Less than a Stranger

by Nora Roberts

  “Good. I want to be alone with you.”

  The simple directness had butterflies dancing in her stomach. Slowly, she turned to look at him again.

  “Anything wrong with that?” The smile was back, irreverent and engaging. Megan sighed, feeling like she was just climbing the first hill of a roller coaster.

  “Probably,” she murmured.

  The beach was deserted but for the crying gulls. She stood for a moment facing west, enjoying the rich glow of the dying sun.

  “I love this time of day,” she said softly. “Everything seems so still. As if the day’s holding its breath.” She jumped when Katch’s hands came to her shoulders.

  “Easy,” he murmured, kneading the suddenly tense muscles as he stood behind her. He looked over her head to the sunset. “I like it just before dawn, when the birds first start to sing and the light’s still soft.

  “You should relax more often,” he told her. He slid his fingers lazily up her neck and down again. The pleasure became less quiet and more demanding. When she would have slipped away, Katch turned her to face him.

  “No,” she said immediately, “don’t.” Megan placed both her hands on his chest. “Don’t.”

  “All right.” He relaxed his hold, but didn’t release her for a moment. Then he stooped for the picnic basket and pulled out a white tablecloth saying briskly, “Besides, it’s time to eat.” Megan took it from him, marveling that the restaurant had given him their best linen.

  “Here you go.” With his head still bent over the basket, he handed her the glasses.

  And their crystal, she thought, dazed as she accepted the elegant wine glasses. There was china next, then silver.

  “Why did they give you all this?”

  “They were low on paper plates.”

  “Champagne?” She glanced at the label as he poured. “You must be crazy!”

  “What’s the matter?” he returned mildly. “Don’t you like champagne?”

  “Actually I do, though I’ve only had American.”

  “Here’s to the French.” Katch held out a glass to her.

  Megan sipped. “It’s wonderful,” she said before experimenting with another sip. “But you didn’t have to …” she gestured expansively.

  “I decided I wasn’t in the mood for a hamburger.” Katch screwed the bottle down into the sand. He placed a small container on the cloth, then dived back into the basket.

  “What’s this?” Megan demanded as she opened it. She frowned at the shiny black mass inside. He placed toast points on a plate. “Is it …” She paused in disbelief and glanced at him. “Is this caviar?”

  “Yeah. Let me have some, will you? I’m starving.” Katch took it from her and spread a generous amount on a piece of toast. “Don’t you want any?” he asked her as he took a bite.

  “I don’t know.” Megan examined it critically. “I’ve never tasted it before.”

  “No?” He offered her his piece. “Taste it.” When she hesitated, Katch grinned and held it closer to her mouth. “Go on, Meg, have a bite.”

  “It’s salty,” she said with surprise. She plucked the toast from his hand and took another bite. “And it’s good,” she decided, swallowing.

  “You might’ve left me some,” he complained when Megan finished off the toast.

  She laughed and, heaping caviar onto another piece, handed it to him. “I wondered how it would sound.” Katch took the offering, but his attention was on Megan.

  “What?” Still smiling, she licked a bit of caviar from her thumb.

  “Your laugh. I wondered if it would be as appealing as your face.” He took a bite now, still watching her. “It is.”

  Megan tried to calm her fluttering pulse. “You didn’t have to feed me caviar and champagne to hear me laugh.” With a casual shrug, she moved out of his reach. “I laugh quite a bit.”

  “Not often enough.”

  She looked back at him in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

  “Your eyes are so serious. So’s your mouth.” His glance swept over her face. “Perhaps that’s why I feel compelled to make you smile.”

  “How extraordinary.” Megan sat back on her heels and stared at him. “You barely know me.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I always thought it should,” she murmured as he reached into the hamper again. Megan watched, no longer surprised as he drew out lobster tails and fresh strawberries. She laughed again and, pushing back her hair, moved closer to him.

  “Here,” she said. “Let me help.”

