He set the bag of groceries on a sheet-covered table and reached for the telephone. One look at his face told Kate what she had expected. He quietly replaced the receiver, glancing at her hesitantly. "I guess I forgot to have the phone reconnected, too."
"I always said you needed a keeper."
Kevin missed the sarcasm; instead, he shrugged, running a hand through his dripping curls. "At least we're out of the rain. My luggage is still in the limo, but I probably have some dry clothes around here somewhere. Do you want me to try to find something for you?"
The comers of Kate's mouth tightened threateningly. Her silk blouse clung transparently to her skin, and she did not need the way Kevin's interested gaze wandered to her chest to remind her that her lace bra—as well as a good deal of flesh—was perfectly visible through the material. "I'm not particularly fond of standing around in wet clothes, no," she retorted. "And stop staring at me. You've seen me without a shirt before."
"Not since you developed breasts," he informed her frankly, and stepped past her to pick up a candle. "Why don't you put the groceries away while I see what we have? It'll only take a minute."
Kate was on the verge of inquiring what good he thought that would do, since his refrigerator wasn't working, but decided not to waste the breath. He was already disappearing around a comer.
Fortunately there was a supply of dry wood in the basket by the fireplace, and Kate had a nice little blaze going by the time Kevin returned. He had taken the time to change his own clothes before looking for something for her to wear, and he came in wearing a pair of snug white jeans and a soft maroon sweater, rubbing a towel through his hair. A blue terry-cloth robe was draped over his arm. Kate took it, and the candle, from him without comment.
"There are clean towels in the bathroom," he told her. "Do you know your way around?"
"I'll find it," she told him shortly, and strode from the room without looking back.
Kate had been in Kevin's house a couple of times before, for parties and such, and knew the general layout. She had never been in his bedroom, and the only thing that identified it as such now was the pile of his wet clothes, which were making a damp stain in the middle of the dusty hardwood floor. The furniture was shrouded in dust covers, the draperies closed on the large window that overlooked the lake. In the flickering glow of the candle the spacious, shadowed room reminded her of a scene from The Phantom of the Opera.
She resisted the maternal impulse that made her bend to pick up Kevin's discarded clothes and with a grimace of self-reproach straightened up and stepped over them. She set the candle on the sheet-draped nightstand; shivering, she began to peel off her wet clothes.
Kate did not have the disposition to maintain a high level of anger for long. By the time she had dried off with the towels she found in Kevin's bathroom and wrapped herself in the warm, knee-length robe, she was feeling, if not exactly benevolent toward Kevin, at least more equanimous. Perhaps tolerance came with exposure, for over the years she had learned to expect nothing but the worst from any encounter with Kevin Dawson and that rage was a waste of energy he did not deserve.
The wind had begun to lash rain against the windows in furious waves as she picked up her wet clothes and the candle and returned to the living room. Kevin was digging through the grocery sack as she came in.
"If Colt Marshall were here," he said over his shoulder, "he would no doubt find a way to barbecue steaks over the open fire. But since he's not, it looks like we're going to have to make do with crackers and cheese."
"Why do you keep this place, Kevin?" Kate couldn't keep the note of exasperation out of her voice as she knelt to spread her clothes on the hearth to dry. "What a waste. All this room, the beautiful furniture—you never use it. You just leave it here to rot."
"But I like knowing it's here. Move back." He snapped a cloth off the sofa and spread it on the floor before the fire, like a picnic cloth. "I found a bottle of Grand Marnier in the kitchen; I poured you a glass."
"Thanks." She took the glass he brought down from the mantel and sank to the sheet-covered floor, warming herself by the fire. Being trapped in a deserted house with Kevin Dawson in the middle of a storm was not precisely the way she had wanted to spend the evening, but she curbed the instinct to rail against the elements and chafe against the unavoidable. Trapped she was, at least until the weather let up enough for her to change her tire, and the Grand Marnier would make the whole situation go down a lot easier. She took a healthy sip.
