by JoAnn Ross
He needed more. He wanted everything.
“This is a bad idea.”
He hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud until she responded in a throaty voice that vibrated through every atom in his body. “Sometimes the best ideas are the bad ones. At least the naughty ones,” she suggested.
The smile she bestowed on him was even warmer and a great deal more seductive than the one Mary had welcomed George Bailey with after she’d fixed up that ramshackle old house for their wedding night.
Both Sebastian’s head and heart told him that it wasn’t fair to encourage a relationship when he couldn’t offer her any future. His body, as it had been doing since he’d first awakened with her in his arms, was offering up a heated argument.
“You don’t know me,” he said. And wasn’t that the understatement of several centuries?
“And you don’t know me. But you do think I’m a bad idea.” The mood had changed. The undercurrent in the room was now tense and edgy. And the hurt in her eyes pained him in a way he had no words for.
“No.” Panic and shame tangled his gut. All this woman had done was to show him kindness and affection, even to the point of offering herself to him, and what had he done but appeared to have rejected her. “You’re wonderful. Perfect.” Again, the truth.
“You said you wanted me.”
As moisture glistened in her remarkable blue eyes, Sebastian was tempted to pray to that same black-and-white heaven to fix this mess he’d gotten himself into. To bring the smile back to Kirby Pendleton’s eyes and lips, which, in turn, would bring the sunshine back to him.
“I did. I do.” As he began to run his hands up and down her arms in a clumsy attempt to soothe, she jerked away and jumped out of bed, spilling popcorn onto the bedding, which woke the cat, who began vacuuming it up.
“Dammit, Darcy!” As if he’d turned invisible, she ignored him as she scooped up the cat, who growled in response. “You’re not supposed to eat that!”
Wanting to do something, anything, to attempt to redeem himself, Sebastian gathered the scattered kernels up and put them into his own bowl. As the cat—whose hair was now standing on end as if electrified—began caterwauling in a way that threatened his eardrums, Sebastian wondered how an evening that had been going so well could have gone downhill so rapidly.
None of this emotional and noisy chaos would ever happen on Logosia.
Then again, neither would he ever have been lying in bed next to a woman who made him feel things too complex to sort out, watching what appeared to be a simplistic old-fashioned story about love and hope and family. Yet Sebastian realized the story of George and Mary and Clarence, a most unlikely angel, represented a dream life to Kirby.
A life he could never, ever give her. It would, he considered grimly, be easier to give her the moon.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She put the squirming mass of orange fur down on the floor and folded her arms. “About what?”
“That I started something I couldn’t continue.”
“You didn’t exactly start it on your own,” she pointed out. “It was totally mutual. You’re just the one who blew the whistle on the play.”
Sebastian had always prided himself on being a quick study. He was getting better at grasping metaphors. “Would it help to know that I didn’t want to blow any whistle?”
“Then why?” Her brow furrowed and he heard her thought an instant before she spoke. “Oh. You didn’t have any of your things when I found you. So you couldn’t have a condom.”
“No.” Desperate to soothe things over, he grasped on to a possibly acceptable explanation before the translator could explain. When it did kick out the definition, he was relieved that his answer had been appropriate to the topic. “I don’t.”
“Neither do I. At least I don’t think so. It’s been a while, and even if I did find one tucked away in a purse or drawer somewhere, it’d probably be too old. I don’t know what the expiration time is on them, do you?”
“No.” Another honest answer. Both pregnancy planning and sexually transmitted diseases were far more easily handled with injectable implants in his time.
“Of course you don’t. Any man who looks like you probably never has to worry about expiration dates…
“Well, in case we do decide to go the full Monty, we have a problem, since by now probably everyone in town knows that I have a strange man sleeping in my house. So, if I just sauntered into the market and bought a box, I’d undoubtedly keep the gossip grist mill going until the spring thaw.” She sighed heavily as she began to pace. “And we can’t ask Nate.”
“That would be unwise,” he agreed.
“So, that leaves Emily.”
“Your sister. The Martha Stewart of Maine. Who made our very delicious dinner.”
“That would be her. She was dating a lawyer from off island a few months ago. I’ll ask her to share.”
She appeared so pleased with herself Sebastian felt as if the snarling bear on her shirt had come to life and begun ripping away at his gut.
“There is another problem.”
“And that would be?”
“I don’t expect my work at the laboratory to last that long. I can’t offer you the future you deserve.”
She surprised him by giving him that smile he knew he’d still be remembering when he took his last breath. “Don’t worry, Sebastian. I’m not asking for the moon. Or forever after. But, hey, the nights are long and dark and cold up here in this neck of the woods. I’m attracted to you, you’re attracted to me, and we set off enough sparks that if we do have sex, we’ll probably throw off enough heat to warm the island until after the New Year. So, the way I see it, it pays to be prepared.”
“I promised your brother—”
“Who doesn’t have to know. It’s not as if I’m going to march into the lab and announce that you and I are screwing our brains out.”
