by Diana Palmer
The insistent buzz of the door bell interrupted her thoughts. With a sigh, she left the untouched slice of pie on the table and went to open the back door. The object of her irritation was standing there, head cocked to one side, eyes narrowed. He'd changed into tan slacks and a patterened tan knit pullover, and apparently his surge of temper was over, too.
"I thought someone should tell you," he began deeply, "that when they said the way to man's heart was through his stomach, they didn't mean to dump food on it."
The statement, and the taciturn way he made it, broke through her reserve. The laughter started, and she couldn't stop before tears were tumbling down her flushed cheeks. "Oh, I am sorry," she apologized, "but I'd been baking all morning, and I thought you might like a fresh pie, and...."
"I'm bad tempered when I'm in the middle of something," he replied. "A clamp on the muffler came loose...oh, hell, Burgundy, I'm not used to women in broad daylight, much less women who can cook!"
That made her blush, and she stared at the door. "I've got another pie, if you'd like a slice." There was a silence, and she looked up quickly, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, you're in a hurry, I imagine, and I've got to go to the store...!"
"Don't panic," he said quietly. "You're not the kind of woman who throws herself at a man. I've learned that about you, if nothing else. I'm not in a hurry, and you don't have to go to the store. I'd like that pie."
"I...I..." She took a deep breath and stood aside. "Won't you come in?"
She motioned him to the table while she got down coffee mugs and another slice of pie.
Meanwhile, Cabbage came in to see what the disturbance was all about and stood watching the newcomer with her crossed eyes intent and wary.
"Purebread?" he asked, leaning down to let the cat sniff at his hands before she began to purr and scrape her cheeks against it.
"Yes," Madeline replied, setting a cup of coffee and a slice of pie m front of him at the table. "Her name's really Sultana, but I call her Cabbage."
He scratched the cat's ears. "Do you show her?"
She shook her head. "Those lovely crossed eyes would disqualify her in any real competition, she's little more than breeding stock. But I liked her because she wasn't perfect."
He took a bite of the pie and nodded. "It tastes better than it felt," he said with a glance in her direction.
She grinned self-consciously. "Sorry about that. If it's any consolation, you didn't do my ears much good."
"I never pretended to be a saint."
"God knows, you'd never be accused of it."
He finished the pie and leaned back, satisfied, to sip his coffee, taking it black, as she had half expected. He set the mug on the table and pulled a cigarette from the package in his pocket.
"Do you mind?" he asked formally.
She shook her head.
"Want one?"
"I don't smoke." She got up to get him an ashtray from the counter and set it in front of him.
"No lecture?" he asked with deliberate mockery.
"I live my life as I please," she told him. "I think other people have the right to do the same."
He lit the cigarette and threw his arm over the back of the chair, watching her through a cloud of smoke. He seemed to fill the room, not only with his size, but with the raw force of his personality. His dark, masculine vitality clung like the cologne he wore.
"I think it's time you and I did some straight talking," he said finally. His eyes narrowed, glittering across at her. "How would you feel about having an affair with me?"
Chapter 3
She could feel the blood draining out of her face, the astonishment making her eyes widen and darken with shock. Had she heard him right?
He chuckled softly. "Never mind, words couldn't say it any better than the look on your face. All right, Burgundy, I get the message. As you said before, I'm years too old for you."
She caught her breath, taking a sip of the hot coffee as she searched for something to say. "You say the most outrageous things," she said breathlessly.
"The best defense is a good offense, didn't you know that?" He sobered, setting the mug down and leaning forward. His forearms crossed on the table as his eyes met hers. "You need someone, little girl. You have a haunted look about you when you think no one's watching. You're years too young for that kind of ache, that kind of loneliness. All I can offer you is friendship, but I think it might help us both. In a real sense, I'm as alone as you are, Burgundy."
She met his gaze levelly. "Are you?"
He studied her in silence for a long time.