He sank cross-legged on the floor across from her, dumping a box of crackers, two kinds of cheese and a package of cookies into the center of the cloth. "When I built the place," he continued, glancing around at the flickering shadows cast on the shrouded furnishings, "I thought I'd spend more time here than I do. I still plan to, every year, but it never works out. You're right, though. It does look kind of sad, all wrapped up like this."
"Spooky is the word."
He looked around thoughtfully. "No. Lonely, I think. Anyway..." He shrugged, and turned back to her, taking up his glass. "I keep the place because it reminds me of things—permanency, security, a sense of belonging. Important things."
Kate looked at him in surprise. That was one of the few perceptive things she had ever heard him say.
In the flickering firelight his eyes looked entrancingly luminous, his face gently planed, his body all lean angles and shadows. The V of his sweater dipped over a strong collarbone, and candlelight cast a reddish gleam to the light pattern of hair there. In this atmosphere and this lighting, Kate could understand, however briefly, why women wanted to swoon at his feet.
He smiled at her over the rim of his glass. "You look very sexy in that robe," he said.
That caught her off guard, but only for a minute. She scowled her dismissal and took another sip of the rich liqueur. It spread through her limbs like honeyed fire. "Give me a break, Dawson."
"No, I mean it." His expression was sincere but easy. He set his glass on the floor and began to open a package of crackers. "I bet you never thought I noticed all these years, but I did. You're a good-looking woman."
Kate was an average-looking woman. She was of medium height, ordinary shape, correct weight. Her breasts were full but not voluptuous, her hips firm; her waist was not very small. Her legs, slim and femininely shaped, were her best feature, but she usually wore pants. Her honey-blond hair was straight, cut short and styled simply, parted on the side and swept across her forehead in razor-cut bangs. She had nondescript hazel eyes and a pretty, if unmemorable, face that required little makeup. She was passably attractive but hardly beautiful, and her looks had always been the least of her concerns.
Kate could not help wondering where this line of conversation was leading. Kevin never flattered her unless he wanted something, and experience had trained her to be suspicious. She said, watching him carefully, "And what brought that up?''
He glanced at her and for a moment looked disconcerted, even shy. "Nothing. I just thought you might like to hear it, that's all. I get the feeling people don't tell you that often enough."
And that, perhaps, was the most irritating thing about Kevin. Just when she had made up her mind he was a totally lost cause and not worth the effort it took to despise him, he did or said something so unexpectedly and heart-touchingly sweet like that. But then, quite predictably, he spoiled it all by glancing up from the cracker he was spreading with cheese and inquiring casually, "You sleeping with anybody?"
Kate repressed an exasperated sigh. One thing about Kevin: he never disappointed her. "No." She reached for a cracker herself. "Is that an invitation?"
His laugh was startled. "No, ma'am. Masochism is not one of my vices."
She was not at all certain she liked the way he put that, and with a scowl she started to call him on it. But then he continued smoothly, "As a matter of fact, I have almost no vices at the moment. I've recently taken a vow of chastity."
She almost choked on the cracker she had started to swallo
w, her eyes brimming with laughter and amazement. "You? Good Lord, what's the world coming to? The last of the living legends, wiped out just like that!" Then, suspiciously, she asked, "You haven't come down with something, have you?"
His own eyes twinkled back at her. "Come, come. Doctor, you know me better than that. I'm very careful. Actually, I find a little abstinence very restful on occasion. Rejuvenating, as it were."
She laughed softly, shaking her head over her glass. "Kevin, you are incorrigible."
"Right," he agreed cheerfully. "And you're not mad at me about the car anymore, are you?"
Her laughter fought with a reproving scowl and finally lost to a helpless grin. He was right again. She couldn't like him, but she could never stay mad at him, either.
