Road to Seduction (Kimani Romance)

by Christopher, Ann

  “Well, ma’am,” Eric said with utmost sincerity, “I’m crazy about her.”

  “Of course you are.” Mama nodded with obvious impatience, apparently wanting him to stop wasting her time with the little details she already knew and get to the important part. “Who wouldn’t be? The question is: what do you plan to do about it?”

  Eric opened his mouth to answer, but Isabella, who was seriously considering taking off down the street at a dead run and hoping the neighbors on the corner were home and would take her in for the night, decided it might be worthwhile to register a protest.

  “Excuse me,” she said, “but I don’t need my mother to manage my—”

  Mama turned the full might of her withering glare on her and Isabella shut up mid-sentence. “If you were so good at managing your personal life, you’d be married by now and settled down instead of making plans to traipse off to the ends of the earth.”

  She paused, giving Isabella the chance to argue if she dared, but Isabella, being no fool, opted to keep her mouth shut and seethe in silence.

  “Now I want you to stand right there—” Mama pointed at the walk beneath Isabella’s feet, as though there were some confusion about precisely where Isabella should stand “—and hush up while I talk to this boy.”

  Isabella fumed and pretended she didn’t see Eric’s encouraging wink.

  “Eric?” Mama turned back to him.

  “I want to let nature take its course, Mama Jo, but Izzy says no.” Eric, to Isabella’s surprise, now lost his smirk and managed to look serious, almost sad, as he paused. “She won’t even think about it. And she won’t tell me the real reason why.”

  Much as she would have loved to make a joke—something about needing a violin to accompany Eric’s tale of woe—there was something in his forlorn expression that touched Isabella deeply and kept her quiet.

  Mama seemed to see it, too. She stared, unblinking, up into Eric’s eyes, and Isabella wondered if the poor man knew he was having his soul analyzed and mapped by the world’s most intuitive woman. She’d’ve warned him if she wasn’t so angry with him for tattling.

  And then, abruptly, it was over. Mama blinked, nodded and patted Eric’s cheek with so much affection it was difficult for Isabella to watch. Then Mama bent and picked up Zeus, who’d been snuffling hopefully around her feet. For a minute she scratched him behind the ears and then she adjusted his bandana and pressed a loud kiss to his fuzzy forehead, beaming as though she’d never seen anything as amazing as this one little dog.

  “I’ve got some bacon for you,” she said in a stage whisper.

  Zeus, hearing the magic word, yapped once and squirmed happily.

  “Oh, no,” Isabella said. “He’s got a sensitive stomach.”

  Ignoring this warning, Mama turned and swept through the screen door into the house. “Let’s go,” she called over her shoulder. “People are hungry and supper’s getting cold.”

  Isabella and Eric gaped after her, both startled by the sudden end to the interview. After a minute Isabella felt the heat of his gaze on her face, but her churning emotions were too raw for her to look at him now and she was too much of a coward to risk letting him see how ambivalent she felt.

  What had he meant, telling Mama he was crazy about her? Why did he sound like he meant it, like there was more to his feelings than the heat of new lust? Why did that possibility scare her so much? Above all, what had he done to her in bed this afternoon?

  Deciding it was best not to be alone with him—not now, not ever—Isabella reached for the screen door, which had banged shut behind Mama.

  “Tattletale,” she muttered as she brushed past.

  “You better believe it.”

  To her dismay and unwilling pleasure, Eric reached out and touched her forearm, holding her in a warm grip she could easily have broken if only she’d had the necessary willpower. She didn’t.

  “You of all people should know I don’t give up without a fight, Izzy,” he murmured, serious in a way she’d only seen a handful of times during all the years they’d known each other. “If your mother can help me keep you here, so much the better. I’ll take any help I can get.”

  Yeah. She knew he never gave up, and the knowledge scared her.

  Only one thought remained clear in her overwrought mind, and she clung to it. She must not let this man steal any more pieces of her heart. He did not belong to her and never would. Great sex didn’t change anything. Well, it made her care more deeply for him, but it didn’t work the same way for men like Eric, who got what they wanted and moved on. She’d seen it happen a thousand times since she’d known him.

