors that led to a walkway. From there, stairs ascended to the observation deck.
Megan could hear the breakers before she moved to the rail. Beyond the hedgerow, the surf was turbulent. White water frothed against the dark. The moon’s light was thin, but was aided by the power of uncountable stars.
She took a long breath and leaned on the rail. “It’s lovely here. I never tire of looking at the ocean.” There was a click from his lighter, then tobacco mixed pleasantly with the scent of the sea.
“Do you ever think about traveling?”
Megan moved her shoulders, a sudden, restless gesture. “Of course, sometimes. It isn’t possible right now.”
Katch drew on the thin cigar. “Where would you go?”
“Where would I go?” she repeated.
“Yes, where would you go if you could?” The smoke from his cigar wafted upward and vanished. “Pretend, Meg. You like to pretend, don’t you?”
She closed her eyes a moment, letting the wine swim with her thoughts. “New Orleans,” she murmured. “I’ve always wanted to see New Orleans. And Paris. When I was young I used to dream about studying in Paris like the great artists.” She opened her eyes again. “You’ve been there, I suppose. To New Orleans and to Paris?”
“Yes, I’ve been there.”
“What are they like?”
Katch traced the line of her jaw with a fingertip before answering. “New Orleans smells of the river and swelters in the summer. There’s music at all hours from open nightclubs and street musicians. It moves constantly, like New York, but at a more civilized pace.”
“And Paris?” Megan insisted, wanting to see her wishes through his eyes. “Tell me about Paris.”
“It’s ancient and elegant, like a grand old woman. It’s not very clean, but it never seems to matter. It’s best in the spring; nothing smells like Paris in the spring. I’d like to take you there.” Unexpectedly he took her hair in his hand. His eyes were intense again and direct on hers. “I’d like to see the emotions you control break loose. You’d never restrict them in Paris.”
“I don’t do that.” Something more than wine began to swim in her head.
He tossed the cigar over the rail; then his free hand came to her waist to press her body against his. “Don’t you?” There was a hint of impatience in his voice as he began to slide the jacket from her shoulders. “You’ve passion, but you bank it down. It escapes into your work, but even that’s kept closed up in a studio. When I kiss you, I can taste it struggling to the surface.”
He freed her arms from the confines of the jacket and laid it over the rail. Slowly, deliberately, he ran his fingers over the naked skin, feeling the warmth of response. “One day it’s going to break loose. I intend to be there when it does.”
Katch pushed the straps from her shoulders and replaced them with his lips. Megan made no protest as the kisses trailed to her throat. His tongue played lightly with the pulse as his hand came up to cup her breast. But when his mouth came to hers, the gentleness fled, and with it her passivity. Hunger incited hunger.
When he nipped her bottom lip, she gasped with pleasure. His tongue was avid, searching while his hands began a quest of their own. He slipped the bodice of her dress to her waist, murmuring with approval as he found her naked breasts taut with desire. Megan allowed him his freedom, riding on the crest of the wave that rose inside her. She had no knowledge to guide her, no experience. Desire ruled and instinct followed.
She trailed her fingers along the back of his neck, kneading the warm skin, thrilling to the response she felt to her touch. Here was a power she had never explored. She slipped her hands under the back of his sweater. Their journey was slow, exploring. She felt the muscles of his shoulders tense as her hands played over them.
The quality of the kiss changed from demanding to urgent. His passion swamped her, mixing with her own until the combined power was more than she could bear. The ache came from nowhere and spread through her with impossible rapidity. She hurt for him. Desire was a pain as sharp as it was irresistible. In surrender, in anticipation, Megan swayed against him.
“Katch.” Her voice was husky. “I want to stay with you tonight.”
She was crushed against him for a moment, held so tightly, so strongly, there was no room for breath. Then, slowly, she felt him loosen his hold. Taking her by the shoulders, Katch looked down at her, his eyes dark, spearing into hers. Her breath was uneven; shivers raced along her skin. Slowly, with hands that barely touched her skin, he slipped her dress back into place.
“I’ll take you home now.”
The shock of rejection struck her like a blow. Her mouth trembled open, then shut again. Quickly, fighting against the tears that were pressing for release, she fumbled for her jacket.
“Meg.” He reached out to touch her shoulders, but she backed away.
“No. No, don’t touch me.” The tears were thickening her voice. She swallowed. “I won’t be patted on the head. It appears I misunderstood.”
“You didn’t misunderstand anything,” he tossed back. “And don’t cry, damn it.”
“I have no intention of crying,” she said. “I’d like to go home.” The hurt was
in her eyes, shimmering behind the tears she denied.
“We’ll talk.” Katch took her hand, but she jerked it away.
