by Susan Crosby
“Whose fault is that?”
“I didn’t know that two glasses of wine would put you under.”
“Now you know.” She opened her eyes and smiled at him.
“Your lips are red.”
“Cherry,” she said, then took the last of it off the stick as he watched. Her inhibitions nonexistent, she ran her tongue over her lips. “Cold, too. Wanna feel?”
He didn’t say a word. Smiling, she leaned across the cushion and touched her lips to his just long enough to feel how warm his were—and how unresponsive. He didn’t attempt to deepen the kiss.
She looked away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”
“Is there someone in your life who might not be too pleased that you’re spending time alone with me, Mollie?”
“No.” She couldn’t just sit there. Embarrassment had probably turned her face as red as her lips. She took her Popsicle stick to the kitchen to throw away.
“No boyfriend?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“So the heart-shaped box of candy in your refrigerator...”
“Left over from Valentine’s Day.”
Which was probably as much of an answer as he was going to get, Gray decided as she disappeared into the kitchen. “Is there some woman who will challenge me to a duel for kissing you?” she called out.
“No.” She called that a kiss? A press of cold lips that had lasted all of maybe two seconds? She’d caught him off guard—which was probably just as well, since a more personal relationship wasn’t in his plans, which were getting hazier by the moment. The surge of protectiveness he felt toward her constantly surprised him, but the physical attraction amazed him. She was so young and innocent. And she had way too much faith in him.
If she only knew—
She came out of the kitchen. “Really, Gray? There’s no special woman?”
“Most women don’t like taking second place. My work consumes my time and energy.”
“But you date. I’ve seen pictures.” She frowned. “And not just Hollywood-type women. Samantha Simeon, right here in Minneapolis.”
“I come out of my cyberworld long enough to date occasionally. As I’m sure you do.”
She tucked her legs under her and rested her head against the sofa cushions. “I haven’t been on a date since my mother died.”
“You said that she passed away late last year ”
“An aneurysm. There was no warning at all.”
“My father died suddenly, too. I was eight.”
“Oh!” She lifted her head. “Oh, I’m so sorry. At least I had my mom a lot longer. She was forty when she had me, but she’d never even looked middle-aged to me. We even shared clothes. I thought she was invincible. Sixty-one is too young to die ”
“What about your father? You said he was gone before you were born.”
She plucked at the upholstery fabric. “I never knew him.”
Damn it. He couldn’t read her. Do you know that Stuart Fortune is your father, Mollie? “Any other family?” he asked.
“None. How about you? Your mother remarried, obviously. Do you have siblings?”
He shook his head. “I guess we have a lot in common ”
“Were you lonely as a child?”
Lonely was hardly the word. He’d been subjected to scandal, uprooted to California, given a new father and a new last name, commanded never to speak of his real father again. Ever. His life hadn’t only been turned upside down but also inside out. “I was a loner,” he said to Mollie.
“My mom was the best. It’s been very hard without her.” She touched his hand that had clenched into a fist. “We’ve become morbid, haven’t we? I think my head has settled down enough to take a computer lesson.”
“It’s probably a good night to learn how to use e-mail and maybe surf the Net a little.”
“No one is going to believe this,” she said a minute later as she sat in front of the computer. “I’m going to have to take pictures to prove you were here.”
He dragged up a chair beside hers. “You can invite your friends over, if you want.”
Mollie rejected the idea. Share him? No way. Not yet, anyway. Maybe not ever. He was her dream, after all. The reason for her sanity. She was afraid to diminish it by letting other people share in his attention. “Do you mind if we keep this relationship between us for a while?”
“Not at all. Show-and-tell was never my favorite part of the school day.” He pointed to the Power key and told her to press it. “Do you know how to type?”
“I took two years of it in high school.”
“Good. The rest is easy.”
The sun set and the evening cooled. He taught She practiced. He smiled at her contagious enthusiasm. She squeezed his arm when she found her flower shop listed in the on-line yellow pages. He was careful not to touch her, then a lock of hair fell over her shoulder and rested temptingly on her breast, rising and falling with her can’t-sit-still excitement, but at the same time curtaining her face.
She stayed focused on the screen as she searched page after page of florists. After a few minutes he used just his fingertips to pull her hair back from her face. Softer than silk, he thought. He wondered what it would feel like against his chest—
Awareness sizzled through Mollie as his fingers grazed her shoulder blade. She turned toward him. His palm skimmed her arm. If his goal was to seduce her, he’d accomplished it She tingled head to toe, partly from his touch, partly from his nearness, partly from the soapy scent that lingered on his skin, better than any spicy aftershave.
He pulled his hand back. Dam. She’d done something to ruin the mood. She lifted her brows in question.
“Your hair was in your face.”
“Was it?” She tossed her head, feeling the familiar weight shift then settle against her back. His eyes darkened. He was attracted to her. But the women he usually dated were so different. So sophisticated.
She waited for him to say something, all the while feeling his body close to hers—not touching, but near enough to transfer heat Conscious of how his gaze lowered to her mouth, she leaned toward him the slightest bit, willing to take advantage of the moment if he would only take the hint. Willing to test her theory that reality couldn’t be as wonderful as her dreams. Her lips parted.