  The sun sank as they ate. The moon rose. It shot a shimmering white line across the sea. Megan thought it was like a dream—the china and silver gleaming in the moonlight, the exotic tastes on her tongue, the familiar sound of surf and the stranger beside her, who was becoming less of a stranger every minute.

  Already Megan knew the exact movement of his face when he smiled, the precise tonal quality of his voice. She knew the exact pattern of the curls over his ear. More than once, bewitched by moonlight and champagne, she had to restrain her fingers from reaching for them, experimenting with them.

  “Aren’t you going to eat any cheesecake?” Katch gestured with a forkful, then slid it into his mouth.

  “I can’t.” Megan brought her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them. She watched his obvious enjoyment with dessert. “How do you do it?”

  “Dedication.” Katch took the last bite. “I try to see every project through to the finish.”

  “I’ve never had a picnic like this,” she told him with a contented sigh. Leaning back on her elbows, she stretched out her legs and looked up at the stars. “I’ve never tasted anything so wonderful.”

  “I’ll give Ricardo your compliments.” Katch moved to sit beside her. His eyes moved from the crown of her head down the slender arch of her neck. Her face was thrown up to the stars.

  “Who’s Ricardo?” she asked absently. There was no thought of objection when Katch tucked her hair behind her ear with his fingertip.

  “The chef. He loves compliments.”

  Megan smiled, liking the way the sound of his voice mixed with the sound of the sea. “How do you know?”

  “That’s how I lured him away from Chicago.”

  “Lured him away? What do you mean?” It took only an instant for the answer to come to her. “You own that restaurant?”

  “Yes.” He smiled at the incredulity in her face. “I bought it a couple of years ago.”

  Megan glanced at the white linen cloth scattered with fine china and heavy silver. She recalled that a little more than two years before, the restaurant had been ready to go under. The food had been overpriced and the service slack. Then it had received a face-lift. The interior had been redesigned, boasting, she was told, a mirrored ceiling. Since its reopening, it had maintained the highest of reputations in a town which prided itself on its quality and variety of restaurants.

  She shifted her attention back to him. “You bought it?”

  “That’s right.” Katch smiled at her. He sat Indian-style, facing her as she leaned back on her elbows. “Does that surprise you?”

  Megan looked at him carefully: the careless toss of curls, the white knees of his jeans, the frayed sneakers. He was not her conception of a successful businessman. Where was the three-piece suit, the careful hairstyling? And yet … she had to admit there was something in his face.

  “No,” she said at length. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.” Megan frowned as he shifted his position. In a moment he was close, facing the sea as she did. “You bought it the same way you want to buy Joyland.”

  “I told you, that’s what I do.”

  “But it’s more than owning things, isn’t it?” she insisted, not satisfied with his offhand answers. “It’s making a success of them.”

  “That’s the idea,” he agreed. “There’s a certain satisfaction in succeeding, don’t you think?”

  Megan sat up and turned to him. “But you can’t have Joyland, it�
�s Pop’s whole life. You don’t understand …”

  “Maybe not,” he said easily. “You can explain it to me later. Not tonight.” He covered her hand with his. “This isn’t a night for business.”

  “Katch, you have to—”

  “Look at the stars, Meg,” he suggested as he did so himself. “Have you ever tried to count them?”

  Her eyes were irresistibly drawn upward. “When I was little. But—”

  “Star counting isn’t just for kids,” he instructed in a voice warm and laced with humor. “Do you come here at night?”

  The stars were brilliant and low over the sea. “Sometimes,” she murmured. “When a project isn’t going well and I need to clear my head, or just be alone.”

  “What sort of artist are you?” His fingers trailed over her knuckles. “Do you paint seascapes? Portraits?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “No, I sculpt.”

  “Ah.” He lifted her hand, then examined it—one side, then the other—while she watched him. “Yes, I can see that. Your hands are strong and capable.” When he pressed his lips to the center of her palm, she felt the jolt shoot through her entire body.

