Heat of the Moment

by Diana Duncan

  She stared into her mug, braced for camouflaged disgust, mumbled excuses, a speedy escape. Nice knowing you, gorgeous.

  “Kate.” Hmm. Still here? She warily glanced up. Compassion glinted in his eyes, but no pity…or distaste. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I didn’t realize. I wasn’t being flip.”

  She geared out of defensive mode. “I know, it’s okay. I’m used to it.” She’d fended off comments from none-of-your-business nosy to breathtakingly cruel. After today, she’d better toughen up, fast. Jaw set, she awaited his questions. Steeled herself to recite the painful account of a vicious dog attack.

  Instead, his bone-melting smile flashed. “Dance with me, Just Kate.”

  “I…don’t dance well.” Since her injury, she’d become clumsy, as if her disability had thrown her entire body off balance. But she’d never been able to dance. She couldn’t loosen up and find the rhythm. And she hated being a public spectacle.

  Liam gestured at the gyrating couples on the dance floor. Several had obviously imbibed the green beer a tad too freely. He stood, his long, lithe body relaxed and confident. “That’s not stopping anyone else.”

  It was only a dance. So why did she get the same eerie tingle as when she’d stepped over the threshold and into the pub? As if she were making a life-altering choice.

  It wasn’t fear. No creepazoid vibes emanated from him, and serial killers didn’t travel with cop brothers and mom.

  The DJ had been playing Irish bands all night, and the music segued into U2’s “With or Without You.”

  “C’mon.” Liam winked at her. “I won’t lead you anywhere you don’t want to go.”

  What did she have to lose, except her questionable dignity? “Don’t blame me if you end up in the hospital alongside Murphy.”

  “Gamble is my middle name.”

  “Your mother must be clairvoyant,” she shot over her shoulder as he steered her onto the crowded dance floor.

  “More like wishful thinking.” Laughing, he faced her. “It’s actually Michael. She and Pop gave us all ‘saintly’ middle names.” He sobered. “Is it okay if I hold your hand to lead?”

  Nobody had touched her hand in over a year except medical personnel. Nobody had wanted to. “Y-yes.”

  He offered his palm…and waited.

  She stared at his palm, battling panic. He wouldn’t ask if he didn’t mean it. Wouldn’t offer, then yank away in revulsion.

  “Trust me,” his husky voice admonished. She looked up into his tender gaze, and he gave her a reassuring smile. “I won’t hurt you.” His somber tone infused the words with deeper meaning, as if he were making a sacred vow.

  She’d experienced the worst of betrayals by people who’d professed to love her. She should be beyond trust. Yet, she was willing to trust him. Why? Her movements jerky, she laid her hand in his. His warm fingers gently enclosed her scarred, stiff ones. For so long, there had been only numbness. Or terrible pain. But the instant they touched, all the tiny nerve endings in her hand shimmered with pleasure, and her breath caught.

  Before she could recover from the jolt, he cradled her hand against his shoulder. His right arm slid around her waist, and his broad palm nestled against the small of her back and tucked her close to his powerful body.

  He began to sway, and she tripped and stepped on his foot. He smiled at her. “Follow the tempo inside you, not the music.”

  Her cheeks flamed, and she ducked her head. “My tempo can’t carry a tune in a bushel basket.”

  “Relax, sweetheart.” He drew her close again. “It’s a dance, not nuclear disarmament.”

  She chuckled, and it was suddenly easy to melt into his embrace. She rested her cheek on his chest, where his heart beat strong and steady. He was so warm, yet he smelled as fresh as a winter rainstorm. Heat radiated from him, enveloped her in a bright glow. Warmed her clear through, to where she was cold and dead inside. Instead of trying to keep time with the song, she followed his rhythm. Awareness hummed through her veins, trembled in her belly. The music wove a magical spell, cocooning them alone on the dance floor.

  Liam lightly rubbed her back. “You’re a natural.”

  “Only with you,” she whispered so low she was sure he wouldn’t hear. But his arms tightened around her as if he had.

  All too soon, the song ended. Instead of releasing her, Liam kept her for another dance. And another. With every step, every sensual graze of their bodies, heat grew. Their unspoken connection strengthened. The air sizzled between them.