“This is a good place to stop for the night,” he said, pushing his chair back and standing. “We can continue tomorrow, if you’d like.”
She grabbed the papers stacked next to the computer and straightened them. “Um, sure. I’ll provide dinner.”
“I don’t mind bringing it.”
“You must be sick of restaurant food. I’m a decent cook, I promise.”
“Okay. Good night, Mollie.”
She grabbed his hand. “I need you—” she almost laughed at the panic in his eyes “—to show me how to shut down the computer.” Could it be that he wasn’t as sophisticated as she’d thought? That women scared him a little? The intriguing thought settled in her mind. Was that why his media interviews came across as all business? Because his confidence didn’t extend to personal relationships?
No. He couldn’t have risen to the position of CEO if he was socially inept.
So was it her that threw him off stride? The possibility that she might in any way intimidate him stunned her. Maybe no one had ever treated him like an ordinary human before. He’d been placed on a pedestal when he was twenty and his computer operating system debuted. Fame and fortune had soon followed. Yet he seemed so alone...which was probably an illusion, or some wild imaginings on her part.
“You have to let go of my hand to turn off the program,” he said quietly to her.
He talked her through the steps, writing them down so she could do it again without him.
When the hum of machinery stopped, she turned to him. “Thank you.”
“Not as daunting as you thought, was it?”
“Not so far, but you’re also a patient teacher. Wait’ll we get to spreadsheets. I
hate them even on paper. Math was always my least favorite subject.”
“The worst that can happen is that you lose the information and have to reenter it. Be fearless.”
Fearless. She would like to be fearless with him. She’d like to kiss him, really kiss him, to know how that spectacular body felt pressed against hers. She wasn’t brave enough to make the first move, though, no matter how many Cosmo articles she’d read giving women permission to be the aggressors.
However, the man was either dense or not attracted, because he headed down the stairs. She followed to lock the door, but their good-nights were brief and cordial. She trekked back up the stairs.
Needing to unwind, Mollie relaxed in a bubble bath. Normally in bed by ten and up by six, she was still awake at midnight, like the night before. Finally she gave up, turned on the computer and waited for it to open.
The e-mail icon was lit. She stared at it for almost half a minute, trying to remember what to do. Finally she clicked on it, A new screen appeared, identifying mail awaiting her from GKMcGuire, the subject left blank. She clicked it open and read the message.
“I wanted to be your first. G.”
Mollie felt her face heat. Her first e-mail, she assumed he meant. Either that or he had peeked into her birthday box before she hid it in her dresser.
She was trying to decide what to do when the mail icon flashed again.
From GKMcGuire: “I know you just got my message. An you going to write me back? G.”
How did he know? What trick was there to knowing that And the most important question—how could she answer him’ He’d told her how, but she hadn’t practiced or written it down
No sooner had she asked herself the question than the icor lit up.
From GKMcGuire: “Hit the Reply button, type in your mes sage, then hit Send. G.”
Mollie grinned, hit Reply, then typed: “Thank you for being so gentle. M.” Send.
She waited. The icon flashed almost instantly.
From GKMcGuire: “Was it good for you? G.”
She laughed as she clicked on Reply: “I’m still all aquiver M.” She waited a little longer for his next response.
From GKMcGuire: “I hope you remember me fondly. Good night. G.”
From MollieS: “We never forget our first. Good night and thank you. M.”
Gray shut down his computer, shutting down the temptation of her words at the same tune. He had sunk to innuendo with her, displaying all the maturity of a teenager. Except that he hadn’t done that even as a teenager. And she had responded ii kind—
Irritated with himself, he slipped into bed, turned out the ligh and tucked his hands behind his head.
Knowing her past, he’d expected to find a bitter young woman. Mollie Shaw was anything but bitter. She’d accepted him into her life as if he belonged, had made him feel at home faster than anyone ever had, yet she didn’t seem to want any thing from him except a kiss—and that, he figured, was the wine doing the asking.
Her vulnerability reminded him of his life before Stuart For tune had destroyed it. Memories of those carefree days surfaced too frequently now. He couldn’t get those days back, but he could make up for the loss. And he could get Mollie the fisca base she needed.
Muttering a curse, he switched on the light, tossed the sheet aside and crossed the room to where he’d draped his jeans over a chair. He dug into a pocket, coming up with a Popsicle stick, stained red, like her lips had been. Red and cold.
He returned to bed, jammed pillows behind his back and turned the stick over and over in his hands. He could barely remember snatching it out of her trash can when he’d tossed the empty wine bottle away. He’d acted on a whim, as she had when she’d kissed him.
That memory drifted in. Red and cold. And cherry sweet. Her cheeks had flushed afterward.
In his experience, kissing led to sex. Given their potential partnership, he couldn’t sleep with Mollie, therefore he couldn’t kiss her. It was that simple—unlike the woman herself, who was becoming more and more complicated.
He tapped the stick to his mouth, then tossed it on the nightstand, annoyed. Obsession was beyond his experience. It had been a long time since he’d wanted something he couldn’t have.