  So, yeah, her eyes were clear. Eric was a player, born and bred, and he wouldn’t be changing for her any more than a leopard could unzip his spotted suit and slip on a striped one. Once his lust wore off, he’d realize the same thing, but by then she’d be firmly in love with him and her poor heart would be broken. That was something she meant to prevent at all costs. Only by setting firm limits could she salvage their friendship, and that was her goal.

  If he would just cooperate.

  Anyway, she was moving to South Africa, where it was safe, and nothing would stop her. And who in the history of life had ever maintained a long-distance relationship between Columbus, Ohio, and Johannesburg?

  “You’re wasting your time,” she told him.

  A tender smile hitched up one corner of his mouth and then disappeared, leaving only that unfamiliar gleaming intensity in his eyes and a corresponding terror deep in her belly.

  “I don’t think so, Sunshine.”

  God, she wished he wouldn’t call her that. It killed her every time.

  He paused, and whether he was struggling with his own fears or deciding how much he should hold back for strategic reasons, she couldn’t tell. In the end he laid it all on the line.

  “I think this is the most important fight of my life,” he said.

  Chapter 11

  After supper, the entire group—Isabella thought there were about twenty-five people there, but she couldn’t get an accurate head count because the kids didn’t stand in one place long enough—migrated into the living room and sprawled across the various weathered sofas and chairs.

  Daddy, as usual, took his place of honor in the brown leather La-Z-Boy recliner Isabella and her brothers had gotten him when he retired from his job as an electrician, and picked up the remote to the wall-mounted flat screen TV they’d gotten him for his seventieth birthday. Soon the noise from a Braves game added to the general chaos.

  Daddy rocked back in his chair, kicked his feet up, twisted open the cap on his current bottle of Miller Lite, and rubbed his swollen belly. “Shoulda worn stretchy pants.”

  “I agree,” Isabella said.

  She was wedged on one of the love seats between her oldest brother, Bobby Joe, and his eternally pregnant wife, Sarah. Crossing her legs and trying to make her hips smaller, she eyed Daddy’s garish plaid golf pants. They were—she shuddered again—yellow, green and orange. No one appreciated bright colors and patterns more than Isabella, but this was ridiculous. She could only imagine what he and Mama had looked like out there on the golf course together. The other golfers were probably still seeing spots before their eyes, poor things.

  “Stretchy pants would be better than those,” Isabella continued. “Anything would be better than those.”

  Daddy laughed, taking no offense, and scooped up two-year-old Joey, Bobby Joe’s middle son, as he toddled past. Joey squealed and patted his grandfather’s bald crown, earning himself a wet raspberry on the cheek.

  “Stop that.” Joey squirmed and laughed for a minute, and then hopped down. Racing across the room and through the back screen door, he escaped to freedom on the screen porch, where about five or seven of the other grandchildren were playing a game that involved a lot of shrieking.

  “You haven’t lost your touch, Mama Jo.” Eric, sitting in one of the straight-backed chairs across the room from Isabella, his long
legs taking up far more than their fair share of the limited space in the cramped house, raised his own beer in a toast. “That was the best dinner I’ve had since the last time I was here.”

  There was a general chorus of agreement, but Mama, who was shuttling dirty plates between the dining room and kitchen, paused only long enough to wave a dismissive hand. “Those ribs were a little too dry this time and I—”

  Everyone shouted her down. Flushed with pleasure at the compliment, Mama disappeared around the corner.

  Isabella, forgetting she was upset with Eric and trying to keep him at arm’s length, made the mistake of catching his eye and laughing with him. Typical Mama Jo, the look said.

  It felt wonderful. Right. For a few delicious seconds, it was just the two of them, their laughter and that connection between them, and then it all changed. That naked heat surged anew between them, threatening to incinerate Isabella and leave only ashes where she had once been. God, it scared her. Looking away quickly, she tried to get control of her thundering pulse, to think, to breathe, but it was impossible.

  Sarah stirred beside her, pressing a hand to her enormous belly. “Baby’s kicking,” she announced happily to the group at large.

