by Carol Caiton
He watched while she repositioned her silverware again. She was nervous and he wondered why.
"Michael?"
He looked up.
"Is there anything I should know about you? To be careful of?"
Shit. He hadn't seen that one coming. He took a few seconds to open his own napkin and spread it over his lap. So how was he supposed to answer? Tell her the truth? She already knew stuff about him nobody else knew. Simon had probably guessed some things, but nobody knew what she did.
"Is it okay that I asked?" She looked concerned now.
He watched her eyes . . . blue and pure and looking back at him all worried.
"I don't like closed-in places," he told her.
It took a few seconds. She kept looking at him, then something changed in her eyes and they widened. She looked around their small secluded booth and the windowless room, then back at him. "How closed-in?"
Silently he snorted. Then he raised an eyebrow and mimicked her little survey, letting his own eyes travel around the small space.
For a moment she didn't move. Then she lifted the napkin from her lap, placed it on the table, and said, "Can we get our meal to go?"
He pushed to his feet and reached for his wallet just as their waiter appeared in the aisle, a wheeled cart bearing their meal.
Michael dropped a twenty on the table. "We'll need that to go," he said, nodding toward the covered dishes. "I'll take care of the bill up front."
"Certainly, sir."
Michael followed Rachel around the next booth and through the series of small dining rooms to the front of the restaurant. Within five minutes their dinners were packaged in a shiny, double-handled bag and he was back outside breathing in the cold night air.
Rachel's rippling curls blew sideways with the breeze and she caught it with both hands, twisted it into a coil, and slid it back over her shoulder.
It felt strange having somebody know so much personal shit about him. He didn't know yet if that was good or bad . . . just strange.
She bumped up against him and he slowed his pace for her. The crisp air felt good. Clean. Open. He was glad to be outside.
She bumped against him again and he looked at her this time. Huddled in her lightweight trench coat, hands in her pockets, eyes focused straight ahead . . . . It struck him then and he understood.
Using his free hand he unbuttoned his overcoat. "C'mere, baby," he said, holding it open to take her into his warmth.
She slipped right under his arm, nestling against him like that was where she belonged.
"I don't understand why I can touch you," she said.
Her voice was a little breathy. Maybe from the cold. But the whole side of her was flush up against the whole side of him, so maybe it wasn't the cold. Maybe she was doing her processing thing.
"I tried holding hands with Jill earlier," she said. "—Just before you rang the doorbell, to see if anything had changed. But it hadn't."
He looked down at her. He liked that she could let him hold her. He didn't know how long it would last, and yeah, maybe it was selfish, but it made him feel sorta special. It would be so easy to dip his head and kiss her, but when he looked down at her, he noticed her lips were moving.
He grinned. She was counting the seconds while they walked. He looked forward again and started counting them too.
He got to fifteen when a car began backing out of a parking slot just ahead. He drew her to a stop and waited. A few seconds passed and she sort of gasped and started to pull away. He opened the coat wide so she could get free, but she hesitated. Then she tightened her arm around his waist and got close again. She frowned like she was concentrating on something, then looked up at him like she didn't understand what was happening.
Yeah, he knew that feeling. In fact, while he stood watching that car back out, he started thinking about that and feeling a little itchy with all this soul to soul shit. He knew he shouldn't be doing this—couldn't do this. So why was he looking to spend time with a woman who would never be a casual lay? She'd start to expect things from him. Like regular dates and shit like that. She'd probably want him to pull his file out of active status at RUSH and he wasn't about to go there. So her feelings would get hurt. Then she'd get angry. He frowned. He had RUSH and that was enough. He could hook up with an amber link just about every night of the week if he wanted to and he didn't have to worry about hurting anybody's feelings. What the hell was he doing walking through a parking lot, counting the seconds and grinning like a fool while she slid her hand up and down his side like she was counting his ribs?
"Rachel?"
She met his eyes.
"When we get to the Lotus I'm gonna put both my arms around you and I'm gonna kiss you." He glanced toward the end of the parking lot and gauged the distance. "I guess that gives you about twenty seconds to prepare."
He started them walking again and figured she got it all processed because she didn't pull away and tell him no. And that was good because he'd just decided he was never going to see her again after tonight. Once he got her home, that was it. So he was gonna satisfy this goddamn need to know what her mouth felt like under his for as long as she could take it.
He kept her moving toward the car and she stayed huddled with him the whole time. She didn't talk but that was okay because he didn't want to talk. He steered her around to the passenger door, then he set the bag holding their dinner down onto the asphalt.
"Look at me, baby."
She raised her pretty eyes to his.
"We're gonna do this the same way we did the coat thing, okay? I'm gonna slide my hands into your hair, but you let me know when you're ready."
He glided his hands up her arms, over her shoulders, then sank his fingers into all that hair. It was like silk. A silky curtain. He kept it light, barely touching her as he traced up, then down the nape of her neck. When his thumbs found the sensitive area behind each earlobe, he began a slow, sensual massage and watched her eyes go a little heavy.