Since he knew that was physically impossible, even with the energy he felt whenever he was around her, Sebastian accepted it as another very descriptive metaphor. Still…
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Don’t worry.” She climbed back into bed next to him. “I’m not looking for a husband. Just some orgasms that don’t involve a slippery bar of soap or batteries.”
That stated, she picked up the television remote again. “Now, since I don’t trust either one of us to be able to fool around without ending up going all the way, we might as well watch the rest of the movie.”
Snuggling up against him, she laid her head on his shoulder. “Oh, this is where poor George is about to jump off the bridge and things really pick up.”
As he watched the movie’s mistaken but well-meaning concept of alternate reality, Sebastian decided that, at this moment in time, there was no other place he’d rather be.
16
Three days later, the policewoman in Kirby was irritated that she hadn’t solved what had to have been a simple assault-and-battery case. The woman in her couldn’t stop thinking of the way Sebastian’s eyes darkened with sensual intent whenever he looked at her. The police chief had decided to extend her queries to New York, while the woman wondered what it would be like to lie with him in front of a roaring fire while a blizzard raged outside. Just like in that first night’s dream.
Not that it appeared she would find out any time soon. Because, despite having scored half a box of condoms from Emily, despite her assurance she wasn’t seeking a serious, ever-after affair, the man seemed determined to honor that damn promise to Nate.
Ever since she’d practically thrown herself at him, Sebastian had spent nearly every waking hour at the laboratory. At night, he slept on the couch, arriving home long after she had finally given up waiting for him and allowed herself to fall asleep.
Each morning, he would be dressed—in more of the clothing Nate had given him—and gone by the time she got up. And on those rare occasions they found themselves alone together, he conveniently thought of s
omething, somewhere else, that urgently needed doing.
That he was avoiding her was more than a little obvious.
What was so distressing was exactly how badly that hurt.
“Just ask him what the hell’s going on,” Emily advised.
“I put my cards on the table.” Along with, she belatedly realized, her heart. “I can’t exactly throw an anchor rope around him and tie him to my bed.”
“Kinky.”
“You know I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I do. More’s the pity, since you’re in serious need of some hot sex.”
“Like you’re not?”
“It’s hard to find a guy when you’ve grown up with every man your age on the island. Not only do you know all their flaws, you know everyone they’ve already slept with,” her sister pointed out. “But you were lucky enough to have a likely candidate land in your lap. Or bed, to be more specific.”
“If we’re being specific, he landed on my road.” Before she’d dragged him into her bed. “And, not only might he have suffered a head injury, he was dizzy when Nate sent him home from the lab. Maybe he wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Or maybe he was. The question on the table is, do you want him?”
“Yes. I really, really do.”
“Then ask him. Or since you haven’t brought him over for dinner yet, I’ll come over to your place, wait for him to arrive home, then ask him myself.”
“Spoken like a bossy big sister.”
“Rank has its privileges,” Emily returned. “If you—who are, may I point out, trained in the art of interrogation—aren’t going to grill him, I’ll just have to do it myself. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I like the idea. I could go to the lab and play bad cop, while our brother plays good cop.”
“Don’t you dare tell Nate!”
“I won’t have to bring him into this if you just ask Sebastian what his plans are concerning your relationship.”
“That’s extortion. Or blackmail. Or something.” Heaven help her, the man had her brain so scrambled she couldn’t even remember her penal codes.
“No. It’s merely a big sister watching out for her sibling.”
“You and Nate do realize I’m an adult, correct?”
“Of course. But that doesn’t mean that we don’t all have each other’s back. Let’s not forget you’re the one who didn’t like Jerry.”
“Jerry the ambulance chaser,” Kirby muttered. She had disliked Emily’s last boyfriend on sight. And not just because he was a lawyer, which wasn’t her favorite profession. “Who turned out to be married.”
A terrible, horrible, very bad thought just occurred to her. “You don’t think Sebastian could have a wife back home, do you?”
“Ask him,” Emily repeated. “Gotta run. I have a meeting with a contractor from the mainland who’s going to turn the attic into a bridal suite.”
“Good luck with that.” The last time Kirby had seen the home’s attic, it had been crammed with family stuff going back to her high chair and Nate’s Junior Scientist Lab Kit.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” her sister shot back. “It’s going to be amazing. I’m also putting in a private entrance with its own stairway. And windows that look out over the bay.”
“Okay. That does sound pretty cool,” Kirby allowed.
“Doesn’t it? And, even better, not only did Connie’s wedding inspire the idea, it’s pretty much paying for the entire job.”
“Even better. Have fun. And let me know if the off-island contractor turns out to be hot.” Kirby would love to have their conversations revolve around her sister’s love life for a change.
She’d no sooner hung up when the 911 line rang.
“Police department.”
Just what she needed, Kirby thought with an inner groan as the caller reported a fight at a local tavern. A waterfront brawl.
Her deputy, Danny Mayfair, had gone to lunch, claiming a sudden hankering for Nicolette Dupree’s Wednesday afternoon chowder at the Gray Gull cafe. From the way the fifty-five-year-old man blushed whenever Nicolette’s name was mentioned, Kirby had the feeling that he was interested in a lot more than clam chowder.
