Webster stood up, leaving his beer half finished and forgotten on the bar. He pushed his way through the crowd. God almighty—it was her.
It was Miss Anderson.
But it was a Miss Anderson he’d never seen before.
Damn, she looked good enough to eat. Her legs were so long. He’d known that somewhere underneath all those skirts lurked a fabulous pair of legs. And, oh Lord, the woman had a tattoo! It was a tiny little one, a teensy little rose by her left shoulder blade, peeking out from the racer back of her tank top.
Her long, slender arms were exposed, and he realized that with the exception of her low-cut evening gown, which she’d only worn that one night, she’d always kept herself carefully and modestly covered. It seemed erotic, risque even, for her to show so much of her skin, here in a bar, in a public place. With a start, he realized that it was only her arms that were bare. Her arms, for crying out loud. Yet he was more turned on by the sight of her arms than he’d ever been even when he’d been surrounded by women in thong bathing suits at the beach.
Her hair was long and loose, and it shimmered in the lights. She was laughing, her beautiful mouth open in a smile of pleasure, her eyes sparkling as she looked at the man she was dancing with.
The man she was dancing with, Webster realized suddenly, was a uniformed policeman. No, he was the town sheriff, he corrected himself, catching a glimpse of the man’s badge. Worse and worse. This sheriff was also quite possibly the most handsome man in the entire bar—and Web included both himself and Sam Beckwith in that tally. Whatever points Webster won for being taller, he lost them for not being able to dance as well as the shorter man.
Damn, he thought. No wonder she didn’t want to go out with me.
He thought back to the evening he’d managed to get her alone with him in front of the fireplace. That was the evening he’d planned to seduce her. She’d been as attracted to him as he was to her. He’d known. It was just a matter of finesse, just a matter of getting her in the right place at the right time.
How wrong had he been?
Instead of making love, he’d found himself arguing with the woman.
And now, watching her like this, he realized that he’d give almost anything just to talk to her, just to stand next to her. But judging from the way she’d left his room so quickly today, she didn’t want anything to do with him.
The song ended, and Miss Anderson and the sheriff came laughingly, breathlessly to a stop. Instead of giving her a kiss, the sheriff lifted a hand and they high-fived.
Webster felt a wild flash of hope. They didn’t kiss. They didn’t kiss.
The sheriff leaned close to Miss Anderson’s ear, she nodded, and he headed toward the back, toward the men’s room. And she walked straight toward Webster.
Web knew the exact moment she spotted him there in the crowd. Her eyes met his, widened slightly, and she stopped dead in her tracks. Something, some unknown force propelled him forward, toward her, and she wet her lips nervously.
“Hi,” he said. God almighty, did he really just say, “hi,” and then grin like an idiot? Smooth, Web, very smooth. Please God, he found himself praying, don’t let her see the uncertainty in my eyes. Don’t let her know that just being next to her like this scares me to death. And don’t let me say something stupid, something that will make her angry at me again.
She was still breathing heavily from the up-tempo dance, and Webster tried not to watch her chest as it rose and fell. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to feel her body against his.
“I thought you’d be at the house, trying to write,” she said, her clear voice cutting through the din of the bar.
“Yeah, no,” he said, “I’m not. I’m … I’m here.”
She smiled at him then. “I noticed.”
She was so beautiful his teeth hurt. And he wanted to touch the smooth skin of her arms so badly he felt like some kind of deviant.
“Dance with me?” he asked. His voice was husky, and he cleared his throat. “Please?”
Juliana hesitated. She’d heard the band discussing their set when they were setting up, and she knew the next song was another fast one. She could handle that. Couldn’t she? She glanced up at the stage. As soon as the rhythm guitar player changed a broken string …
“Please?” he said again.
She risked a glance at him.
He was wearing a pair of jeans, a red T-shirt, and his worn-out cowboy boots. His hair was in its usual state of disarray, and his face was tired. His eyes looked almost bruised from lack of sleep, yet she felt herself drawn in by their dark-blue depths.