Her hands came up, smoothing a slow glide up the front of his shirt and he knew for sure this time she was absorbing the feel of him, soaking in the sensation of every muscle, rib and contour. And damn, but she made him feel like some kinda superhero. Then she went up on tiptoe, lifted her face to his, and he hissed in a soft breath.
Oh, baby, what are you doing to me?
He lowered his head to meet her halfway, and just watching her eyes drift shut filled him up with so much . . . something . . . his hands started to shake. His frigging hands. He bunched his fingers into her hair, anchoring them there, and held her in place.
But as soon as he fitted his mouth onto hers and felt the warm softness of her, all that something inside him got so powerful, it lodged in his chest. He slid both arms around her, drew her up against the front of his body, and felt as though he hadn't had a woman in weeks.
Goddamn! Goddamn!
Good thing she wouldn't be able to feel him through her coat.
He pressed closer, opened her inexperienced mouth with his, and slid his tongue inside. And when she touched it with the tip of hers, then rubbed hesitantly, kind of experimentally, his heart pounded like a big-ass kettle drum.
Fuck, he wanted more of her. A whole lot more.
He slid one hand down toward the small of her back, aiming for her ass so he could lock her against his hard-on. Then sanity clicked in and he wondered why she hadn't jerked away. Only she hadn't. But it confused him when he tasted the salty wetness of tears, and it took a second before he figured out what it was . . . that she was crying.
He tore his mouth away. "Rachel?"
He let go of her and backed away so her hands slid away from him. He wasn't touching her in any way at all. "Rachel?" he said again.
"Michael," she whispered. "Oh, Michael, thank you! Thank you!"
She lifted her fingers to wipe at her tears and he stared at her. She was half crying, half laughing, and her eyes kept watering up.
He, on the other hand, was speechle
ss. What the hell had he gotten into here? He wasn't looking for this. He had enough issues of his own and this was way the fuck too intense.
"Get into the car," he said, yanking open the passenger door. He knew his words were clipped and harsh, but he didn't care. He couldn't care. He knew he was blowing hot and cold, and he was pissed at himself for letting it get this far. He didn't want her thanking him for anything. He didn't want her tears. And he sure as hell didn't want all this choking fullness inside his chest.
He pushed the door shut with a quick snap, grabbed the bag off the asphalt, and strode around to the driver's side. This had been one serious mistake. Whatever the hell had happened tonight, she'd opened something up inside him and he was gonna close it right back up just as soon as he figured out what it was.
Yanking off his coat, he tossed it behind his seat, shoved the bag inside, then slid behind the steering wheel. She was still wiping her face when he drove out of the parking lot and he told himself he didn't care. He wanted her out of his life.
"Michael—"
"No," he growled. "Don't talk. Just leave it alone."
She did. He concentrated on driving her home and she left it alone the whole way. When he pulled up in front of her parents' house she started to let herself out of the car and he lost his temper.
"Wait for me," he barked.
He threw open the door, bolted from the car and grabbed their dinner, then slammed it shut again. With a tight hold on himself he pulled the passenger door open and waited while she got out. He didn't offer his hand, didn't help in any way. He didn't want to touch her at all.
He walked her up the path to the front door and when she turned to him and looked like she was gonna say something, he pushed the bag into her arms and said, "Go inside."
Hurt confusion filled her eyes but he wasn't gonna cave, wasn't gonna let himself care. She searched his eyes and after a few seconds, turned and opened the door.
When it closed behind her he strode back down the path to the Lotus and he didn't look back.
CHAPTER 8
Rachel barely slept. Over the years, lack of progress was something she'd learned to accept. She'd reached a pinnacle long ago and rarely approached new endeavors with the hope of further healing. Driving to RUSH and working with Dalton Cooper was the first exception to that in a very long time and she celebrated—rejoiced over—the breakthrough his touch elicited.
But her date with Michael Vassek had turned out to be something truly extraordinary. When he pointed out the length of time she'd walked with him across the parking lot, held against his side, she'd had to consciously stop herself from devouring him with her hands. True, she'd been excited to go on her first date, but she hadn't expected it to affect her issues either way. Had things run along their usual course, she would have been disappointed, yes, but the night wouldn't have been a soul-destroying failure.
Instead, she'd held the brass ring in her hand, solid and real, and that glorious prize had exceeded everything she'd imagined it could be. But the ring had been torn from her grasp, abruptly and decisively, and she had no choice but to let it go. She couldn't force Michael to care. For a single enchanted evening she'd experienced the simple joy of walking side by side with a man, held close with his arm around her. She'd felt the magic. And she'd been kissed. Oh, had she been kissed! But the sensation overload had been so full, so huge, it had been impossible to contain.
And that's where it had all gone wrong. When he realized how much he'd taken on, he'd retreated so fast and so hard, it left her reeling. He'd driven off in his zero-to-sixty-in-four-and-a-half-seconds car and was gone before she even turned off the porch light. And the loss, after so many years of isolation, pierced her in a way that her many, many failures never had.
Lying in bed, she blamed it on the tears. She'd been on a date, a first date with him, and there she was, crying in his kiss. Of course he withdrew.
