Road to Seduction (Kimani Romance)

by Christopher, Ann

  There was something so thunderstruck, so troubled, so unfathomable in his expression that it hit Isabella like a jolt from a car’s battery cables and almost knocked her out. Warning bells of all shapes and sizes clanged in her brain, but she ignored them while she and Eric stared at each other.

  She didn’t know what was behind the look on his face, only that it was about a lot more than a player recoiling at the ridiculous thought of marrying a woman with whom he’d had sex only once. A lot more.

  As much as that terrified her, she still couldn’t look away.

  “Isabella Grace.”

  Isabella blinked once, then twice. On the third time she was finally able to peel her gaze away from Eric and look around to see who was talking to her. Looking was unnecessary, though, because of course only one person in the universe called her by her full name.

  Mama stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching her with sharp eyes as she wiped her wet hands on the flowered towel slung over her shoulder. To Mama’s eyes, if no one else’s, Isabella would look exactly the way she felt: like a deer caught in the headlights and waiting to get smashed by a Mercedes SUV barreling in her direction.

  “Isabella Grace,” Mama said again, “are you planning to sit there all night or are you gonna help me with these dirty dishes?”

  Isabella snapped out of her Eric Warner stupor, a little late, true, but better late than never.

  Bless that woman. Wonderful, wonderful mother. Bless her.

  Seizing eagerly on this excuse to get away from Eric, Isabella squeezed her way to the edge of the love seat, out from between Sarah and her enormous belly on the one side and Bobby Joe on the other.

  “Sorry, Mama.” She surged to her feet. “Here I come.”

  Well aware of Eric’s scorching gaze on the side of her face, Isabella ignored it…Tried to ignore it…Wished she could ignore it. As she crossed over into the relative safety of the kitchen, she heard Billy Jack’s voice rise above the murmur of the rest of the crowd.

  “Let me ask you something, Eric,” her brother said. “How many crunches are you doing these days?”

  The kitchen wasn’t as much of a mess as Isabella had feared. Most of the dishes had already been rinsed and stacked, and only a few leftovers remained on the counter to be bagged and refrigerated. She looked around the tiny space with its avocado walls, outdated countertops and ancient appliances, and awful, though pristine, floors. She’d joked on more than one occasion that the kitchen was a graveyard, the place where linoleum came to die.

  How one woman in one minute kitchen—without benefit of a Wolf stove, Cuisinart food processor or KitchenAid mixer, by the way—could have produced so many lip-smacking, belly-busting, diet-ruining meals for four kids and countless others over the decades was something Isabella would never figure out. But Mama was the indisputable heart of this family, and this room was the nerve center of the entire Stevens operation. This place, with this woman, was home—and comfort.

  Which was good, because Isabella needed about a million barrels of crude comfort right now. Her stomach was tied in so many knots she could probably make a nice embroidery sampler out of them. That being the case, food was probably not the answer, but she didn’t let that stop her.

  Glancing around, she reached for the first flowered bowl she saw: baked beans. Isabella had never been proud and now was not the time to start. Using the enormous serving spoon, she scooped a huge bite of the dark beans—molasses was the secret ingredient, along with some barbeque sauce—and shoveled it in her mouth.

  Mama watched her with hands on hips and eyes narrowed and speculative. Her mama’s Spidey sense seemed to tell her that Isabella needed a minute or two because she kept quiet through Isabella’s first four bites. When Zeus trotted in and yapped once at Mama’s feet, Mama stuck her fingers into Isabella’s bowl, extracted a tiny piece of nicely-browned bacon—Isabella frowned because she’d been planning to eat it on the next bite—and slipped it into the Yorkie’s mouth.

  Zeus yapped his thanks and trotted out again.

  Isabella glowered at her mother. “That dog has a sensitive stomach.”

  “Hush now,” Mama said. “A little bacon never hurt anyone.”

  Snorting, Isabella thunked the now empty baked beans bowl on the counter and started in on the remnants of Mama’s mustard potato salad.

