Raven's legs felt like rubber bands. She sank into a ratty metal folding chair that was wedged between cases of beer and an empty janitor's bucket.
You can do this, she told herself, praying that once she was actually out there, her memory wouldn't desert her and she'd recall her routine.
She helped people overcome their phobias all the time, as Hunter had reminded her. If she couldn't manage to get a grip on her own hang-ups, she was nothing more than a fraud.
Raven closed her eyes. She took a deep, slow breath, consciously blocking out Donny's voice, the impatient murmur of the crowd. She pulled in another lungful of air, feeling her tight chest begin to relax. She kept her eyes closed, her hands resting in her lap.
Raven took herself to her own special place, the place that always put her at ease. Silently she commanded each part of her body in turn to go slack, willed her heartbeat to slow its frantic pace. She concentrated on increasing the blood flow to her extremities, and felt her fingers warm fractionally.
Another deep breath, and another. When she felt as centered and calm as possible under the circumstances, she opened her eyes and looked right into Hunter's.
He was squatting directly in front of her, his forearms on his knees. His smile was gentle and reassuring and something else, something she chose not to explore just then.
"Where were you?" he asked.
Despite everything, she returned his smile. "Where else? The beach."
The same place Hunter had chosen during his hypnotherapy session.
Donny had been replaced onstage by the bearded fellow, whose belligerent brand of humor wasn't going over well with the audience. His "comedy" routine seemed to consist of running down every woman he'd ever known, and had more to do with spite than wit.
The sick dread began to bubble to the surface once more. "Hunter," Raven whispered, "I really don't think I can do this."
His eyes never left hers as he took her hands in his and rubbed his thumbs over the backs. His fingers felt dry and startlingly hot. "Raven. Ask yourself, what's the worst that can happen?" He must have sensed she was thinking up a droll rejoinder, because he added, "Seriously."
She took a deep breath. "Seriously? I could make a serious ass of myself."
"You don't know those people out there. Except for your buddies, and they care about you, they love you. Who gives a damn what the rest of them think?"
Where did that leave Hunter? Was he one of "the rest of them," or did he see himself as one of her close friends, someone who cared about her, who—
Raven slammed the lid on that line of thought. "What you're saying is rational, but there's nothing rational about this lalophobia of mine. It's a gut-level thing."
"Listen. When you're out there, pretend you're talking to Amanda and Charli and Sunny. Just to them."
"I'll try," she said, but she doubted it would work. "You know, if it weren't for you, coaching me, giving me these pep talks and all, I wouldn't have the courage to do this."
"I thought you were going to say if it weren't for me, you wouldn't be suffering like this."
She gave a shaky chuckle. "That, too."
He squeezed her hands. She looked into those remarkable eyes of his, and felt that dangerous invisible net pull tighter around the two of them. Onstage, the woman-bashing would-be comic turned his insult humor on the audience as they started to heckle him.
She whimpered, "Please tell me I'm not next."
Hunter rose, pulling her up with him; he had to feel how badly she was shaking. "You're next."
She jerked her hands out of his grip. "Hunter, listen to them! It's a feeding frenzy out there!"
"Don't worry, I won't let them draw blood." With that he trotted onto the stage and deftly steered the performer off it. The man shoved past Raven, snarling something she was just as happy she couldn't make out.
"Our last act this evening is Raven Muldoon," Hunter announced. "This is Raven's first time onstage, so let's make her feel welcome!" He put his hands together, encouraging the audience to do the same. Raven heard a desultory sprinkling of applause.
Her legs refused to move. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her throat constricted around the hard wad of dread she tried to force down.
Hunter's words came to her. You don't know those people out there.
Raven opened her eyes, saw Hunter giving her an encouraging wink from the stage. He was right. Who cared what those people thought of her? She had to do this, if only to prove to herself that she could, to establish some measure of control over this stupid, debilitating fear.