A sudden gust of wind roared down the chimney, spitting sparks and sizzling drops of rain on the wet logs. Kate quickly got up and put the screen in place, and Kevin commented with raised brows, "Some storm. Maybe we'll be trapped here all night."
Kate settled back down with a grimace of exaggerated horror. "Please, don't even think such a thing. I'll walk first."
He pretended surprise. "What? You'd turn down a chance to spend the night in an abandoned house with America's hottest sex symbol?"
"In a heartbeat."
"Flickering fire, a bottle of wine—"
"Grand Marnier," she corrected.
"—a raging storm...and me." His eyes twinkled. "Every woman's fantasy, Katie."
"I can hardly control myself," she murmured dryly.
"Try," he advised, and grinned, lifting his glass. "My vow, remember?"
She couldn't help chuckling, softly.
They sat for a time, eating crackers and sipping the liqueur, listening to the storm ebb and flow. Kate's silk blouse and linen slacks were drying well in the heat from the fire, and when she checked her watch, it was only a little after seven. That wasn't too bad. She certainly didn't intend to waste her whole evening on Kevin, but a short time in front of the cozy fire with him going out of his way to be charming was proving to be surprisingly relaxing. There were too few moments like this in Kate's life, when, by circumstances or choice, she could sit and do exactly nothing.
He stretched out lazily on one elbow beside her, his head near her hip, one hand cradling his glass. He gazed up at her with mild interest. "So tell me, Katie, why don't you like me?"
She stretched a little against the wonderful languor that had stolen over her with the hypnotic glow of the fire and the lulling effects of the drink, wriggling her toes and resting her weight on her palms behind her. She was amused by the way Kevin's eyes followed the curve of her legs.
"Do you mean," she answered, "other than the fact that you're selfish, irresponsible, manipulative and shallow?"
He returned his gaze to her face. "Right. Besides that."
"I don't suppose you've ever noticed that whenever you come into my life you bring catastrophe?"
"Now wait a minute," he protested, raising himself a little. "You can blame me for the tire, but I had absolutely nothing to do with the weather."
She shook her head helplessly. "Do you see what I mean? You're such a child. Take away the perfect body, the sexy grin and the phony charm and what have you got left?"
He flashed his sexy grin at her. "What more would you need?"
"Maturity," she informed him. "Sincerity, depth—"
"Boring," he scoffed, and made a short, dismissive gesture with his hand. "Then I'd be just as dull as you are."
She lifted an eyebrow, not in the least offended. "If I'm so dull, why do you keep hanging around me?"
He appeared to consider this. His slim tanned fingers toyed with the shape of his glass. "Maybe," he decided at last, "for the same reason I keep this house. Because you remind me of things." And then he glanced up at her, eyes sparkling. "Boring things, granted, but things I need to be reminded of, anyway. And also—" his sudden switch to sincerity caught her so unprepared that she almost did not recognize it for what it was "—because you're the only friend I've got."
She stared at him, momentarily nonplussed. Self-pity was a rarity from Kevin, commonly indulged in only when he was very drunk and had run out of conversation or when he needed a favor badly and had exhausted all other approaches. Neither was the case tonight, and it did not sound like self-pity at all. It sounded like a simple statement of fact.
She said, her words sounding clipped because of her surprise, "That's ridiculous, Ksvin. You've got people hanging on you everywhere you go."
"Bloodsuckers and fans," he corrected simply. "People who are paid to make me happy and people I'm paid to make happy. A friend is somebody who'll tell you you're a jerk when you need to be told it."
That made her feel strange. She had never spent much energy trying to analyze Kevin or crediting him with three-dimensional characteristics; Kevin was just Kevin, irritating when he was present, easily forgotten when he was not. Knowing that he needed her, for whatever convoluted reason, made her see him for one very uncomfortable moment as more than a stick figure who occasionally passed through her life. It made her wonder whether she, in some bizarre way, did not need him, as well.