  That seemed to be the last straw for Mama. Turning on the faucet to muffle the sounds of their voices, not that anyone was listening anyway judging by the dull roar coming from the living room, she snatched the potato salad from Isabella and placed it on the other side of the counter, well out of reach.

  “What has that boy done to you, Isabella?” Mama whispered, aghast.

  Isabella, thinking of Eric’s hands sliding over her overheated body, his tongue gliding into her mouth and his penis thrusting deep inside her, shuddered with renewed longing. “You don’t want to know.”

  “You’re in love with him.”

  Isabella froze, refusing to meet her mother’s eyes. It took her a minute or two to work up a respectable splutter of outrage. The astonished laugh took a little longer.

  “Love? What on earth are you talking about, Mama?”

  Mama made a dismissive noise, turned toward the bubble-filled sink, and plunged her hands in among the crusty pots and pans. “Well, you’ve always been in love with him, of course.” She paused in her muttering long enough to shake her head. “I’ve seen this coming for years. I’m surprised it took this long, to tell you the truth. And sleeping with him now, too. Goodness gracious.”

  While Isabella knew that lying at this point would be a waste of time, she still wasn’t quite ready to discuss her newly-thrilling sex life with her mother. Instead she snatched a deviled egg off the platter and wolfed it down, hoping that Mama would attribute her silence to a full mouth.

  No dice. Mama rinsed the pot, placed it upside down in the rack, and looked over her shoulder to fix Isabella with that look.

  “What about Joe?” Mama asked.

  “I told you all the Joe details when I called. I’m over him. Kindly don’t mention his name again.”

  “Good,” Mama said flatly. “I never did like him. Too arrogant.”

  “Now’s a fine time to mention that.”

  “Well?” she demanded. “What have you got to say for yourself about Eric?”

  Isabella took her time about swallowing her latest mouthful, using the delay to construct a careful answer that would, hopefully, satisfy her mother and end this whole dangerous conversation.

  “Eric and I have, ah, recently decided to, ah, explore our attraction—”

  Mama emitted a hiccupping little laugh that further shredded Isabella’s frayed nerves. “Explore your attraction? Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

  “—but it was a one-time thing and it doesn’t matter anyway because I’ll be moving soon and we’ll just go back to the way—”

  The look of abject horror on Mama’s face stopped her cold.

  “Moving soon?” Mama pressed a hand to her heart. “Good Lord, you’re not still talking about teaching in Johannesburg?”

  “Of course I am,” Isabella said, feeling distinctly prickly now. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Eric can’t leave his job, Isabella Grace. He runs the whole company.”

  “Haven’t you been listening?” Realizing she was raising her voice, Isabella lowered it. “It was a one-time thing and we are going on with our lives.”

  Mama’s eyes widened to the point of bulging. When her jaw dropped, too, Isabella braced herself, knowing she was really about to get it with both barrels.

  But a new diversion appeared in the form of Daddy’s head poking around the corner. During the seventh inning stretch or halftime, depending on which season it was, he liked to move around a little, get a fresh drink and find a snack. Otherwise his butt remained firmly in the recliner.

  “Woman?” Daddy rubbed his belly and surveyed the counters hopefully. “You got a
ny coconut cake left?”

  Mama recovered from her stupefaction and nailed her husband with an annoyed look strong enough to make him shrink like a punctured beach ball.

  “We are talking here. I don’t have time to get you any cake.”

  Daddy paused, apparently battling with both his fear and his hunger. The hunger won. “But I am hungr—”

  “Here.” Mama flung open a cabinet with a bang, rummaged around, and produced a bag of pork rinds, which she thrust at Daddy’s chest. “Have a snack to hold you over.”

  Daddy’s doleful expression cleared into utmost joy and happiness. With a broad smile, he disappeared back around the corner.

  “What are you doing with pork rinds?” Isabella hissed. “Are you trying to give that man a heart attack? I didn’t even know they still made those things.”

  “Oh, hush,” Mama snapped. “I keep them around for emergencies.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Having dispatched with this unwelcome distraction, Mama resumed her interrogation with the kind of zeal that made Isabella wonder if the woman had been a CIA operative in a past life.