Hating to disturb him, Kirby dialed his cell. When she didn’t get an answer, she figured he must have left his phone on the front seat of the truck. Again.
That left her two choices. Since the Gray Gull was in the opposite direction of the harbor, she could waste much-needed time driving by the cafe to pick up her deputy. Or she could handle things herself.
“The day you can’t handle a few drunks is the day you should hang up Dad’s badge.”
Making her decision, Kirby left the warmth of the police station, climbed into the Jeep, and headed toward the waterfront.
* * *
Sebastian and Nate had finished running a program when Nate said, “We’ve worked past lunch. You must be starving.”
Sebastian was surprised at how much time had flown. “I am hungry.”
Nate stood up and stretched. “There’s some leftover pizza in the lunchroom fridge. We can heat it up in the microwave. Unless you’d like something else.”
“Pizza is fine,” Sebastian said, not having any idea what he had just agreed to, but since, so far, everything on Earth—most especially some magical mixture called peanut butter—tasted wonderful, he was eager to try something new.
This was even better than wonderful, Sebastian decided ten minutes later. Although the too-hot cheese had burned the roof of his mouth, he found the combination of textures and taste to be a gastronomical delight. Sebastian was considering the logistics of taking a lifetime supply of frozen pizzas back to Logosia with him when Whitney appeared in the doorway.
“Would you gentlemen mind if I joined you?”
“Of course not,” Nate said.
“I didn’t want to interrupt your work.” Her husky voice reminded Sebastian of the purr of a polar cat. And as she entered the room on that loose-limbed glide, he decided the feline analogy definitely fit.
“All you’d be interrupting is a discussion of the wonders of pepperoni,” Nate informed her.
She glanced down at the cheese-stained cardboard box with obvious disdain. “You and your sister have the most horrendous eating habits.”
Nate grinned. “I’d rather live to be eighty eating pizza than one hundred eating the Styrofoam disks you live on.”
“Rice cakes are very nutritious.” As Sebastian watched, she took a package down from a shelf. “Would you care for one?”
“Thank you. That would be very nice,” Sebastian answered politely. How bad could it be?
A moment later, he found out exactly how bad. “It’s very good,” he said, chasing the dry, hard chips with a swallow of the effervescent cola Nate had introduced him to.
“And you’re a liar,” Whitney responded, her tone as dry as the rice cake Sebastian was having difficulty swallowing. “But a handsome one.” She smiled over at Nate. “How are things going?”
“About as good as can be expected,” Nate answered obliquely. “How’s the Emily project coming along?”
“I was hoping for a cell split this morning, but something went wrong. Again. But I took a little walk to clear my head, and I think I’ve got this latest bug worked out.”
“Well, good luck,” Nate said.
“Thanks. At this stage in the cloning process, I’m going to need all the luck I can get.” Glancing down at her watch, she sighed and said, “But since luck alone won’t do it, I’d better get back to work.”
She paused in the doorway. “Will you two be working late?”
From the obvious invitation in her tone, Sebastian knew that it was not scientific curiosity that had her asking the question. He’d observed over the past three days that Whitney Reynolds and Nate Pendleton were a great deal more than mere platonic friends.
“Probably.” Nate exchanged a look with Sebastian. “We have a lot to do.”
“I feel like cooking tonight.
And it’s no fun to cook for one.” Her voice had deepened once again to its throaty polar cat purr.
“Sorry, but I think I’d better take a rain check.” Nate offered Whitney a conciliatory smile.
Small white tension lines appeared around her pale lips. Her eyes hardened. “Of course. Far be it from me to interfere with genius.”
The word was flung at him like an epithet. Then she stalked from the room.
Nate sighed. “Women.”
“She seems to care for you,” Sebastian observed, even as it crossed his mind that he hadn’t seen that same light of desire in Whitney’s eyes that burned so brightly in Kirby’s whenever she looked at him. At least when he’d been around for her to look at. He knew he was being a coward, but he felt trapped between doing what he knew was the right thing and giving into temptation.
“I thought she did, too, in the beginning,” Nate agreed with a shrug. “But lately I’ve come to the conclusion that Whitney uses sex in the same way she climbs her stair-stepper for an hour every morning. As an exercise designed to burn off dreaded calories.
“Not that sex for sex’s sake is necessarily a bad thing,” he said. “But a lot of the time I get the feeling that while her body may be in bed with me, her mind’s back in the nineteenth century.”
“She said she was working on genetics?”
“Yeah. She’s trying to clone Emily Brontë.”
“Emily Brontë?” The name rang a distant bell.
“Yeah, you know, the novelist. Actually, thinking about it, you probably don’t know. The woman wrote Wuthering Heights back in the 1800s. Whitney bought a locket at a flea market in London a few years back that turns out to have been owned by Branwell Brontë, the brother. There was a curl of dark hair in the locket that Whitney believes is Emily’s. So she’s determined to clone herself a new romance novelist.”
“I thought, when Whitney called me Heathcliff, that the name was vaguely familiar,” Sebastian said. “My mother has a copy of that novel.”