Forcing herself to put one wobbly leg in front of the other, she made the long trek across the wooden stage. The spotlights blinded her; the audience was a blur. Hunter pressed the microphone into her trembling hands, gave her shoulder a friendly pat and was gone.
As Raven faced the faceless audience, gut-wrenching panic wiped her mind clean. Desperately she cast around for a coherent thought, and found herself latching on to Hunter's words.
Pretend you're talking to Amanda and Charli and Sunny. Just to them.
Mentally she focused on their table, knowing generally where it was, although she couldn't see it. She imagined chatting with her closest friends, sharing observations about life, love and men.
She heard herself say, "That last act reminded me of my first blind date."
Where the heck had that come from? That wasn't what she was supposed to say! She'd practiced her opening line over and over until it was hardwired into her brain—a comment about turning thirty unmarried—but for some reason, when she'd opened her mouth, something entirely different had popped out.
A ripple of laughter greeted her words—more a testament to how much they'd despised the last act than how much they liked her, Raven knew. Meanwhile she grappled for an entrée into her rehearsed routine.
But the thing was, she had gone out with a man just like that. And so, she suspected, had many of the women in the audience. Which prompted her to add, "Guys like that are an acquired taste. Like getting your legs waxed."
This was rewarded with a burst of laughter, with higher-pitched female voices predominating. Raven's death grip on the mike slackened. She willed herself to relax fractionally.
"This blind date's name was Jerome," Raven said. "Jerome was so dense…" She paused meaningfully. When the audience failed to respond to this prompt the way Charli, Sunny and Amanda always did, she repeated, with exaggerated patience and broad gestures, "Jerome was so dense…"
They caught on. "How dense was he?" they hollered, more or less in unison.
"Jerome was so dense, he thought carpe diem meant 'fish of the day.'"
This was met with both chuckles and groans, but they were the kind of good-natured groans that told her her gag had hit the mark. Even the less literate in the audience had to know the Latin expression had nothing to do with seafood.
In that instant Raven realized Hunter was right. It wasn't so much what she said as the way she said it. The pacing, the pauses, the inflection—it all came naturally to her.
A detail from another blind date flashed through her mind. "The first thing out of Jerome's mouth was, 'I hope you have exact change for the bus.'"
She continued to rummage her memory stores, grafting bits and pieces from her long history of horrid dates onto her monologue about Jerome. This material segued seamlessly into her original "thirty and alone" topic.
She discussed how, once she turned thirty, she became the official spinster aunt of the family. "I'm learning the ropes," she said proudly. "The other day I offered my nephew a piece of linty ribbon candy from the bottom of my purse."
Her hands still shook, her palms sweated, her heart thumped like a bass drum, but she was doing it! She was opening her mouth and words were coming out—real words that made sense and, most remarkably, made the audience laugh and sometimes even clap.
Raven was surprised when the green traffic light at the rear of the room turned yellow—her one-minute warning. She'd been ta
lking for four minutes already!
She wrapped up her routine quickly, and the audience broke into spirited applause. Hunter materialized by her side. He asked the crowd, "Do we want Raven to return?" The enthusiastic response left no doubt that they did.
Raven blew a kiss to the audience and strode into the offstage waiting area, where, eyes closed, she collapsed against the nearest wall, gulping air, dizzy with relief.
I did it! I did it!
Vaguely she heard Hunter naming the headliners scheduled to perform that weekend, and bidding the patrons good-night.
I did it! I did it! I—
Her eyes snapped open when a firm, swift kiss landed on her mouth.
Hunter's eyes sparked with exhilaration and pride. "You did it!" he crowed, and kissed her again, clearly caught up in the excitement of the moment. Their giddy laughter mingled, then melted as their lips shifted, and parted, and clung.
Raven was only dimly aware of Hunter crushing her to the wall, of her hands sliding up his hard shoulders to pull him closer. Her senses were jumbled, her mind overloaded, reeling from the emotional roller coaster she'd ridden that evening. At that moment she didn't think, couldn't think, could only feel, and what she felt right then was the sweet, unadulterated rightness of it.