  “Isabella Grace,” she said, “how on earth do you think you and Eric can go on with your lives and live on two different continents? Why would you want to?”

  There was something about her mother’s urgency, as though she needed to talk Isabella out of throwing herself in front of a herd of rampaging elephants, that was more than Isabella could deal with right now. All kinds of unwelcome emotions churned in her gut and overflowed to her tight chest, and she felt dangerously agitated, borderline crazed. Why was Mama making this so hard? Why was she refusing to understand the obvious? Why did they have to go through this excruciating exercise?

  “Why?” Isabella cried. “Why would I derail my career plans for a relationship that’ll never go anywhere?”

  “Never go anywhere?” Mama floundered, apparently undone by her daughter’s stubborn refusal to acknowledge that which was already, in her opinion, crystal clear. “Isabella, you’re in love with each other. Why wouldn’t your relationship go anywhere?”

  Isabella had the sudden urge to brace her hands on the crowded counter for support. “In love?” she echoed. “Eric’s never been in love in his life.”

  “Isabell-aaa.”

  Mama’s wry, pitying look was salt to Isabella’s already bleeding wounds. “I didn’t raise any blind children, so you need to open your eyes, girl,” Mama said. “That boy has always been in love with you just like you’ve always been in love with him. He just wasn’t ready for it. Until now.”

  This was not true and wishing it was wouldn’t change anything. “It’s only lust,” Isabella said, weary now to the depths of her soul. “It’ll pass and then he’ll go on to the next woman, just like always. There’s nothing special about me.”

  Mama’s face contorted with a sudden ferocity. She didn’t bother being gentle as she clamped her fingers around Isabella’s chin to hold her in place.

  “As long as you live, Isabella Grace Stevens, you better not ever let me hear that kind of nonsense come out of your mouth ever again. You hear me?”

  Duly chastised, Isabella opened her mouth to answer, but Mama didn’t give her the chance. “Eric Warner would be lucky to have you and he knows it. Any man would be lucky to have you. Do you understand me?”

  Isabella meant to nod but something stopped her, and it wasn’t her mother’s hard fingers gripping her face. It was because, in her heart of hearts, she didn’t believe any man would be lucky to have her, least of all Eric. In her heart of hearts she knew no man would want her once he knew the whole truth.

  Especially not Eric.

  Mama seemed to read her mind. Her expression softened and, letting go of Isabella’s chin, she patted her cheek with the utmost affection. This, naturally, made things worse. Isabella had the sudden and irritating urge to cry but she swore to herself that she wouldn’t. Not here, not now.

  “Does he know about what happened with Al in college?” Mama asked.

  “Most of it,” Isabella said, unhappy with the conversation’s turn.

  Mama stared at her. “Does Eric know…”

  “That I can’t have children? No.”

  Isabella blinked against those hot tears, jolted by her own mention of her biggest heartbreak in life. Her infertility was the very last thing she needed to think about now; wasn’t she already conflicted enough tonight dealing with a pregnant woman, children and Eric? “No. And it’s not relevant anyway.”

  “It’s relevant to any man who loves you and wants to support you.”

  “Yeah?” Isabella said. “Well, I told Joe, who supposedly loved me, and he showed his support by freaking out and cheating on me.”

  “Eric’s not Joe.”

  Exasperation now battled with frustration, and Isabella didn’t know which was worse. “Eric doesn’t love me. He wants me. There’s a difference.”

  “You love him, though.”

  Isabella remained upright even though it felt like the tacky linoleum floor—hell, the whole earth—had dropped out from under her feet. Stuck in a limbo where she couldn’t acknowledge her love for Eric and couldn’t deny it, there was nothing to do but look away from her mother’s sharp gaze and focus on the awful flowered wallpaper.

  Mama said nothing, letting Isabella flounder in her own confusion. From the next room came the sound of raucous male laughter and clapping. Maybe the Braves had hit a grand slam.

  Zeus, as though sensing she needed him now, toddled in and sat at Isabella’s feet, staring at her with the expectant look that Isabella had never been able to ignore. She scooped him up and rubbed her cheek against his soft little face, taking comfort where she could.