But she made him laugh. And she comforted without knowing it. Even better, she was as fiery as her red hair. In bed, too? he wondered.
And what would she say if she knew he was wondering about that?
Four
“Never?” Mollie gaped at the back of Gray’s head as she stood behind him the next evening. She’d closed her sho promptly at 6:00 p.m., then hurried upstairs. He’d spent the afternoon entering her previous year’s wholesale orders into “tracking program,” as he called it. “Gray McGuire, you have never in your life been on a picnic?”
“Not that I can recall.”
He was seated at the computer, watching the printer as cranked out sheet after sheet of graphs and charts. She looke over his shoulder at the monitor, where a colorful pie chart fille the screen.
“Maybe when I was too young to remember,” he added.
“That is un- American. Not even on the Fourth of July?”
“Not even.”
“We are filling that gap in your life experience tonight.”
“Okay.” He snagged the stack of papers from the printe “Take a look at these. As soon as I feed in the actual sale information, you’ll know exactly where your potential for los is. See here—”
Leaning around him, she reached for the papers just as he tipped his head back to say something. His head bumped against her sternum, right between her breasts. She didn’t move. Neither did he.
She matched her breathing to his, a rhythm that teased her with awareness of him as a man, a partner, a mate. She loved the weight of his head resting, almost nestling, between her breasts, making them swell and ache. Her nipples pressed into her bra. Down low, she felt her pulse pound.
Gray turned his head slightly, enough to feel the softness of her breast against his ear.
She stepped back, but the spell wasn’t broken for him. Need froze him in place.
“We won’t talk business until after dinner, okay? I’m going to change clothes, then fix our picnic. We’ll walk down to the park” Her voice faded as she moved away.
Her scent lingered. He wished he could pin it down, but it changed with her mood, her body temperature.
“I went to the grocery store before I opened up the shop,” she called out, jarring him out of his musings. “My refrigerator is overflowing with choices.”
“I brought wine,” he said. He typed a few keystrokes, sending the chart off the screen and bringing up a graph in its place. He waited until he heard her bedroom door shut before he took his hands off the keyboard. The back of his head still burned from the feel of her. Bells and whistles rang in his head, warning him of an impending crash of his logic system.
He checked his e-mail one last time. Another message from his stepfather, wondering when Gray would be resuming his responsibilities in California. The censure stung. He’d assumed his responsibilities early and well, had rarely taken a day off since he’d developed the computer operating system that had helped to revolutionize the fledgling home-computer industry.
Since then—a never-ending cycle of software to create, upgrades to design and the company to run since his stepfather had relinquished control to Gray years ago. The single-source business had mushroomed into a conglomerate under Gray’s risky push for growth. Some might even call it an empire He was grateful his stepfather had never figured out that Gray had taken such huge risks because he hadn’t created the company, therefore had nothing to lose.
He looked away from the screen, seeing nothing. He’d referred to James McGuire as his father since his mother’s marriage to the man almost twenty-five years ago. Had been ordered to, as if his real father had never walked the earth. His mother would not be pleased that Gray was thinking of James McGuire as his stepfather.
His m
other, however, would not be pleased about a lot of things, particularly not Gray’s plans for justice. The past wasn’t only dead and buried to her, it didn’t exist. Life hadn’t begun for her until the day she’d become Mrs. James McGuire.
Life had yet to begin for Gray.
He shut down the computer without replying to the e-mail. It was Friday night. Date night. And Gray intended to enjoy it.
“Just because I haven’t been on a picnic doesn’t mean I don’t know how it works,” Gray said as he helped Mollie spread out a blanket that had probably been dragged along on a hundred picnics, given the tattered softness of the fabric. The evening was perfect, warm enough that Mollie wore shorts, and breezy enough to mold her blouse to her breasts.
“You eat fried chicken,” he continued, “potato salad and pickles, then watermelon for dessert. And you spit the seeds on the ground. Then you lie back on the blanket and groan about how much food you ate while you watch the fireworks.”
“You helped me pack the basket, so you know you got the food all wrong. And if you spit watermelon seeds on the ground, they sprout. It’s annoying.”
“But fireworks,” he said. “There have to be fireworks”
“If you want ’em, you’ll have to provide ’em.”
She bent to straighten a corner of the blanket, her legs pale and smooth, her rear an appealing focal point. Fireworks, indeed, but in the form of one Mollie Shaw, human sparkler.
They created sandwiches of fresh bakery bread, smoked turkey, two kinds of cheeses and a dark, tangy mustard. Other containers yielded pasta salad, fresh and marinated vegetables, and watermelon, already cut into bite-size pieces Then rich, chocolaty brownies, so moist and gooey they had to lick the chocolate off their fingers. And the California white zinfandel wine they drank managed to complement all the different flavors.
Mollie lay flat on her back. “I’m so full,” she groaned She’d nursed one glass of wine throughout the meal, having no intention of being tipsy again. He probably already thought she was too young for him, if his indulgent smile was any indication. Of some consolation was the fact he seemed to be losing some of his seriousness. Neither of them spoke of their e-mail exchange the night before, when they’d written things to each other that they never would have said aloud. She wished she’d known how to print them off and save them.
