by Janet Dailey
When she opened the door to admit Race, she couldn’t think of a casual greeting. He said nothing either as he stepped inside. His gaze skimmed over her see-through blouse, taking note of the lacy outline of her navy-blue bra. He carried a small grocery sack in the crook of his arm.
“I’ll take that into the kitchen,” Vanessa murmured nervously, and reached for the paper bag.
Race handed it to her and let his gaze travel around the apartment. “Very fashionable—comfortable and quietly elegant,” he observed, letting his attention return to her. A faintly caustic note entered his voice. “What else would one expect from the home of an interior decorator, hmm?”
“I like it.” It was a defensive answer, pricked by the insinuation that he didn’t.
His heavy sigh was laced with grimness. “Sorry,” he said curtly. “It is nice.”
But she couldn’t take much pleasure from such a grudging admission. “I’ll get dinner started.” She moved toward the small kitchen, carrying the grocery sack.
Race followed her, and leaned a shoulder against the archway. Vanessa was proud of the way she had decorated it. Butcher-block countertops and varying sizes of copper pans hanging above the stove gave it a homey touch, she thought, but she doubted Race would see it that way. And she wasn’t about to ask.
She set the sack down on the counter and opened the top to see what he’d bought. There was a bag of English muffins, a carton of eggs, and some wrapped meat.
“I remembered that you used to be good at fixing eggs Benedict,” Race said. “I hope you haven’t lost your touch.”
“It’s been a while, but I don’t think so.” She unwrapped the Canadian bacon and set it to one side. For a short while after they were first married, it had become almost a ritual Sunday-morning breakfast. The dish had been part of some of their happier times before all the trouble had started.
“It wasn’t all bad between us,” Race murmured, as if following the direction of her thoughts.
“No, not all bad,” Vanessa agreed tightly, then forced a smile. “Why don’t you go watch television while I cook dinner?”
“Are you trying to say I’m not any help?” There was a dancing glint in his eyes, ignoring the elemental tension that charged the air between them.
“Something like that,” she retorted, trying to match his mood.
Race smiled lazily and disappeared into the living room. A few seconds later she heard the sound of a television program. It was impossible to forget he was in the next room. All the while she was frying the bacon and whipping up the hollandaise sauce, the thought kept hammering at her mind that she had made a mistake inviting Race to her apartment. She was starting to forget all the reasons their marriage hadn’t worked and starting to remember the physical side of their relationship.
His masculinity was a potent force, his rugged good looks too disturbing. In those first few weeks of marriage, Race had so easily broken down her barriers of modesty. It had taken a long time to rebuild them. He had been so casual about nudity and sex, constantly teasing her for being so uptight about both. But he hadn’t understood her need for security, either.
The dining room occupied a small niche off the kitchen, with a narrow table positioned in front of the window overlooking Jackson Square. There was an unobstructed view of the sidewalk artists exhibiting their paintings on the ornate iron fence around the square, and the picturesque horses and carriages that took tourists on rides through the French Quarter.
Vanessa arranged the place settings for two and tried not to remember this was the first time she had entertained any man other than Race’s father in her apartment. She waited until she had carried the plates to the table, a garnish of parsley sprigs adding color to the golden sauce covering the poached eggs and bacontopped muffins; then she called to Race.
“Would you like milk to drink, or coffee later?” she inquired, when he came to the table.
“Coffee later,” he said, pulling out a chair to sit down. “It looks good.”
“Thank you.” Vanessa smoothed the paisley napkin over her lap.
“How long has it been since we’ve sat across the table from each other?” Race mused.
“A long time.” The muscles in her throat constricted. She had trouble swallowing the first bite. The conversation was not taking a safe course, so she changed it. “I’ve always wondered, Race, why you keep trying, when you haven’t managed to hit anything in all these years.”
“That’s not entirely true,” he corrected. “I’ve got a half-dozen ‘stripper’ wells producing. They bring in enough to take care of my office overhead.”
“‘Stripper’ wells?” Most of the slang terms were foreign to her. She wondered why she hadn’t picked up his vernacular during their married years, then realized she hadn’t wanted to know.
“It is a gas well that produces under sixty thousand cubic feet of gas a day. A big company wouldn’t find it economical to recover that low volume, but I’m not a big company yet.”
“What would they do with it?” She frowned.
“Probably flare it—burn it off.” Race automatically explained the term, a slight keenness in his expression.
“Is that why you’re still in it? Because you’ve found a little?” She wondered if the small find was like a carrot being dangled in front of him.
He seemed to consider the question before answering it. “It’s the challenge. Like a mountain you climb because it’s there. In this case, it’s the challenge of discovering it.”
“And once you discover it?” Vanessa prompted, trying to understand his apparent compulsion.
“There’s always more out there waiting to be found,” he reminded her. “When you decorate someone’s home, do you quit? Isn’t there always another house, another room, that challenges your ability?”
“Yes,” she conceded the point. “But not with the risks—financial risks you take.”
“It’s only money.” His shoulders lifted in an expressive shrug of indifference.