  “Wow.” Isabella looked around, nodded and smiled. Since her sister-in-law was now on her fourth child, this hardly seemed to be a noteworthy event, but Isabella tried to look interested anyway. “That’s great.”

  Sarah beamed and slid her hand around to a new position. “Feel.”

  “Oh, no,” Isabella said quickly. “I don’t think—”

  Too late. Sarah had already grabbed Isabella’s hand and clapped it to the enormous tight mound of her belly, and, sure enough, there was a strong spasm that felt like Muhammad Ali was trying to get out.

  Isabella forgot all about Eric, the uproar he’d caused in her life, and the yakking family all around her. There was a baby in there and Isabella felt a sharp and unexpected pang of longing. She snatched her hand away.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Sarah.

  Isabella forced a smile. “No problem.”

  “Isabella?”

  Eric’s worried voice cut through her sudden misery. Blinking furiously, she raised her head and plastered a smile on her face. “Yes?”

  Their gazes locked and her expression must have given her away. It usually did with Eric. She hadn’t yet had an emotion he couldn’t read.

  Frown lines developed between his heavy brows. “You okay?”

  “I’m great,” Isabella said, but her voice sounded high and false and Eric didn’t look at all convinced. When the concern in his eyes became too intense, she looked away and prayed for enough grace and composure to get through the rest of the evening.

  Just then, a new distraction arrived. Isabella’s youngest brother, Randy Lee, and his wife, Norma, appeared from down the hall, each carrying a year-old twin. Norma held the hand of their third child, Becca, a four-year old diva-in-training wearing a cute little leopard-spotted dress that was more fashionable than anything in Isabella’s closet.

  “The twins have clean diapers now,” Becca announced in a voice that would do any local town crier proud. “They don’t stink anymore.”

  “Good to know.” Mama hurried through with another armload of dishes.

  Becca, who’d been in love with Eric pretty much since birth, rocketed over to him and settled onto his lap, resuming the position she’d held throughout dinner. Eric smoothed her braids and kissed one of her fat cheeks.

  “Did you help change them?” he asked her.

  “Ewww!” Becca’s button nose scrunched down until it seemed to sit directly on top of her pursed lips. “That’s gross.”

  “Isn’t that a big sister’s job?” Eric wondered.

  “No. But I can give them a bottle.”

  “Well. As long as you help.” Eric kissed her cheek again.

  “Oh, she helps all right,” Norma said.

  She put the twin she was holding, Randy Jr., on the floor and hovered nearby as he balanced on his chunky but shaky legs. Randy Jr. stuck his arms high overhead and stumbled a wobbly three steps or so before collapsing to his bottom. Beaming with a proud smile that revealed a vast stretch of gums and a single tooth that looked like a grain of rice, he glanced around the room to make sure everyone had noticed his accomplishment.

  Norma clapped for him and continued her recitation. “Yesterday Becca helped by eating the twins’ mashed bananas. Isn’t that right, Becks?”

  Becca grinned, unabashed. “Mashed bananas are good.”

  “Mashed bananas?” Eric frowned at her. “Do you drink their bottles, too?”

  “No!” Affronted, Becca crossed her arms over her chest and glowered up at her hero. “I’m a big girl.”

  “I’m just saying,” Eric said mildly, shrugging. “If you’d eat mashed bananas…”

  Watching Eric and Becca with their heads together and seeing the absolute worship on the girl’s tiny face did the nastiest things to Isabella’s insides; her throat dried out and her stomach knotted. Worse, tension squeezed her chest, as though someone had eased a belt around her torso up under her arms and tightened it.

  Don’t look, Isabella told herself, but she didn’t take her own advice. It didn’t matter how much the sight hurt, or that she could barely see them anyway through the sheen of unshed tears coating her eyes. She couldn’t stop staring and thinking about the beautiful children Eric might produce.

  “Do you have kids?” Becca was asking Eric now. She patted his cheeks gently—Isabella saw the glimmer of the girl’s chipped pink sparkle nail polish—as she spoke, as though she needed to touch him and just couldn’t help herself. Isabella certainly knew how that felt. “Any little girls like me?”