Hunter pressed closer until she was sandwiched, almost painfully, between the cold wall and his sinewy heat. He cupped the back of her neck and kissed her hard and deep, as if loath to release her, loath to relinquish the wonder of the moment and face the consequences.
Those consequences swooped in for the kill the instant they parted, breathless. Raven touched her lips, tender and swollen under her trembling fingertips. The taste of him lingered, stirring her senses. She girded her courage and made herself look Hunter in the eye. And wished she hadn't. His stricken expression cut like a knife blade.
He backed up a step, shook his head as if to disavow what had just happened. "Raven, I'm—"
"Don't." She couldn't bear to hear him apologize for that mind-blowing kiss.
He turned away, raking his fingers through his hair.
"I didn't plan that I would never—" Cursing, he kicked the janitor's bucket into a stack of cartons. He leaned a palm on the opposite wall, head bowed. In a voice tight with strain, he said, "I would never betray my brother."
"I know that." Raven's voice shook. She hugged herself. "I wouldn't either. What happened just now—it was no one's fault. It was the excitement, the relief, it just kind of … took over." She dragged in a shuddering breath and told the lie that Hunter needed to hear. "It didn't mean anything."
Slowly he straightened. He turned and looked her in the eye, as if to gauge her sincerity. After a few seconds she had to look away.
His quiet words had a note of finality. "We'll forget this happened." When she didn't respond, he added, "Can you do that?"
Raven nodded. She cleared her throat. "Yes. Of course."
After a few moments Hunter took a tentative step toward her. "Raven…"
She looked up then, wearing a forced smile that cost her more than he could ever know. "Listen, don't worry about it," she said lightly. "It's not like we tore each other's clothes off. Things got a little out of hand, we both feel lousy about it and it'll never happen again. End of story."
* * *
Chapter 7
«^»
Hunter sipped single-malt Scotch and watched Kirsten undress. Comfortably ensconced in one of a pair of overstuffed armchairs her parents had parted with when she'd gotten her own apartment, he was digesting the roast pork and mashed potatoes she'd made for him. The glass he drank from was a burger-joint giveaway emblazoned with animated characters from the latest Disney movie.
"I'm thinking of going for my M.B.A.," Kirsten said, as she pulled the scrunchie out of her hair and shook out the chestnut waves.
"What would you do with an M.B.A.?" Hunter asked as she lifted the hem of her multicolored wool sweater and pulled it over her head, revealing a lithe torso dad only in a snug, tank-style undershirt. Her lovely high, small breasts pushed against the ribbed pink fabric. Hunter knew from experience just how firm and responsive those breasts were.
"Without an advanced degree, I'm pretty much at a dead end careerwise," she said, as she opened the fly of her jeans. Kirsten was administrative assistant to the director of sales of a large sporting goods company. "Everyone's getting promoted around me."
Hunter watched her step out of her jeans, watched as those firm, athletic legs came into view. Her pink bikini underpants matched her tank top, but clashed with the droopy orange socks that adorned her feet.
"You're cold," he announced. "Ask me how I can tell."
Kirsten glanced down at her chest. "How do you know I'm not, like, all sexed up and ready for you?"
"At the moment, you're more interested in M.B.A.s than the contents of my B.V.D.s." He tossed back the last of his Scotch and set the glass on the side table, on top of an issue of Shape Magazine. "Come here."
She took a running leap and propelled herself onto his lap, squirming in place to straddle him. There were times when Hunter felt ancient and worn-out in the face of Kirsten's seemingly inexhaustible energy. He chafed the gooseflesh from her arms as she lowered her head and kissed him.
"It's been a while," she murmured. "You work too many hours. I'm surprised you let Matt cover for you tonight."
"You can't grow a business by treating it like a nine-to-five job."