“That’s because you don’t look past today. You’re thirty-six years old—in your prime. You can laugh at security. But what happens when you’re seventy-two and you’re broke?” Vanessa argued. “You have to provide for that eventuality. If you’re always gambling everything you own, how can you ever have security in your later years?”
“It’s simple.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “I’m never going to get old.”
“How can you joke about it?” she declared in irritation.
“Because I don’t want to argue with you,” Race stated. “It’s bad for the digestion. I don’t want to ruin a good meal.”
“That’s so typical of you.” An anger born out of frustration brought smarting tears to her eyes. Vanessa bent her head to hide them and stabbed a fork at her food. “You never would discuss it. That was your life and that was the way it was going to be. Your attitude always was: I could take it or leave it. It didn’t matter what I wanted. You wouldn’t even talk about it.”
“And today we are divorced.” There was a harshness in his voice, assertive and blunt. “So it shouldn’t matter in my old age. You go ahead and live your life the way you want to, and let me worry about mine.”
“Which is another way of avoiding the issue,” she murmured bitterly. The food seemed suddenly tasteless, its flavor departing along with her appetite.
“Why don’t we agree to differ?” Race challenged.
The air was so thick with bared hostility that Vanessa could hardly breathe. Her stomach was churning from the emotional turmoil that buffeted her. This was not the way she had wanted it—this was never the way she had wanted it.
“This always happens, doesn’t it?” She lifted her gaze from the plate to look at him. There was stormy confusion in her violet eyes. “If we’re together more than five minutes, we’re at each other’s throats.”
Race didn’t deny it. “We both have scars that haven’t healed—and we know just what to say to hurt the other perso
n.”
“But why?” Vanessa demanded in taut bewilderment. “I put all that bitterness and resentment behind me. I have a career and a beautiful apartment. Our marriage is over and done with, so why can’t we at least be civil to each other?”
“Maybe because it isn’t over and done with between us,” Race suggested while his dark gaze traveled from her eyes to her mouth and back again. “Maybe the ashes have been smoldering for the past four years. You’ve got to admit the heat is still there. A little fanning, and we’d have a fire.”
“No.” She wouldn’t accept that possibility. She had lived in that inferno once. Only a fool would brave the flames a second time. “Excuse me.” Vanessa laid her napkin alongside her plate and pushed her chair away from the table. “I think I’ll check on the coffee.”
CHAPTER FIVE
COFFEE WAS just an excuse Vanessa used to escape his disturbing presence and the volatility that always surrounded them when they were together. She stopped in front of the glass coffeemaker and gripped the edge of the counter, shaken by a violent shudder.
There was a seething conflict of emotions raging inside her. Bitterness, resentment, and pain were all tearing at her. It didn’t make any sense that she was letting Race affect her this way. What kind of invisible hold did he have on her? Why hadn’t she let well enough alone and stayed away from him? Instead, she had invited him here—to her apartment for dinner. Out of pity? How could she feel sorry for someone who ripped her heart to pieces?
A footstep sounded on the tiled floor behind her, warning Vanessa that she was no longer alone in the kitchen. There was a burning sensation that traveled from the back of her neck down the curving length of her spine, the path his inspecting gaze was taking. It radiated through her nervous system in a rippling effect that sensitized all her nerve ends to his presence.
Vanessa quickly made herself busy, opening the cupboard door above the coffeemaker and taking down two cups. “The coffee is finished.” Despite her attempt at indifferent briskness, there was a betraying quiver in her voice. “Shall I pour it now?”
His hands moved onto her shoulder bones, and Vanessa stiffened at the contact that was both familiar and disturbing. The warmth from his body shimmered over her like heat waves, distorting the distance that remained between them and minimizing it until he seemed closer.
“Forget the coffee,” Race instructed in a thick, low voice that vibrated through her. “Haven’t you guessed yet why we’ve been arguing ever since we met again?”
“No.” It was a small sound as Vanessa held herself motionless, her breath running shallow while her pulse hammered wildly in her throat. She was afraid the least movement might act as an explosive catalyst.
“Because we were both trying to avoid this.” There was a slow, exploring slide of his hands downward to the soft flesh of her upper arms, as if he was rediscovering the way she felt. “As long as we were fighting, we could keep a safe distance between us. But if we stopped, we might find out we still wanted each other.”
His hands exerted a slight pressure to draw her a few inches backward. Her lips parted in protest, but no sound came out. At the stirring touch of his breath on her hair, Vanessa closed her eyes in a weak attempt to block out his existence. But she only succeeded in heightening her other senses.
The sharp, stimulating fragrance of his after-shave became stronger, its heady scent working on her mute resistance. Lifting her chin high, Vanessa tried turning her head away in hopes of eluding his strongly male smell. But she had unwittingly left herself open to a more tangible assault on her defenses.
She didn’t realize her error until she felt the tantalizing brush of his mouth on the long curve of her neck. She tensed for a rigid instant, then melted at the searing enjoyment of his nibbling caress.
With a half-smothered groan, Race curled his arms around the front of her waist and gathered her against him. The whole length of her body was heated by the contact with his hard, male outline from the solid columns of his thighs and the angular thrust of his hips to the dominating breadth of his muscled chest.