But staring up at the ceiling, going over and over every detail of the evening, she realized things had taken a downward turn before that. She shouldn't have asked him if there was anything she should be careful of because he hadn't wanted to tell her he was uncomfortable with closed-in spaces.
Or maybe it had started even before that. Maybe she'd been too open, freely revealing too much about herself. What man wanted to hear that the woman he invited to dinner had hidden from the world in a place of silence? He probably thought she was mentally unstable.
When she finally did fall asleep it was two in the morning, but she woke up again before the sun began to rise. Opening her eyes, she remained quiet for a few minutes, gazing into the gray light.
Turning onto her side, she wondered if maybe something in her psyche was changing. Had Dalton Cooper opened some sort of door no one else had been able to find? Had Michael found that very same door? Or had he located a different one altogether? And why was she able to experience the joy of touch with two men she scarcely knew when she hadn't been able to hold Jill's hand for more than the usual few seconds?
Maybe her mind was beginning to brush the edges of healing. Would it happen unexpectedly, spanning irregular intervals as it had when she'd broken free from that safe, soft world?
Hope fluttered its delicate wings and she gave it free rein for a minute. But when emotion so acute began to build a painful ache in her chest, she carefully pushed hope to the back of her mind.
Sliding from beneath the covers, she sat up, glanced at the clock, and rose to her feet. Her parents had been surprised to see her arrive home much earlier than expected. The fact that she carried a large bag with Thilbeau's scrawled diagonally across its surface had raised questioning eyebrows, and she'd answered their silent curiosity with an equally silent shake of her head. What had transpired between her and Michael wasn't something she wanted to talk about with her parents and they gave her that. She did, however, want to talk to Ali.
Thirty minutes later, dressed in jeans and a gray sweater, she picked up her purse and went downstairs. Her loafers scuffed quietly on the kitchen tile as she made her way to the refrigerator and took out the bag from Thilbeau's.
She wrote a quick note telling her parents she expected to be out most of the day, and assured them she was all right. Then she got a jacket from the closet in the foyer and let herself out of the house.
The sun had risen enough to cast a dim twilight glow on the morning. Ali's bedroom was lit behind the curtains at her window so Rachel parked beside the curb, took out her cell phone, and dialed. It was answered right away.
"Hi. I'm so glad you called. I would've been wondering all day how your date went."
"Jill told you about Michael?"
"She stopped by after you left last night. She said he was tall, blond, and gorgeous."
Rachel stared out the windshield and smiled weakly. "She was right. I'm parked at your curb. Can you come out?"
The curtains parted and Ali appeared at the window, phone at her ear. "Be there in a minute. Just give me time to put on some shoes." The curtains swished together again and she disconnected the call.
Rachel checked the charge on her phone before putting it back in her purse. Her cell number was listed in her file at RUSH. If Michael wanted to, he could call her.
With a small sigh she reached for the bag on the passenger seat and removed a dinner-size paper napkin, one package of cellophane- wrapped flatware, and the container holding Michael's uneaten dinner. Opening the Styrofoam lid, she cut a slice from the cold duck l'orange and ate as the sun slowly lit the sky.
A minute later the front door opened and Ali hurried across the lawn, her long dark hair floating midway down her back. Paired with a short, silky, feminine robe, her tennis shoes looked ridiculously athletic and Rachel smiled.
"It's cold out here," her friend announced, opening the passenger door and scrambling in as Rachel placed the bag on the console between them.
"The temperature dropped again last night," she said. "But it's supposed to warm up to eighty-one today."
"Good. Turn up the heat for a second, will you? What are you doing out so early? You're on winter break. You're supposed to be sleeping in and lounging around."
"Habit I guess."
"What are you eating?"
"Duck l'orange."
Ali glanced at the bag. "Thilbeau's? Okay, I'm impressed. Tall, blond, gorgeous, and he took you to a restaurant with no prices on the menu. If you'll share I can visit for a few minutes. Or you can come inside so I can eat a real breakfast."
"Help yourself." Rachel gestured toward the bag with her plastic fork.
Surprised, Ali reached inside and lifted out the other dinner—the one she'd ordered.
"Ali, why are we living at home with our parents?"
Ali looked up. "Where did that come from?" She removed several napkins, along with the second set of flatware, then she folded the bag at its creases and set it down by her feet.
"I was thinking about it earlier," Rachel said. "We're twenty-three years old, not far from twenty-four, and just about everyone I know in that age bracket is either married or out on their own. Some have children. But we're still living at home with our parents. Even Jill didn't move out until three weeks ago." She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. "There's never been anyone special for you either, has there? No one who made the earth shake when he kissed you?"
"Nope. No earth-shakers. It hasn't happened for me yet."
"What about that vice principle you were dating? You and he went out for nearly three months and Jill and I wondered if it might get serious. You never did say why you broke things off with him."
She turned to look at Ali in time to see an odd expression flit across her features. "What is it?" she asked.
Ali opened her napkin and tore the cellophane from the flatware. "Mason Ingersol asked me to go boating with him and his son. That's why I broke things off with the vice principle."
Rachel stared. She thought back over the weeks to the time when Ali mentioned that her weekends were free again. "At the barbecue?" she asked. "The day we met him?"