The crystal edge that was usually in his eyes was missing. Whether it was from fatigue or from some other reason, she didn’t know, but all of his cocky arrogance was gone. He seemed uncertain, scared even, and to Juliana, the effect was irresistible.
“Okay,” she heard herself say. “One dance. Just promise you won’t be a jerk.”
“I promise.” He smiled, like a kid given free rein in a toy store.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Juliana warned him. “It’s just one dance. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” he said. “But don’t you think you should tell me your name? I mean, as long as we’re gonna dance …”
The crowd began to cheer, and she turned her head, pretending not to hear him over the racket.
Up on stage, Sam Beckwith had stepped up to the microphone. “I’ve just been given a message from Liz, my wife,” he said in his thick Kentucky accent. “Y’all know she’ll be making me a daddy for the third time ’round in a few more weeks?”
The crowd roared its approval. Webster barely heard a thing as he reached out and brushed a stray curl from Miss Anderson’s face. She pulled away from the contact as if he’d burned her.
“Liz asked if I wouldn’t mind playing her favorite song right now,” Sam continued. “Right this very second, in fact. Liz darlin’, your wish is my command.”
The band started the song—a slow, pulsing ballad, not the fast song Juliana had expected. She shook her head in despair. “I’m gonna kill that woman,” she muttered. She caught sight of Liz standing in the crowd, giving her the thumbs up sign. Juliana resisted the urge to flash her friend a very different hand gesture.
Webster slipped one arm around her waist, taking her hand in his and pulling her in close to him as he began to move to the music.
His arms were hard and strong, yet he held her so gently. And, sweet heavens, he still smelled too damn good. Men just shouldn’t smell that good. There should be a law against it.
Their thighs brushed, denim against denim, and Juliana was afraid her heart was going to stop.
“Mr. Donovan, maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” Juliana breathed. Sweet heavens, being so close to him like this was making her heart pound and her mouth go dry. Another few seconds, and she’d be trembling. And then he’d know how he made her feel, and he’d kiss her. And he’d kiss her again, and he wouldn’t stop kissing her until they were both home in his bed.
He brought her hand up to his wide shoulder, near his neck, and slowly, sensuously, ran his fingers along the bare skin of her arm. Caught off guard by the amount of pleasure that swept through her from his light touch, she tightened her own hand around the back of his neck. He took that as an invitation, pulling her even closer to him.
A gentle hand under her chin pulled her face up, and she realized with shock that he wasn’t going to wait. He was going to kiss her right then and there. She didn’t have time to protest. She didn’t have time to pull away. His lips found hers, warm and soft and sweet.
But still she didn’t pull away. In fact, she was clinging to him as tightly as he was holding her, and he kissed her harder, deeper, the dancing all but forgotten. She could feel her heart pounding—or was it his?
One large hand pressed her hips against him, and she could feel the hardness of his arousal. Even more shocking was the sudden wave of fire that raced through her. She wanted him as badly as he wanted
her.
Somehow she pushed him away. “Stop,” she said, breathing hard. “I can’t do this.”
She turned and was swallowed up by the crowd.
Webster tried to follow her, but the club was dark and packed with people. He fought his way through the mob as he saw a flash of her red-gold hair by the door.
It took far too long to get to the club’s entrance, even though most people stepped aside for the huge man with the look of hard determination on his face. By the time he stepped out into the cold, clear night, all that was left for him to see was the taillight of a motorcycle, heading quickly down the road.
Webster parked his car carefully outside the big Victorian house. He was feeling dizzy again, and way too hot. Still, he poked his head into the carriage house that served as a garage, looking for the telltale signs of a motorcycle.
But there was nothing. No sign of a bike of any kind.