"Not," he qualified thoughtfully, "that I could take it in very large doses. Friendship is something that works best in your spare time, I think. Would you hit me if I put my head on your lap?"
"Yes." The answer was decisive, accented by a frown that mingled frustration and amused resignation. Three-dimensional indeed. She quickly remembered why she never exhausted herself trying to analyze Kevin—there was nothing there to understand.
He sighed. "Too bad. I could really go for a nap right now."
She sipped the last of her Grand Marnier with luxury. "You're being a jerk, Kevin."
He glanced up at her, mischief and firelight dancing in his eyes. "You know what you need, Katie? To get married. Best thing in the world for a rotten disposition."
"You should know."
Kevin had been married three times, the longest of which had lasted almost eight months. Those mistakes had occurred early in his career, and if Kate had been disposed to analyze his motivations, she would easily have seen that the short-lived marriages were the manifestation of a rising star's desperate attempt to make sense of a life that was fast moving out of his control. Someone—his lawyer, perhaps—had finally convinced him that there were safer outlets for his naturally affectionate nature than marriage, and for the past six years he had lived the life of the contented bachelor, on-screen and off.
"I loved being married,'' he said, defending himself now. "It's just that I have a short attention span."
"Or maybe," she suggested, a spark of bland mischief creeping into her own eyes, "your ex-wives just had a low tolerance level."
That explanation, apparently, was not even worth his consideration. He sat up, reaching for a cookie. "So why haven't you, Katie? Ever gotten married, I mean."
She shrugged. "No one ever asked me."
He looked surprised. "Are you kidding?"
"Not since you, that is," she qualified. He looked blank, and she reminded him, "Remember the night of the senior prom?"
"I never took you to the senior prom."
"No, you were with someone else. I told you you were a jerk."
"Was l drunk?"
"No, you were trying to get me to go to bed with you."
"I was?" He looked impressed. "What happened?"
"You kissed me."
He winced, deflated. "Oh, yeah. I remember now. It was pretty awful. You had braces."
"And you couldn't figure out what to do with your hands."
He grinned at her companionably. "I don't have that problem anymore." Then, laughing a little at the memory, he added, "You scared me to death. I don't know how I ever worked up the courage to try it with you, anyway."
She made a derisive sound. "Self-confidence has never been one of your problems, Dawson."
"You were very intimidating," he told her frankly. "Even back
then. So," he teased, "you got one marriage proposal and you blew it, huh? Sorry now?"
"I sob into my pillow every night."
She was thoughtful for a moment, turning her empty glass to catch the colors of the fire. She had never consciously made a decision between her career and a family life; it had just worked out that way. For the most part, there were no regrets. Sometimes she missed the company of a man, both the physical and emotional comforts, and she envied her contemporaries who had good marriages. But her career filled her time and most of her emotional needs, and she was satisfied with her life—most of the time.
She said, "You know how it is in a small town, Kevin—not a lot to choose from. And I've never met a man who could keep me interested for more than a few weeks. I'd like my marriage—'' she looked at him pointedly "—to last longer than that."
"Too bad," he mused aloud. "Marriage is a great institution." And he winked at her. "But best taken in small doses... like you."
She laughed softly and stretched again, then reluctantly got to her feet. The rain had stopped, as abruptly as it had begun, some time ago, and as anxious as she was to get home, she was a little sorry to see the pleasant interlude end. "The storm has stopped," she said, reaching for her clothes, now dry. "I'd better see what I can do about that tire."
For a moment he looked as reluctant as she felt, and she thought he would voice some objection. She was surprised when he didn't, and perhaps just the least bit disappointed.
He got lazily to his feet, and his smile seemed to linger in his eyes with a note of regret. But all he said was "Sure. I guess you'd better.''
She went into the other room to change her clothes with the oddest feeling—as though if he had asked her to stay longer, she might have said yes. And she would have enjoyed it.
After The Storm (Men Made in America-- Mississippi) Page 3