  Liam treated her to another Irish chocolate. Sheltered at a cozy table in the corner, she gloried in the keen intelligence and rapier wit beneath his gorgeous exterior.

  He treated her as if she were special, not fragile.

  She excused herself for a visit to the Lassies’ room and bumped into the auto club driver searching for her in the mob near the front. Instead of laboriously writing a check left-handed, she shoved cash at him to tow her car to the garage.

  Hours later, Liam pulled back at the end of a dance. She stumbled, and he slid his arm around her. When he touched her, she wasn’t clumsy. Wasn’t cold. Wasn’t alone anymore. And she craved him more than the most scrumptious, expensive chocolate.

  He brushed a lock of hair back from her face. “It’s getting late. I’ll walk you to your car.”

  Kate crashed back to earth. The ball was over, and she once again turned into a plain old pumpkin. She forced a smile to disguise her disappointment. “I’m traveling by cab.”

  “In that case, can I offer you a no-strings ride home?”

  Maybe there was a sprinkle of magic left. The Kate who had emerged like a wobbly butterfly from her chrysalis over the past few hours looked up into those intriguing Irish eyes and replied, “That would be nice, thanks.”

  When he discovered she didn’t have her coat, he draped his suede jacket over her shoulders. Envious female glares and speculative murmurs about “love ’em and leave ’em Liam” followed them out into the downpour. With his looks and natural charm, he’d have his pick of a different girl every night.

  What did it matter? For now, the handsome prince was hers.

  He insisted she wait under the covered entryway, and she couldn’t resist nuzzling the collar of his coat. The butter-soft charcoal suede smelled of him, like rain-washed piney woods.

  Liam pulled up in a white vintage Mustang, and she splashed through the deluge. He was already out with the door open, and she clambered inside.

  She brushed raindrops off his sleeve as he slid into the driver’s seat. “You should have stayed in here where it’s dry.”

  He grinned and pulled out into the street. “As Gram always said, ‘I’m not sugar or salt or anybody’s honey. I won’t melt.’”

  His teasing was a refreshing change. His easygoing charm and sunny grins swept away the damp fog of misery. Smiling, she studied the immaculate ivory leather interior. “Great car.”

  His grin lit up the night. “A ’66 Mustang GT convertible. This pony has the famous ‘K-code’ four-barrel 289, pumping out a lusty 271 horsepower…” He caught her bemused expression. “TMI?”

  “Not too much info at all, but I don’t speak hotrod. I fill my car with gas and drive it. You obviously adore yours.”

  “Pop towed the hunk of junk home on my fourteenth birthday. Over the years, we rebuilt every nut and bolt. Once, when we worked late into the night, he confided a crazy—” He broke off, abashed. “TMI again. Anyway, the pony holds a lot of memories.”

  His wistful tone clued her in. “Your dad is…gone?”

  “He died a year after we finished the car.” Pain flickered in his eyes, but his tone was jaunty. “So, Just Kate, where can my white charger sweep you away to?”

  Obviously, he preferred to keep things light. One of those party-hearty guys who abhorred commitment. Who despised complicated. Everything about her was complicated these days.

  Two streets before the entrance ramp to the freeway, he glanced at her, and his hand covered
hers where it rested on the seat. “Have dinner with me Saturday night.”

  In the intimate confines of the car, his intent gaze—focused on her alone—made her forget the heartache. His warm, gentle touch vanquished the pain. Her bleak nightmare faded in the glow of his easy laughter.

  And she didn’t want to let him go.

  “I…” She hesitated, unsure how to ask for what she wanted. Unsure how far to take it. She’d never been bold. Never been brazen. She’d always squelched her wants and needs. Expecting nothing was so much less painful than battling disappointment. Katherine Chabeau had never gone after what she wanted. Because of that, so much was now lost to her.

  Maybe it was high time “Just Kate” started.

  Liam stopped for a red light, and taut silence hummed between them. “Would you be more comfortable with lunch?”

  “Liam…take me home.”

  “A coffee?” His fingers gently squeezed hers. “Hell, I’ll settle for a hot dog from a downtown pushcart.”