  Finally she was ready to look back at Mama. “I’m so stupid,” she whispered. “I thought I’d be able to control my feelings for him. Now things are worse than ever.”

  Mama scratched Zeus’s ears. “You’re not stupid, baby. Eric’s a hard man to get over. He’s special.”

  Ain’t that the truth. The only good thing about this whole unfortunate scenario, at least as far as Isabella could see, was that she had a plan, something on the horizon to take her mind off Eric.

  “It’ll be better once I move. I’m really excited about my new job, Mama, and I—”

  Impatience erupted out of Mama and spewed like lava. She flapped her arms and made a strangled sound that had Zeus looking around in alarm.

  “Isabella! What are you thinking, girl? You think you won’t love each other if he’s here and you’re there? You think you won’t take this problem with you to Johannesburg or Greenland or the planet Jupiter if you could get there?”

  “What problem?” asked a deep voice.

  Chapter 12

  Cringing, Isabella turned to discover Eric leaning against the doorframe with his ankles crossed, taking up most of the space in the tiny kitchen without even coming all the way into the room.

  As if it wasn’t bad enough that he’d heard part of their conversation—Isabella prayed it wasn’t much—he held Randy Jr. in his arms. The toddler had one tiny hand clutched on Eric’s shoulder. In the other he held the mushy remnants of what looked like Zwieback toast.

  “Ric!” said Randy Jr., waving the toast. “Ric!”

  Eric grinned down at him. “Er-ic. Er-ic.”

  “Ric!”

  Randy Jr. laughed at his own brilliance and then resumed gnawing on his toast. This, unfortunately, freed Eric to look around at Isabella and continue with his questioning, concern darkening his eyes until they looked black.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked. “Maybe I can help.”

  Not bloody likely, Isabella thought, especially since he was the cause of all the major problems in her life. Shooting a warning glance in Mama’s direction, she worked hard and managed to come up with a fairly convincing smile.

  “The only problem you need to be worried about,” she told Eric, pointing to the disgusting smear of wet cracker on his s
hirt, “is how you’re going to get that yucky mess off your shoulder.”

  To her surprise, Eric, the most annoyingly fastidious person she knew, looked down at the smudge and laughed. “That doesn’t matter, does it, buddy?” he said to the grinning, gnawing Randy Jr. “What’s a little mess between friends?”

  “Ric! Ric! Ric!”

  When Eric laughed again and planted a kiss on Randy Jr.’s fat cheek, Isabella had to look away because it was too painful to watch them together. Examining why it was painful was also painful, so she tried not to do it.

  Wasn’t it best to delude herself into thinking that she couldn’t stand the sight of any children at this vulnerable moment? Yeah. She’d pretend that was her problem. It wasn’t seeing Eric with children that caused the ache in that dark corner of her heart. Not that. Never that.

  Moving reflexively, she reached for the bread basket and grabbed one of Mama’s now-cold but still obscenely delicious yeast rolls. A bite of the spongy, buttery goodness made her feel better but had the perverse effect of causing Eric’s troubled gaze to latch onto her face and linger.

  The roll also caught Randy Jr.’s attention. He pointed and his foot-kicking enthusiasm made him bob up and down in Eric’s arms. “Peese?” he said. “Peese?”

  Isabella swallowed her mouthful and all her gloomy thoughts along with it. It was easy to smile at that angelic little face as long as she didn’t think about the fact that she’d never have her own angelic face to feed.

  “Please? Did you say please? Aren’t you a polite boy! Randy Jr. wants some roll, please?” She offered him a piece. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yeah!” Randy Jr. dropped the Zwieback on the floor and reached for the roll, practically snatching it out of her hands. “Yeah!”

  The adults laughed and watched with indulgent smiles as he gummed the bread, making a further mess, but when the boy opened his arms to Isabella and leaned toward her, her amusement dried up and died.

  There was no way she could hold that precious child right now, feel his warm, solid weight in her arms, smell his sweet scent of powder, lotion and baby, and not fall apart. She just couldn’t do it.