"I've had women, Burgundy. I think you knew that already. And I'll still have them. I'm a man, with all the man's needs, I can't live like a monk."
She felt the flush returning. Even with Phillip, there hadn't been this kind of adult conversation, this frankness...even their kisses had been gentle, undemanding....
"That's none of my business," she managed in what she hoped was a calm voice.
"No, it isn't. No more than your sex life is any business of mine..if you even have one." He took a deep breath. "The only way a relationship between us is going to work is if we keep it on a non-physical level. Men and women aren't usually friends," he added, stressing the last word just enough to make his meaning clear.
"I know that." She studied her hands onher lap. "You didn't ask, but I'll tell you anyway. I've never had a lover, and I don't want one. But I do, very badly, need a friend. Someone to...hold onto, who won't make demands I can't meet. Someone just to talk to and do things with...."
"My God, maybe I ought to just adopt you!"
She jerked her eyes up to his, puzzled at the anger there. "But you just said...."
"Never mind. Never mind, I said," he growled as she opened her mouth. He gulped down his coffee. "Thanks for the pie. I've got a few phone calls to make."
She bent her head, staring down into the black, glimmering liquid in her coffee cup, stung almost to tears by the whip in his voice, the anger that she couldn't understand. She couldn't answer him, not without having him hear the tears in her voice.
"Burgundy?" he asked gruffly.
She shook her head, trying to convey in that non-verbal message that there was nothing wrong.
She heard his footsteps move closer, until he was standing beside her, his hands clenched into fists in his pockets.
He sighed deeply, and one big hand came out of the pocket to tip her face up, very gently, to his view.
"I'm forty years old," he said tightly.
She forced a tremulous smile to her lips. "I won't kick your crutches out from under you, if that's what you're worried about," she whispered.
His eyes closed, and an involuntary deep chuckle shook his chest. "Oh, my God, what am I letting myself in for? Eat your pie, you impudent little upstart. I'll see you later."
❧
Several days passed. They had waved to each other a few times but it was the middle of the week before she spoke to him again, and in the most unexpected way of all.
She was sprawled on the couch, feeling the day's tension drain slowly out of her, when the jangle of the phone burst onto the pleasant silence like a broken record.
With a muffled curse, she went to answer it.
Resenting the intrusion, she picked up the receiver reluctantly and put it to her ear. "Hello," she said dully.
"Tired, Burgundy?" came a familiar deep voice, and her pulse unexpectedly ran away. "What are you doing?"
"I'm...what do you want?" she countered lightly, with a glow on her face that would have shocked her if she'd seen it in a mirror.
"Company," he said flatly. "The walls are shrinking over here. How about coming over for that steak I owe you?"
"You can cook?" she asked impudently.
"Can I cook?" he echoed incredulously. "My God, I can make snake taste like pheasant under glass!"
"I only asked. How soon do I have to be there?"
"Ten minutes. And, honey, don't dress up," he added. "I'm
so damned sick of evening gowns and long dresses...I haven't even put on a tie."
"Listen, I have this terrific overall ensemble with suspenders..." she began enthusiastically.
But she was talking to herself. He'd hung up. Muttering about impatient men, she pulled on a pink V-necked top over a pair of white slacks, ran a brush through her long auburn hair and pinned it on top of her head, and added the slightest touch of makeup.
Cal answered the door, casually dressed in white slacks with a deep blue silk shirt that showed his muscular arms to advantage and which hung slightly open in front to reveal black, curling hair and bronze skin. Everything about him was intensely masucline, even the musky cologne that clung to his hard strong body as she brushed past him.
"Five minutes," he said, glancing at his watch. "I've never known a woman to be so punctual. Are you that efficient on the job?"
"I try to be," she said with a smile as he motioned her into the rich deep brown decor of the living room with its pale carpet and brown and off-white drapes. It had a faintly African flavor, right down to the hand-carved statuettes of lions and gazelles.
"I spent some time in Africa years ago," he said, noticing her preoccupation with the furnishings. "I like the art particularly."