  The tightness in her chest eased and she laughed. “I meant take me to your home.” She merely wanted to spend more time with him. Get to know him better. “I’d like to see where you live.”

  Ten minutes later, Liam ushered her inside a dilapidated two-story Craftsman. Disconcerting electricity arced from his palm to the small of her back, stealing her breath. How could his touch make her reel like she’d been struck by lightning? What was she doing, going home with a stranger? Oddly, she felt as if she’d known Liam forever. She’d never experienced a wild, out-of-control attraction to anyone…not even her fiancé.

  Maybe that’s why he cheated on you.

  Liam switched on the lights. “I plan to restore this grand old duchess to her former glory, as time and money allow.”

  “I used to restore antique paintings for a living. There’s nothing more fulfilling…except creating your own masterpiece.”

  He glanced at her misshapen arm, his emerald gaze tender and wise. Somehow, she sensed he understood her injury meant more than the loss of employment. That it meant the death of her dreams. He pushed aside a toolbox. The hard hat on top bore the Habitat for Humanity logo. “I’ll give you the fifty-cent tour.”

  She indicated the hard hat. “You volunteer for Habitat for Humanity? What, you don’t get enough construction at home?”

  He winked at her. “Don’t ya know, Just Kate,” he drawled in a lilting Irish brogue, “that idle hands are the devil’s tools?”

  She smiled back at him. “Oh, I’m sure your hands are always engaged in one activity or another, Ace.”

  His grin flashed white and wicked. “Busy hands are happy hands, sweetheart.”

  His naughty grin made her dizzy inside, like a ride on the scrambler at the state fair. Good grief. Now he didn’t even have to touch her to turn her on. She feigned interest in the crown molding. “About that tour…”

  His exquisite lips quirked. He knew the effect he had on her. She only hoped he was suffering half as much. He tossed his head, shaking his thick, black mane. “Follow me.”

  He moved with self-assured loose-limbed grace and power, like a champion thoroughbred racehorse who knows he can defeat every competitor on the field. She obediently followed him into the living room. Heck, she’d follow him into an active volcano. She glanced around. “This would be a perfect home to raise a family. It’s got good, solid bones, and lots of space.”

  “Or a great party house.” He flicked a switch. “I wired in surround sound.” Phil Collins’s evocative voice floated out, and she grinned approval. He nodded. “You like eighties music, too.”

  “Love it. I consider Phil Collins the modern equivalent of a medieval balladeer. All his songs tell a story.”

  He gave her a considering look. “You’ve quite the poetic soul, Just Kate.”

  She’d thought her soul dead and buried alongside her laughter. Wrong on both counts.

  Only half her mind was on the house as he showed off the remodel. He asked her about color and style preferences, and seemed genuinely interested in her opinions. The interior was all lean lines, rich oak built-ins and warm, cozy hues. The house smelled pleasantly of sanded wood and fresh paint.

  Most of her attention was riveted on Liam. All rippling muscles, sexy smiles and hot, sensual glances. He smelled erotically of warm, clean man.

  He led her to the kitchen. “I just started working in here.”

  His charisma had started working on her the moment she’d seen him. She leaned against the gray granite countertop, and glanced around the gutted room. “When do you expect to finish?”

  His intent gaze caught and held hers. “I like to take my time on every project. Lavish thorough, complete attention on each step before moving to the next.”

  Pleasure tingled over her. In the background, Phil started singing about rain. “A detail man.”

  “Take these cabinets.” He moved until he was mere inches in front of her. His broad hand lovingly caressed a cabinet door above her head. “I sand until the pores grow warm and open to accept the stain. Then I rub in the tint until they glow.”

  Mesmerized, she watched his hand, imagined his long, clever fingers caressing her. Desire curled low and liquid in her belly. “You…ah…you’re dedicated to your work.”

  “It’s not work if you enjoy it.” Awareness zinged between them. “Sometimes I forget to eat, forget everything but the gut-deep satisfaction of creating.”

  She loved that feeling. Missed it with her entire being. She stared into those deep, sparkling green pools and lost herself in his undiluted joy. Lost her grip on reality. “You sound like an artist.”