“I want you, Vanessa,” he muttered thickly. His mouth moved roughly near her ear, its moistness tangling her hair and messing its smooth style. “I’ve never stopped wanting you, although God knows I’ve tried.”
“No.” She didn’t want to hear that. It was too seductive, and she didn’t want to get caught in the undertow of his desire, but there was a sinking feeling that it was already too late.
His hands glided upward to cup the undersides of her breasts as they strained against the confinement of her thin clothes. There was an aching familiarity to his intimate caress, so arousing and possessive. It was difficult to remember that Race had no right to touch her like this—with such ease.
“You want me, too. I can feel the way you’re trembling.” His hold tightened to fit her more closely to his muscled length and absorb the little shudders of reluctant longing.
“But I don’t.” Not with her mind, because Vanessa knew Race would only break her heart again. But her body didn’t care. She resented his sexual skill that could arouse her desire until it took precedence over her will.
“Why do you always have to deny it?” he demanded roughly, a biting impatience in his voice. “Why can’t you be honest about your feelings and desires? There’s no shame in passion. Love isn’t a dirty four-letter word.”
“I never aroused your love,” Vanessa protested with an aching throb in her voice. “Only your lust. Anyone would do. You proved that with the number of women you’ve known since we broke up.”
With forceful pressure he turned her around and spread his hand over the side of her face, running his thumb over her lips to familiarize himself with their soft curves. The dark intensity of his gaze seemed to make her heart turn over.
“None of them were you, Vanessa,” Race insisted. “They weren’t even good imitations. Why do you think I went through so many of them? I kept telling myself there would be another woman out there who could make me feel the way you do. There isn’t. I spent four years of searching, so I ought to know.”
Beaten by the stroking caress of his thumb that parted her lips, Vanessa swayed against him. With a muffled moan of exulting triumph, he crushed her pliant body to his and combed his fingers into her mink-brown hair, destroying its sleek style and cupping the back of her head in his hand.
He kissed her with a deep, raw hunger that flamed through her body. His heart thudded wildly beneath her splayed fingers, only a drumbeat faster than her own. She was helpless to combat the fires he started. All she could manage was to keep them under loose control.
His hand moved restlessly up and down her spine. She was virtually breathless when the long kiss ended, but her eyes remained closed as he rubbed his mouth over her face, filling himself with the taste of her.
“I want to go on holding you and kissing you, Vanessa.” The heat of his moist breath fanned her already flushed skin. “I want to have you naked in my arms again, your body against mine.”
She felt his fingers on her blouse front, searching for the small navy-blue buttons. He wasn’t asking if it was what she wanted. Like always, Race didn’t care about her wants and needs as long as he was satisfied. Tomorrow didn’t mean anything to him, but Vanessa knew if she slept with him tonight, she’d regret it in the morning.
“No.” Her first refusal held no conviction, but it gained strength when Vanessa repeated it the second time, more forcefully. “No!” She flattened her hands against his chest and pushed away.
Her sudden use of physical resistance caught him off guard. She was taking a step backward out of his arms before Race could check her escape. For a stunned second his hands remained lifted, reaching out to her. His gaze darkened to black as he watched her fumbling to fasten the one button he had succeeded in freeing.
“What the hell is it this time?” Race demanded in a rumbling growl.
“I don’t want you to touch me again.” Vanessa braved the dange
rous gleam in his eyes and steadily faced him, wary and trembling inwardly with a lusting ache for the very thing she was denying herself.
“It’s the wrong room, isn’t it?” His glance sliced out to take note of their surroundings, while his upper lip curled with the angry taunt.
“Leave me alone.” It was almost a warning, even though she knew she was no match for him physically.
Race moved so quickly for a man his size. One minute there was more than three feet separating them, and in the next, he had snared her wrist. He ignored her startled outcry of alarm and turned around, dragging her after him as he strode out of the kitchen. No amount of pulling, twisting, or prying succeeded in loosening his iron grip. Her panic mounted when Vanessa realized he was headed for the bedroom.
There was only one window in the room. With dusk settling over the Crescent City, little light streamed through the glass to alleviate the interior dimness. But there was enough to show the location of the bed with its chocolate-and-gold velvet bedspread.
Race stopped a few feet inside the room, but his hand continued to pull on her wrist, using her impetus to impel her forward in a slingshot effect toward the bed. Off balance, Vanessa had to grab a wooden poster to keep from falling onto the mattress. It was an instinctive move that made her try to hide behind the carved mahogany bedpost, as if it could somehow protect her from Race.
He stood in the middle of the room, glaring at her, his feet slightly apart and his hands resting belligerently on his hips. A taut violence seemed to possess him.
“Now what’s your excuse?” he hurled savagely. “I suppose it’s not dark enough for you!”
In three long strides Race was at the window to yank the shade down and throw the room into almost total darkness. The silence that followed seemed to grip Vanessa by the throat. If it wasn’t for the whiteness of his shirt, she wouldn’t have been sure of his position.