"So do I. Very much."
He came away from the tall, mahogany bar with two glasses in his hands and set one in front of her on a coaster on the coffee table. "It's a Tom Collins," he said. "I hope you like gin."
"I...uh," she faltered, "I don't exactly know how you're going to take this, but I don't drink."
He blinked at her. "You don't what?" he asked politely.
"I don't drink Thanks anyway," she said, trying to ignore the glass facing her.
"Is there some particular reason for that hang-up?" he asked curiously, leaning a muscular forearm over the back of the sofa while he studied her through narrowed, wary eyes. "I didn't ask you over here with the intention of getting you drunk and seducing you."
She blushed, and he saw it. A strange expression crossed his rugged face.
"I don't like alcohol," she said quietly. "That's the honest-to-God truth, and you can take it any way you like. It makes me sick to drink it."
"Burgundy, you are one hell of a puzzle to me," he said, shaking his dark head as he studied her. "I'll be damned if you aren't. You don't drink, don't smoke, don't chase men, don't put on airs...and you can still blush. Have you ever slept in a man's arms, little girl?"
The blush deepened, and she looked away. "I came over for supper, I thought," she reminded him.
"I've got a casserole in the oven," he said. "With ten more minutes to go—potatoes au gratin. Do you have to wear your hair like that? I don't like it."
"You don't have to like it."
"Don't argue. I get enough of that everywhere else." He reached out a big hand and carefully pulled out the hairpins, as if he had every right. And she didn't try to stop him as the auburn tresses drifted in wisps down around her face and shoulders. "That's better," he said in a deep, lazy voice. His fingers tangled it gently, and the careless action had an effect on her pulse that she didn't even want to acknowledge. "No hair spray," he commented. "Just soft and natural and silky to touch. There's nothing artificial about you, is there, honey?"
Her eyes were on that broad chest where the shirt strained open across a mat of curling dark hair. The scent of his cologne was everywhere. The vibrancy of his big body seemed to be reaching across the space that separated them, drawing her towards him. He made her feel sensations that were new and exciting and vaguely frightening. She couldn't get her breath this close to him, a discovery that brought her heart into her throat.
Her eyes were on his mouth, watching the hard masculine lines of it curve suddenly, gently, into 'a semblance of a smile. His fingers touched her throat gently, where the pulse was slamming at its walls. His skin was masculine and dark against that white softness.
"Your heart's going very fast, little one," he murmured lazily. "Are you afraid of me?"
"I don't know you very well," she managed in a loud whisper.
"That explains it then," he said with a smile in his voice. He took his hand away. "Come help me with the steaks. You can slice the onions," he added wickedly, going ahead of her into the kitchen.
"You said that as if you actually knew that they make me cry," she teased, getting her balance back with the distance between them.
"I guessed. Here, don't cut yourself," he added, handing her a sharp knife and an onion.
The kitchen, for so large a house, was unusually small. All through the preparations, she had to brush against him as she worked, and every fleeting contact with that rock-hard masculine body made her tingle. By the time it was ready, she was visibly shaken, despite her efforts not to let it show.
Just as they started to sit down to eat, he came up behind her and caught her waist from behind with two powerful hands.
"You remind me of Cabbage," he s aid at her ear, his breath warm on the soft skin. "Will it make it any easier if I kiss you, little girl?"
The trembling started in the pit of her stomach and worked up and down her body until he could feel the vibration.
Her fingers caught at his, cold and almost pleading. "S...supper will get cold," she whispered nervously.
He chuckled gently. "All right. Here." He let her go and seated her at the table with an old-world courtesy.
The meal was delicious when she calmed down enough to taste it properly, and Cal, blast him, sat there looking like a lion studying it prey. Leaning back, every muscle in those big arms, that broad chest, was visible against the electric blue of his shirt that emphasized the darkness of his wavy hair, his complexion. His eyes glittered at ther across the width of the table.