  “Oh, Lord.” Norma was now sitting cross-legged on the floor and supervising while Randy Jr. clumsily petted Zeus. The shameless dog was rolling around on his back, exposing his belly like a Vegas stripper and hoping for any affection that might come his way. “There she goes with the personal questions. Ignore her, Eric. If you don’t, she’ll be asking about your underwear next.”

  But Eric just laughed and kissed Becca’s forehead. “No little girls like you, Becca. Maybe one day. I need to get married first.”

  “I’ll marry you!” Alight with happiness at this glorious idea, Becca clapped her hands together and bounced on Eric’s lap. “I’ll be a good wife!”

  “Yeah. I know you will, cutie,” Eric told her. “But you should probably finish kindergarten first. And I might need a wife before that.”

  “Oh.” Poor Becca’s face fell and Isabella could almost feel the weight of her four-year-old despair. “But you can wait for me, can’t you?”

  “Becca,” chided Norma softly, shooting Eric an apologetic look.

  Eric didn’t notice. Neither did Becca. They stared at each other, he with affection and tenderness, she with so much breathless hope she seemed to quiver with it. Finally Eric delivered the bad news.

  “I don’t think I can wait that long, cutie. Sorry.”

  Becca took it like a woman. Nodding wisely, she shot an annoyed but resigned look in Isabella’s direction. “I knew it. You’re going to marry Aunt Izzy, aren’t you?”

  There was a moment’s arrested silence followed by generalized tittering by the adults who weren’t watching the game. Isabella cringed—could this night get any worse?—but Eric froze.

  “Bec-ca!” Norma had finally had enough and mouthed Sorry! to Isabella. Lunging to her feet, she grabbed Becca’s hand and yanked her off Eric’s lap. “You come with me right now. I think it’s bedtime for you. How would that be?”

  “Noo-oo.” Becca’s wail echoed down the hall as they disappeared.

  “That girl.” Daddy glanced up from the TV for the first time since he’d assumed his position in front of it and stared affectionately after his departing granddaughter. He caught Isabella’s eye and winked, but then his gaze seemed to snag on something just south of her face.

  Isabella winced. Uh
-oh.

  “What’s that on your neck, girl?” he asked loudly. “A hickey?”

  All activity ceased and every pair of eyes in the place swung around to Isabella’s neck. Even Randy Jr. paused in his playing with Zeus and stared up at her. Clapping a hand on the spot—the correct side this time—Isabella managed a laugh and carefully avoided looking at Eric.

  “Of course not, Daddy. Zeus scratched me.”

  “Scratch?” Daddy shook his head. “That don’t look like no scratch to me. That looks like a hickey. I’ve seen enough of ’em to know.”

  Isabella’s unconcerned smile slipped a little but she managed to hang onto it. “Get your eyes checked, Daddy. It’s a scratch.”

  Daddy didn’t look like he believed her for a minute, but luckily a commercial ended just then and the game came back on. With the siren’s lure of the big screen calling him, Daddy forgot all about his daughter’s neck issues, rocked back in the recliner, sipped his beer and lapsed into silence.

  Normal activity resumed after a few people cast curious glances Isabella’s way. Isabella was vaguely aware of Mama coming to stand in the doorway, but she was more interested in Eric.

  With every intention of apologizing for her niece’s flights of fancy—the girl’s only four, Isabella wanted to say, she doesn’t even remember to flush the toilet half the time—she tried to catch his gaze, but he stared vacantly at the spot where Becca would have been if she was still on his lap. He looked as though he’d been turned to stone; Isabella couldn’t detect the slightest flicker of his lids or even the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

  Poor Eric, she thought vaguely, even as that stupid invisible belt tightened again around her heart. It takes him ten minutes to recover from hearing himself and marriage mentioned in the same sentence.

  But then something funny happened. Eric looked in Isabella’s direction in a process that seemed to take forever, as though he could only turn his head a quarter of an inch at a time, and their gazes connected with the force and power of two bullet trains colliding.