by Syrie James
They joined hands again and raced across the wide stretch of cool, gritty sand, which glowed pale grey in the moonlight. He slowed a few yards from the water’s edge and they strolled along in silence. She enjoyed the feel of the cold, wet, dark sand beneath her feet and the sweet, frosty taste of the ice cream.
“Isn’t this nice?” he grinned, squeezing her hand and swinging their arms.
“Yes.” A laugh bubbled up inside her chest. “I haven’t done anything this spontaneous—or fun—in ages.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I guess because I’ve worked nights for so long. My social life has been pretty nil.”
“Work is important, but you have to make time for fun.” He glanced at her. “You don’t strike me as an overly serious type. And from what I’ve read, people who are—people who create clutter—”
“Create clutter?” She punched him lightly on the arm. “How rude. Is it my fault if the maid decided to take the week off?”
“People who create clutter,” he went on, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter, “are often marvelously relaxed. They don’t need everything to be in order around them. They’re imaginative, impulsive, open to new ideas. They respond to the moment. Is that true of you?”
“Sometimes.”
A challenging look crept into his green eyes, and she sensed he intended more by the question than appeared on the surface.
“I just haven’t been around many other crazy, spontaneous people lately,” she added.
“It’s time we changed that.”
The shiver that ran through Desiree’s body had nothing to do with the breeze that whipped her hair across her cheek. She pulled her sweater more tightly around her.
“Cold?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
“You can have my jacket if you’d like.” He began to shrug out of the tailored suit jacket.
“No thank you, that’s not necessary.” She flashed him a grin. “Anyway, the sleeves would probably hang down to my knees.”
“I’m not that tall. Only five-ten.”
“You seem tall to me.”
He finished the last bite of his ice-cream cone. “That’s because you’re such a tiny pixie yourself.” When he saw her grimace at his choice of words, he stopped and slipped an arm around her waist. “Hey! What’s wrong with being short?”
She almost forgot his question, she was so entranced by the feel of his body next to hers, and the sound of his voice against her ear.
“Being short is a pain. I can’t reach the top shelves in my kitchen. I can’t reach the dipstick to check the oil in my car. Clothes off the rack never fit me right. Every time I buy a pair of pants, I have to cut off at least six inches at the hem. And since I’m so small, it seems I’ve had to fight all my life to be noticed, to be respected.”
“You didn’t have to fight to catch my attention,” he said softly. “I think you’re the perfect height.”
“Perfect?” To disguise her rising discomposure, she made a face and imitated Barbara’s Brooklyn accent. “You think five-feet-and-three-eighths is perfect?”
Chuckling, he drew her closer. “Do you have any idea what a relief it is to be out with a woman who doesn’t have to worry about whether or not she’ll be too tall for me if she wears heels?”
She laughed, loving his ability to put her at ease. “That’s one problem I’ve never had, no matter who I’ve gone out with. And thank goodness you’re not any taller. I practically have to bend my neck in half to look up at you as it is.”
“At last, a woman who can appreciate my height.” He went silent for a moment, smiling, and then nodded towards her cone. “You know, except for the chocolate chips in your ice cream, the peach and mint chip look exactly the same color to me.”
She searched his face, relieved at the lack of embarrassment she saw there, but unsure how to respond. The breeze had ruffled his hair and she stifled an impulse to brush the unruly strands off his forehead. “What do they look like to you?”
“Sort of a light beige, I guess. I assume they’re completely different colors?”
She nodded. “Do you have trouble seeing all colors?”
“No. Mainly reds and greens. I don’t know what purple looks like to you—to me it looks blue.”
His nearness and the mild fragrance of his cologne were doing strange things to her heartbeat. She finished her cone, stepped back and knelt in the sand a few feet away and rinsed her hands in the gently flowing surf.
A sudden thought occurred to her. Last night, he said he’d wanted to be a pilot, but that circumstances had prevented it. With a jolt of painful awareness, she remembered reading somewhere that normal color perception was mandatory for air force and commercial pilots.
She stood up and shook her hands dry. Hesitantly she asked, “That’s what kept you from becoming a pilot, isn’t it? Being color blind?”
“Yes.”
“Why is color perception so important?”
“Warning lights, mainly. In military and commercial aircraft, each light in the cockpit conveys a specific message. Green is status quo. Amber’s a warning. Low oil pressure, that kind of thing. Red’s an emergency situation. There are lights on the wing tips, too. At night the color tells you if other aircraft are approaching or heading away. And if your radio should malfunction, the tower can signal landing instructions in code with colored lights. They can’t take a chance on someone who might misinterpret the signals.” He let out an ironic laugh. “I passed all the other tests with ease but...” He shrugged.
“If that’s what you really wanted to be, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I don’t regret it, not anymore.” He took her hand again and they continued on down the beach. “I’ve become successful at what I do, and it didn’t keep me on the ground. I may not be able to fly for an airline or the air force, but I can still fly a private plane. I’m restricted to daytime flight, that’s all.”
“Really? You have a pilot’s license?”