"Well, how is it?" he asked as she finished her serving of casserole.
"Not bad at all," she said, "for a man, that is."
"Female chauvinist pig," he returned, pausing to light a cigarette. "Burgundy, do you like to fly?"
She paled. "No!" she whispered unsteadily.
His eyes narrowed with sudden insight. "I see. I don't mean that kind of airplane, though. I mean a small, light aircraft. We could fly down to Panama City and swim in the Gulf."
Her startled eyes met his. "Light aircraft?" she echoed.
"A Cessna." He leaned his elbows on the table and studied her. "Honey, you can't live in the past. You can't let old terrors haunt you. When your time's up, it's up, not matter what you happen to be doing, don't you know that? Fear is a kind of disease, Burgundy. Come with me and take the cure."
She swallowed hard. "When?"
"Saturday. We'll leave at daybreak and spend the day."
"What if I get airsick?" she asked.
"We'll carry some extra pots and pans," he replied cooly, with a broad wink. "Come on, Burgundy. I'll take care of you."
"All...all right," she agreed. He'd said he'd take care of her, and she knew instinctively that he would. It eased the old fears.
"That's the spirit," he said gently. "Cal," she asked suddenly, "if you don't mind my asking, what do you do?"
Both eyebrows went up. "Didn't I tell you? I import banana plants for families in Newfoundland."
She stared at him. "But bananas won't grow in Newfoundland...." He put his finger to his lips. "Shhhhh!"
She burst out laughing, and it was the last time she asked him the question.
It didn't take her long to learn that he could say the most outrageous things with apparent sincerity. His wit was drier than desert sand, and he enjoyed a good joke as much as anyone. But for all that, he was a deadly serious man who didn't smile often, and rarely laughed. Sometimes his eyes were full of such an aching pain that she deliberately teased him to ease it.
The trip to Panama City was easier than she expected it to be, and far shorter. She did get a little airsick, but she took a motion-sickness pill and stopped looking down, and it passed. In no time at all they were sharing a huge beach blanket on the white
sand where crowds of tourists covered the long stretch of wave-kissed beach. Cal booked them into separate rooms in a hotel right on the beach, with balconies that over looked the Gulf of Mexico. She hadn't expected to stay the night, and she was a little apprehensive, but when he promised to let her pay him back for the accommodations, she let her protests slide. It had been so long since she'd flown—yet when she did it she found there was nothing to it, nothing at all. And on this weekend vacation she realized how long it had been since she'd really enjoyed life like this, since she'd buried her memories and taken a look around her?
A trickle of cool sand on her bare stomach brought her out of her own mind to jacknife into a sitting position. She glared at Cal, who was leaning on an elbow, his bronzed, muscular body devastating in white swimming trunks that revealed powerful legs, a flat stomach and a wedge of hair spreading from his chest down into his trunks. All up and down the beach, women walked by and watched him, flirting with him, some of them far younger than Madeline.
She brushed at the sand on her belly. "That," she told him, "was vicious."
"Don't you know the old saying...if you get sand in you navel, you'll come back to Panama City?" he asked straight-faced.
Her eyes sparkled with humor. "Is that so?" she asked, and reached for a handful of the warm white sand beside the blanket.
"Oh, no, you don't," he said, reaching for the sand-filled slender hand.
"Oh, yes, I do," she laughed, struggling to get her hand away from that steely grasp.
She wrestled with him furiously, trying to get the grainy sand onto that massive chest, but all she succeeded in doing was getting it all over herself.
"My Uncle Henry...warned me about...men like you!" she gasped, laughing as he finally tired of the conflict and rolled her over onto her back, holding her wrists above her hand on the towel.
"You should have listened to him," Cal chuckled softly. He looked down at her flushed face, the wild spray of auburn hair making a halo around it. The rare smile left his chiseled mouth as he looked at her with narrowed, darkening eyes, letting them sketch the soft curves of her body with an intent boldness that left her breathless.