  Carefully, Megan drew her hand away; then, bringing her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them. She could feel Katch smile without seeing it.

  “What do you work in? Clay, wood, stone?”

  “All three.” Turning her head, she smiled again.

  “Where did you study?”

  “I took courses in college.” With a shrug, she passed this off. “There hasn’t been much time for it.” She looked up at the sky again. “The moon’s so white tonight. I like to come here when it’s full like this, so that the light’s silvery.”

  When his lips brushed her ear, she would have jerked away, but he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Relax, Meg.” His voice was a whisper at her cheek. “There’s a moon and the ocean. That’s all there is besides us.”

  With his lips tingling on her skin, she could almost believe him. Her limbs were heavy, drugged with wine and the magic of his touch. Katch trailed his mouth down to her throat so that she moaned with the leap of her pulse.

  “Katch, I’d better go.” He was tracing her jaw with light kisses. “Please,” she said weakly.

  “Later,” he murmured, going back to nuzzle her ear. “Much, much later.”

  “No, I …” Megan turned her head, and the words died.

  Her lips were no more than a breath from his. She stared at him, eyes wide and aware as he bent closer. Still his mouth didn’t touch hers. It hovered, offering, promising. She moaned again, lids lowering as he teased the corners of her lips. His hands never touched her. He had moved his arm so that their only contact was his mouth and tongue on her skin and the mingling of their breath.

  Megan felt her resistance peel away, layer by layer until there was only need. She forgot to question the dangers, the consequences. She could only feel. Her mouth sought his. There was no hesitation or shyness now but demand, impatient demand, as she hungered to feel what she had felt before—the delicious confusion, the dark awareness.

  When he still didn’t touch her, Megan slipped her arms around him. She pulled him close, enjoying his soft sound of pleasure as the kiss deepened. Still, he let her lead, touching her now, but lightly, his fingers in her hair. She could barely hear the hissing of the surf over the pounding of her heart. Finally, she drew away, pulling in a deep breath as their lips separated.

  But he wouldn’t let her go. “Again?” The question was quiet and seemed to shout through the still night.

  Refusal trembled on Megan’s tongue. She knew the ground beneath her was far from solid. His hand on the back of her neck brought her a whisper closer.

  “Yes,” she said, and went into his arms.

  This time he was less passive. He showed her there were many ways to kiss. Short and light, long and deep. Tongue and teeth and lips could all bring pleasure. Together, they lowered themselves to the sand.

  It was a rough blanket, but she felt only the excitement of his lips on her skin as they wandered to her throat. She ran her fingers through his hair. His mouth returned to hers, harder now, more insistent. She was ready for it, answering it. Craving it.

  When his hand took the naked skin of her breast, she murmured in resistance. She hadn’t felt him release the zipper of her jacket or the buttons of her shirt. But his hand was gentle, persuasive. He let his fingers trail over her, a whispering touch. Resistance melted into surrender, then heated into passion. It was smoldering just under her skin, threatening to explode into something out of her control. She moved under him and his hands became less gentle.

  There was a hunger in the kiss now. She could taste it, a flavor sharper than any she’d known. It was more seductive than soft words or champagne, and more frightening.

  “I want you.” Katch spoke against her mouth, but the words were not in his easygoing tone. “I want to make love with you.”

  Megan felt control slipping from her grasp. Her need for him was overpowering, her appetite ravenous. She struggled to climb back to reality, to remember who they were. Names, places, responsibilities. There was more than the moon and the sea. And he was a stranger, a man she barely knew.

  “No.” Megan managed to free her mouth from his. She struggled to her feet. “No.” The repetition was shaky. Quickly, she began to fumble with the buttons of her shirt.

  Katch stood and gathered the shirttail in his hands. Surprised, Megan looked up at him. His eyes were no longer calm, but his voice was deadly so. “Why not?”

  Megan swallowed. There wasn’t lazy arrogance here, but a hint of ruthlessness. She had sensed it, but seeing it was much more potent. “I don’t want to.”