“I do. And a twin-engine Bonanza. I use it for pleasure outings, short trips. It’s a great little machine.” He gestured animatedly with one hand. “There’s a special kind of excitement to flying. Up there you’ve got the entire sky to yourself, the world spread out beneath you. It’s incredible. Have you ever been up in a private plane?”
A shudder ran through her body and she shook her head. “No. That’s one subject we won’t agree on—flying. I’m not a fan, especially of small planes. I have enough trouble getting myself to relax on a commercial flight.”
He seemed disappointed. “If you’re inferring that light planes aren’t safe, they are. It all depends on the experience of the mechanic and the pilot. If you tried it, I guarantee you’d change your mind.”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
After what happened three years ago, she’d vowed never to fly in a private plane. But she didn’t want to think about that now. The night was too perfect, with the crisp evening breeze, the dark velvet sky, and the frothy tide softly ebbing and flowing just a few yards away. She turned her head, focusing on the perfect sets of twin footprints they’d left behind in the damp sand. His looked large and solid next to her smaller ones. She thought how wonderful it was to have a man at her side, to walk with, talk with, share with. If only—
Stop it, Desiree, she warned herself. You know it’s impossible.
She searched quickly for a new topic to divert her mind. “What do you do about traffic lights when you’re driving?”
“I can tell by position. Red’s always on top. Green’s on the bottom.”
“I never thought of that.”
“It’s only a problem when there’s a flashing light. I’m never sure if it’s red or yellow, so I just plow right through.”
She gasped, then saw his devilish expression and laughed. “You seem to have adjusted well.”
“No, I haven’t.” He stopped and wrapped his arms around her, pressing her close to him. “As you saw y
esterday, I’m still embarrassed about it.”
Her pulse accelerated as she looked up at him and felt her slender body warm against the hard strength of his. It seemed only natural to slide her arms around his waist. “Why is it embarrassing?” she asked.
“It’s a flaw. It means there’s something permanently wrong with me. When the leaves turn colors in autumn, I can’t see them. The trees all look the same to me. Just plain dull brown.”
She hugged him tightly around the waist, wishing she had the courage to rub her hands up across his back, to learn the feel of his contoured muscles against the palms of her hands. “It hurts me to think of all the beauty you’re missing,” she whispered.
He tilted his head back and looked at her, his eyes reflecting the moonlight’s glow. “All the beauty I’ll ever need to see is right here, in my arms.” He raised his hand and she felt the rough strength of his index finger caress her cheek and trace the curve of her jaw. When his fingertip reached the corner of her lips, he paused, his eyes locking with hers. She read there his admiration, his desire, and his intent.
Desiree’s heart seemed first to stop, then beat double time. She shouldn’t kiss him. She should step back and deliver her friends-only smile. But just as moths are drawn to flame, she boldly followed the dictates of her instinct. She stood on her tiptoes, moved her hands to the back of his neck, threaded her fingers through his short silky hair, and offered her lips to him. Dazed by the fire of need blazing through her veins, she whispered, “Kiss me.”
He didn’t need a second invitation. His mouth came down on hers in a single expedient motion, the force of his lips matching the depth of passion in her voice. A moment later, they took a simultaneous, ragged breath, their eyes locked, glimmering with delight in the newness of what they’d just found. She felt his body tremble slightly against hers, as if he were struggling to contain the same impulses raging within her.
“Desiree...” he whispered.
It was the first time she’d heard him say her name. He whispered it reverently, with the throaty, sensual French inflection for which it was intended. It sounded like a prayer.
When his lips met hers again, it was with gentle persuasion. His mouth moved slowly, teasingly, as if savoring her warm softness. She felt her knees weaken beneath the feather-light contact, and he slid his hands tenderly up and down the length of her back, then pulled her more tightly against him. His tongue flicked back and forth across her lips, then delved into her moist mouth, hot and insistent. She arched against him, unsure if the rapid thudding she felt against his hard chest was the beating of his heart or her own.
Kyle drew back slightly, then trailed fiery kisses across her cheek and buried his face in her hair at the side of her neck. He heaved an uneven sigh, still holding her against him possessively.
“You are Desiree. Desired. Wanted. Longed for.” He pulled his head back and brought his wide, firm hands up to cradle her face. “I’ve wanted to kiss you from the first moment I saw you, standing there like some enchanted sprite in your studio. And when I had you in my arms last night, before we said goodnight...” He paused, taking a deep breath as if to steady himself. “I could see you weren’t ready, that I was going too fast. I can’t tell you how hard it’s been to wait, to force myself to keep my hands off you.”
“You didn’t have to wait long,” she whispered.
“Wrong.” His lips nuzzled her ear. “We met on the air, at three-forty-five yesterday afternoon. That was—let’s see...” He raised his head, eyes squinting as he made the mental calculation. “Thirty-one hours ago. Believe me, it’s been long enough.” He kissed her again, harder this time, then drew back and moved his eyes lingeringly over her face, as if trying to memorize every detail.
A sudden rush of icy water raced up the sand and swirled about their ankles. Desiree squealed as the wave splashed their bare legs with cold salty spray and foam. Kyle grabbed her hand, and they made a dash for higher land.