  “I am, if you consider art an unflinching expression of true self, no matter the medium.” He raised her injured fingers to his lips and placed a soft, gentle kiss on her bent, scarred knuckles. Beauty, kissing the Beast without hesitation. Heat undulated, spread, bathed her in sunlight. He smiled. “Isn’t art anything that arouses an emotional response, both in the creator and the observer? Anything that pulls both inside the experience and makes them participants?”

  Enveloped in the warm radiance of shared understanding, her withered spirit blossomed. With a turn of the kaleidoscope, the broken pieces inside her coalesced into a rainbow picture. She’d been a good girl all her life. Followed the rules. Tried to do the right thing. What had it gotten her? Hurt. Betrayed.

  Crippled, in both body and soul.

  For the first time in over a year, she felt neither ugly nor awkward. Her body had been primed for him since the first dance. Now her mind and heart followed, tangoed headlong into reckless abandon.

  “There’s a room you haven’t shown me that I’d like very much to see.” She tilted her head and edged closer, until their bodies touched. “Your bedroom.”

  He inhaled sharply. “Kate.” He took a step back. “I’m trying like hell to be a gentleman with you.”

  She moved close to him again. “Well, stop it.”

  “This is different from anything…you’re different—”

  Yes, she was damaged goods. The lovely, warm anticipation inside her shriveled, and she turned away. “I understand.”

  He gently grasped her chin and urged her to face him. “No, you don’t. Hell, I don’t.” Confusion swam in his eyes, and his mouth slanted in a wry grin. “I want you, and after being held against me all night you have to know how much. But I don’t want to cross any wires and blow this.”

  Relief tangled with uncertainty. He did want her, but didn’t want complicated. They were in agreement. “Not a problem. You want me. I want you.” She rested her left hand on his arm, and tension vibrated in his muscles. “Seems very simple.”

  He uttered a shaky laugh. “Maybe I don’t want you to think I’m easy.”

  “No worries, Ace.” She trailed her fingers up his arm and brushed her body against his. “I think you’re very, very hard.”

  He closed his eyes, swore under his breath. “You wreck me, Kate.” Then he captured her mouth. His lips
so warm, so firm, tasted of sweet chocolate, heady whiskey and hot, aroused man. She nestled into him, waking from a long, cold sleep. His tongue glided inside, and an explosion detonated behind her eyelids.

  He knew exactly what she wanted, what she needed, and gave generously. His talented mouth and seeking hands rocketed her to the edge. She kicked off her pumps, he toed out of his shoes and was barefoot in an instant. Her blouse fluttered to the floor, followed by her lacy white bra. One-handed, she fumbled with his shirt. Their mouths fused in the scalding kiss, he reached to help, finally ripped in frustration. Buttons skittered across the linoleum, and his shirt followed her blouse. At the sight of him, the world tilted and left her giddy. He was so beautiful, his wide chest bronzed and rippled with heavy muscle.

  His hot, callused palms rushed over her. His big hands tugged down her skirt, then slid her stockings over her calves. She craved his touch like a barren desert craved rain, and rubbed against him as he stripped off his pants and briefs. The crisp hair covering his chest grazed her sensitive nipples, and her knees wobbled. He groaned and lifted her onto the counter.

  He stepped between her thighs. Through her lace panties, his thick heat pressed where she ached for him, and her head fell back. His lips nuzzled her throat, roved to her breasts and drank her in. His hands stroked, spiraled her higher with every intimate caress. His tongue swirled over her nipple, sending a lightning flash of heat straight to her belly. Dimly, her mind registered a foil packet crinkling.

  Her skin tingled, her blood pounded hot and hard in her ears. Her heartbeat galloped at a frenzied pace. And she wanted more. She arched into his greedy mouth. “Liam, please!”

  His fingers hooked the waistband of her panties and rent the soft lace. The granite countertop was cool and smooth beneath her naked bottom. His skin was burning hot against her naked front. His heady male scent flooded her senses, as intoxicating as champagne. She needed him more than her next breath. She pulled him to her. “Now,” she gasped.

  “Wait!” Panting, he stepped back and rested his forehead against hers. “Not here. Not like this.”