A four-wheel-drive pickup truck sat quietly on the far side of the garage, and there was plenty of room for at least three or four other vehicles, too. The floor was swept clean, and gardening tools lined one wall, carefully hung on hooks, everything in its own special place.
Web wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. A motorcycle handbook, he guessed. Yeah, sure. A spare carburetor or a second shiny black helmet, hanging on the wall.
Of course, maybe the motorcycle didn’t even belong to Miss Anderson. Before tonight, he never would’ve pictured the proper, quiet, old-fashioned woman on a bike. But he wouldn’t have been able to picture her in jeans, her hair loose, looking like something out of a steamy music video either. That woman, that wild, red-haired beauty he’d held in his arms and kissed in the bar tonight … she would definitely look at home on a motorcycle. He could imagine her swinging one long bluejeaned leg over the back of a powerful machine, straddling the black leather of the seat, her hair moving behind her in the wind as she took a corner.…
Webster went inside to take a cold, cold shower.
Juliana rested her forehead against Captain’s strong neck.
“I don’t even like the guy,” she said, and the horse shifted its feet, snuffling softly. “But every now and then I get a glimpse of something in his eyes, and it’s like I’m sucked into this mad whirlpool of emotions. Every time it happens, it’s harder to get back out. It scares me to death.”
She stroked Captain’s soft nose, and his big, brown eyes looked back at her, full of disappointment it seemed. She sighed.
“I know, I can’t believe I’m actually attracted to him. He thinks he’s so perfect. He thinks all he has to do is smile, and I’ll fall at his feet.” Juliana shook her head. “You know what the funny part is, Captain?”
The horse didn’t try to guess.
“The way that man writes could make me fall at his feet.” Just the little bit of Webster’s novel that Liz had read to her was enough to make Juliana long to hear more. She couldn’t wait until Alicia got home and they could read his book together.
Everything would be easier when Alicia was home. Juliana would feel … the word was chaperoned.
Yeah, she wanted to be chaperoned around Webster Donovan.
* * *
Webster woke up drenched with sweat. Dawn was just beginning to lighten the sky in the east, and the clock on his bedside table read 6:27. A sound from the yard made him sit up, and he stumbled on the cold floor as he crossed to the window.
It was foggy outside, a thick layer of cloud hugging the ground, swirling in the spotlight that was mounted over the garage door.
He saw her.
She pulled her helmet off, freeing all that beautiful hair. Even in the darkness, even in the mist, it gleamed. She swung her leg off her bike—it was a Harley, and a big one—and pushed it into the garage. She came out a moment later, shutting the door behind her. Her face was pale against the darkness of her black leather jacket.
Web watched her walk toward the house, overcome with pangs of jealousy. Where had she been, out all night like that? A better question yet—who had she been with?
He remembered the handsome sheriff, and for the first time in a long time, Webster found himself wishing he was someone else.
He shivered, suddenly freezing cold. His head was pounding, and he felt sick to his stomach. Oh, man, he didn’t have time for the flu.
Praying he was having a bad reaction to the food and beer he’d had last night or maybe to the disappointment of knowing that the beautiful and evasive Miss Anderson had spent the night with someone else, Webster crawled back into bed.
Chapter Six
Juliana looked at the clock: nine-fifteen.
With the exception of the day before, Webster Donovan was usually done with breakfast by eight, wolfing it down, hardly aware of the food he was putting in his mouth in his haste to get back to his writing. Or non-writing. Or whatever he was doing up there in his room.
She put the pancake batter back in the refrigerator and briskly climbed the stairs to his door. He better not think she was going to bring a tray up every morning from now on.
Putting her ear to the door, she didn’t hear the clatter of his computer keyboard. He was probably asleep.
He’d probably stayed at Red’s last night until Sam stopped playing—no doubt some time around three or three-thirty. And he had been drinking. She’d tasted the beer when he kissed her.
Juliana closed her eyes, wishing that she didn’t remember that kiss so damn clearly.
Someone was knocking on his door.