"That's why I'll never own my own business." She started working on the buttons of his indigo denim shirt. "I'd rather work for someone else and know I have a paycheck coming every two weeks. What's this? No undershirt. Mmm…" She trailed her fingers through the chest hair exposed by his open shirt, then bent down to nip at his shoulder—one of his most reliable "on" buttons.
He should have been completely relaxed by now, after that heavy dinner and the double shot of whiskey. Unfortunately, the only part of him that was relaxed was the one part that shouldn't be, with a sexy twenty-one-year-old nymphet crawling all over him.
Okay, nymphet wasn't fair; he knew that. Kirsten wasn't underage, after all, no matter how much she might look it. Hunter recalled Raven's comment about Kirsten borrowing ID to go wine-tasting.
She raised her head. "What are you snickering about?"
"I wasn't snickering. Don't stop." He pulled her closer. "I like what you were doing."
"Really? You seemed … somewhere else."
"I'm a little tense, is all. Work." It was a lie, but what was he supposed to tell her? I nearly jumped my brother's woman and it's got me just a tad on edge.
It's not like we tare each other's clothes off, Raven had said. He couldn't speak for her, but for him it was a close thing. As far as she was concerned, the excitement of the moment had taken over and things had just gotten a little out of hand. It didn't mean anything. Her words.
If that was how she really felt—and he wasn't entirely convinced it was—then he was glad for her sake. She hadn't done anything wrong, after all. He was the one who'd initiated that kiss. He was the one who'd gone overboard and turned what should have been a congratulatory peck into a damn tonsil-hockey tournament.
The thought of tournaments triggered another, troubling memory. What was that business about Brent missing his girlfriend's first, scary foray into stand-up comedy to play cards? Hunter wasn't privy to every detail of his brother's social life, but that had been the first he'd heard of a poker tournament. Raven had needed support, encouragement, a hand to hold. If she were Hunter's, nothing would have kept him from her side at a time like that.
He'd encouraged her to continue performing at Stitches, and to her credit, she'd agreed. Yesterday she'd stepped onstage for the second time, with different material. She'd still been anxious, of course, and there had been a few shaky moments during her routine, but she'd done a creditable job—on her own this time, with no little ploys from him to help her along. For her first performance, he'd put her on after the audience had been l
oosened up, and had made sure she'd followed a couple of losers, so she couldn't help but look terrific by comparison.
"Well, don't worry," Kirsten said, as she lightly tugged on his chest hair. "By the time I'm finished with you, you won't be tense at all. I guarantee it."
He gave her the suggestive smile he knew she expected. "So I should put myself in your hands, is that it?"
"For starters." She gyrated on his lap. If she expected that to make him into an upstanding citizen, she was destined for disappointment.
Hunter had to take corrective action, and fast. He'd never had a problem getting hard, and he damn sure didn't intend to start now!
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as Kirsten's hands slid up his chest, out to his shoulders and down again in a soothing circular pattern. Automatically he started the process of relaxation Raven had taught him, imagining himself on the beach, feeling the tension ebb from each part of his body in turn.
His first impulse after last week's illicit kiss had been to cancel his second hypnotherapy session scheduled for the following morning. But his good intentions—not to mention his good sense—had succumbed to his overwhelming desire to spend that stolen hour with Raven, and in the end, he'd kept his appointment.
As he felt his muscles loosen and his breathing slow, Hunter recalled Raven's voice as it had sounded that very morning during his third session, throaty and coaxing. He remembered how exotic she'd looked, in a loose, calf-length dress printed with a Moroccan-looking pattern in warm earth tones. The fluid fabric had drifted around her body in a most distracting way. Even when she'd sat primly in the rocker in her office, with the notebook balanced on her crossed leg, he'd had to force himself to close his eyes and begin the process of deep relaxation. He could have looked at her all day.
And even then, it was Raven he'd seen behind his closed eyelids, stretching out on the beach towel next to him, wearing a tiny bikini and asking him to undo her top so she wouldn't have tan lines.
LOVE'S FUNNY THAT WAY Page 6