“Let’s go home.” He said the word home as if it was his too, a place they both shared. For some reason, she didn’t mind. They retraced their steps to his car and drove back to her house, their feet still bare and sandy.
When they arrived, she opened the car door and gestured toward the house with a nod of her head. “Come on in and get cleaned up. I’ll make you a mug of Mexican coffee, my own special recipe.”
“Who could refuse an invitation like that?”
They dusted off most of the sand from their feet, then went inside. His eyes widened when they passed through her sparkling-clean living room.
“What happened here in the past twenty-four hours? Did the maid get back from vacation?”
“Spring cleaning,” she retorted, grabbing his hand and pulling him down the hall. “Out of season.”
“Well, the place looks terrific.”
“Don’t get too excited. The back half of the house still thinks it’s the dead of winter.”
She tried to hurry him through to the master bathroom, hoping he wouldn’t notice her bedroom’s state of disarray. To her dismay, he stopped beside her unmade, four-poster bed, and wrapped one hand around a carved bedpost which reached his chin.
“You weren’t kidding,” he said. “You’ve really got one hell of a bed here.”
Remembering her remark the day before about her antique headboard, she followed his line of sight. He was paying more attention to the thrown-back comforter and exposed rumpled sheets, however, than to the exquisitely carved mahogany.
She gave him a shove toward the bathroom. “You have no respect for antiques.”
“I do,” he said. “I have a deep and abiding respect for antiques.” He yanked back the shower curtain over the porcelain bathtub. “I’m looking at one right here. A pink bathtub! Where would you find a pink bathtub nowadays?”
Her mouth opened and she took a sharp breath, watching him closely. Should she tell him? The bathtub was green. She closed her mouth again.
“You’re right,” she said. “You hardly ever see pink anymore.”
He seemed unaware of his mistake or her reaction to it, and she was glad. Quirking a brow in her direction he asked, “Want to take a bath?”
“No!” She tried to sound irritated and failed miserably. She handed him a wash cloth and towel from the linen closet and turned on the water in the tub. “I’m going to rinse my feet off. Or do you want to go first?”
“No, please. Be my guest.”
Standing alongside the tub, she dipped one foot under the running water. Bending forward, she washed the sand from between her toes and then switched legs. She was halfway through before she realized what a view her too-brief cutoffs must be providing Kyle. She jerked upright and whirled around.
“Don’t mind me.” The glimmer in his eyes made her cheeks flush red-hot.
“I’m done. I’ll just wait for you in the other room.” Desiree grabbed her towel and escaped out the door, her feet dripping as she ran.
***
“That was delicious,” Kyle said, finishing the last of the coffee she’d laced with tequila and a generous helping of cream. “I don’t get Mexican coffee too often up in Seattle.”
She sat beside him on the living-room couch, her bare feet, now clean and dry, tucked beneath her. “A definite drawback to being a northerner.”
“There are other drawbacks I can think of.” Putting down his cup, he drew her into his arms, his lips against her hair. “I had a great time tonight.”
“So did I.”
He held her against him for a moment, then bent his head and pressed his lips lightly against hers. He smoothed her cheek with his fingertips and kissed her again, and again, lingering longer with each soft touch of his mouth on hers.
A cloud of desire enveloped her, wrapping her in its swirling depths. She wanted to give in to her body’s yearning, to press herself against his hard strength and let his body imbue her with warmth. Instead, she gripped his shoulders lightly and whispered his name against his lips. “
Wait,” she said. “We should—”
“Should what?”
“Say good-night. You’re going home tomorrow, and—”
“Am I?” He brushed his lips against hers. “That depends on you.”
“On me?”
He nodded, drawing back slightly. “I’ll be tied up in a meeting all day tomorrow, but the truth is, I’m in no rush to fly home. We’ve got Friday night and the whole weekend ahead of us. If you’ll let me see you again, if you want me to stay—I’ll be here until the last possible second—until Monday morning at dawn.”
Surprise rendered her speechless. Her heart began to pound.
He searched her face for an answer. “Do you want me to stay?”
He took advantage of her moment of hesitation to lower his mouth to hers. His hands roved across her shoulders, then tenderly massaged her back before sliding around to brush the sides of her breasts.
She tried to resist. She couldn’t. Melting against him, she lifted her arms to caress his neck, her fingertips lacing through the thick short waves of his hair. His mouth moved slowly, gently against hers, his kiss kindling a fire that burst into flame deep within her. His tongue circled hers, exploring, dipping deeper, deeper, as if searching for each hidden sweet taste.
He turned, lowering her gently onto the sofa. His hand caressed first one soft breast and then the other through the thin fabric of her shirt and bra. A thousand tiny explosions coursed through her. Her entire body began to throb with sexual awareness, from her breasts, so full and aching, to an exquisite hot wetness between her thighs.
A moan escaped her lips. He lowered his body on top of hers and recaptured her mouth in a deep burning kiss. She felt the evidence of his arousal, hard and insistent against her. It only intensified her desire. Make love to me, her body sang out at the same time as her mind shouted, No! With the last vestige of her self-control, she tore her mouth from his.