Webster opened his eyes slowly, confused by the sunlight streaming in through the windows. His head split open with a pain so intense he nearly shouted out loud.
Morning. It was morning.
He risked opening one eye slightly to look at the clock on his bedside table. If it was morning, why did his clock say 4:12?
And where did he get this headache from hell?
Then he remembered.
It was the flu. It was definitely the flu.
He’d spent most of last night and a good part of this morning in the bathroom on his knees in front of the john, doing the big heave-ho.
He was sick.
His stomach still hurt, and it had been emptied out long ago. God almighty, it felt like someone must have a voodoo doll of him, and they were sticking big, sharp pins right in his gut.
But he didn’t know anyone who had it in for him that badly. With the exception of Miss Anderson. And he could only guess at her hobbies. But why not voodoo? Nothing she did could surprise him anymore. He never would have guessed she’d own a Harley, either.
“Mr. Donovan.”
He opened both eyes. The vision of her lovely face as she stood next to his bed was well worth the stabbing pain that shot through his skull.
Her hair was pulled back up on top of her head. As usual, there were stray curls that escaped the bun she’d made, and they hung in delicate wisps around her face. She wore a pale-blue blouse today, and a skirt of darker blue. Somewhere under that skirt, Webster knew, were long, long legs. Legs that knew how to grip a man-sized motorcycle …
“Did you have too much to drink last night?” she asked, not entirely sympathetic.
Web closed his eyes against a new wave of nausea. It passed, but when he looked up at her again, he could feel the sheen of perspiration on his face, and he knew that he was shaking.
“I’ve had far more than my share of hangovers,” he said, making an effort to enunciate each word precisely, “but I’ve never had one that gave me a fever.”
Her expression changed slightly, and she reached down toward him. Her hand was cool against his forehead, and he closed his eyes. He could feel her fingers as she brushed his hair back out of his face, and felt his forehead again, then his cheek.
It was worth it, he decided right then and there. He’d gladly have the flu, if it meant she would touch him like that.
“You’re burning up,” she said, concern in her voice. “Oh, Webster …”
She realized it th
e same instant he did. He could tell by the look of shock on her face. She’d called him by his first name! A wave of triumph rocked through him, followed by total brain-numbing nausea. If he didn’t move fast, he was going to lose it right in front of mysterious Miss Anderson. And that would be very, very uncool.
Web tore back the sheets and blankets, ignoring the fact that he wore only a pair of briefs, and rocketed for the bathroom.
Juliana brought her cordless phone down from her apartment. She’d changed out of her Victorian clothes into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and she’d put her hair back in a single braid.
She paced back and forth in Webster’s sitting room, talking to Liz, wondering when—if ever—he was going to open the bathroom door.
“First thing you have to do is take his temperature,” Liz, a former nurse, was saying.
“Shouldn’t I just bring him over to the county hospital?” Juliana asked, her voice low with worry.
“Jule, he’s probably got a little bit of the flu,” Liz said. “The hospital wouldn’t even admit him.”
“But he looks so … bad,” Juliana said, “and I don’t think I’ve ever felt anyone that hot.”
“You’re really worried about him,” Liz said, delight in her voice. “This is so great—”
“This is not great,” Juliana nearly shouted. “Liz, I don’t know anything about taking care of someone else, particularly a rude, obnoxious man—”
“You have any cola? Or ginger ale?” Liz interrupted. “Ginger ale is better. Let it get a little flat. He definitely needs liquids. But first, hang up and take his temperature. If it’s higher than one hundred—”
“I can tell you just from touching him that it’s higher than one hundred,” Juliana interrupted.
“Then try to get some Tylenol into him. If he can’t keep it down, and his temp goes up to one oh three or higher, put him in a cool bath.”
“How am I supposed to—”
“Climb in first,” Liz snickered. “Something tells me he’ll follow you fast enough.”
Future Perfect Page 5