  “Liar,” he said simply.

  “All right.” She nodded, conceding his point. “I don’t know you.”

  Katch inclined his head in agreement but tugged on the tails of her shirt to bring her closer. “You will,” he assured her. He kissed her then, searingly. “But we’ll wait until you do.”

  She fought to steady her breathing and stabilize her pulse. “Do you think you should always get what you want?” she demanded. The defiance was back, calming her.

  “Yes,” he said and grinned. “Of course.”

  “You’re going to be disappointed.” She smacked his hands from her shirt and began doing the buttons. Her fingers were unfaltering. “You can’t have Joyland and you can’t have me. Neither of us is for sale.”

  The roughness with which he took her arm had her eyes flying back to his face. “I don’t buy women.” He was angry, his eyes dark with it. The appealing voice had hardened like flint. The artist in her was fascinated by the planes of his face, the woman was uneasy with his harsh tone. “I don’t have to. We’re both aware that with a bit more persuasion I’d have had you tonight.”

  Megan pulled out of his hold. “What happened tonight doesn’t mean I find you irresistible, you know.” She zipped up her jacket with one quick jerk. “I can only repeat, you can’t have Joyland and you can’t have me.”

  Katch watched her a moment as she stood in the moonlight, her back to the sea. The smile came again, slowly, arrogantly. “I’ll have you both, Meg,” he promised quietly. “Before the season begins.”

  Chapter Four

  The afternoon sun poured into Megan’s studio. She was oblivious to it, and to the bird song outside the windows. Her mind was focused on the clay her hands worked with, or, more precisely, on what she saw in the partially formed mound.

  She had put her current project aside, something she rarely did, to begin a new one. The new subject had haunted her throughout the night. She would exorcise David Katcherton by doing a bust of him.

  Megan could see it clearly, knew precisely what she wanted to capture: strength and determination behind a surface affability.

  Though she had yet to admit it, Katch had frightened her the night before. Not physically—he was too intelligent to use brute force,
she acknowledged—but by the force of his personality. Angrily, she stabbed at the clay. Obviously, this was a man who got what he wanted. But she was determined that this time he would not have his way. He would soon find out that she couldn’t be pushed around any more than Pop could. Slowly and meticulously, her fingers worked to mold the planes of his face. It gave her a certain satisfaction to have control over him—if only vicariously with the clay.

  Almost without thinking, she shaped a careless curl over the high brow. She stepped back to survey it. Somehow, she had caught a facet of his nature. He was a rogue, she decided. The old-fashioned word suited him. She could picture him with boots and six-guns, dealing cards for stud poker in a Tucson saloon; with a saber, captaining a ship into the Barbary Coast. Her fingers absently caressed the clay curls. He would laugh in the face of the wind, take treasure and women where he found them. Women. Megan’s thoughts zeroed in on the night before … On the feel of his lips on hers, the touch of his hand on her skin. She could remember the texture of the sand as they had lain together, the scent and sounds of the sea. And she remembered how the moonlight had fallen on his hair, how her hands had sought it while his lips had wandered over her. How thick and soft it had felt. How …

  Megan stopped, appalled. She glanced down to see her fingers in the clay replica of Katch’s hair. She swore, and nearly, very nearly, reduced the clay to a formless mass. Controlling herself, she rose, backing away from the forming bust. I should never allow myself to be distracted from my work by petty annoyances, she thought. Her evening with Katch belonged in that category. Just a petty annoyance. Not important.

  But it was difficult for Megan to convince herself this was true. Both her intuition and her emotions told her that Katch was important, far more important than a stranger should be to a sensible woman.

  And I am sensible, she reminded herself. Taking a long breath, she moved to the basin to rinse the clay from her hands. She had to be sensible. Pop needed someone around to remind him that bills had to be paid. A smile crept across her mouth as she dried her hands. Megan thought, as she did from time to time, that she had been almost as much of a savior to her grandfather as he had been to her.