Not Even for Love

by Sandra Brown

  Why wasn’t she wearing one of her functional skirts or business suits? Her homey clothes only made this bizarre situation seem more intimate than circumstances warranted.

  But the intimacy was there with a reality that bordered on tangibility. Already she felt a shiver of anticipation each time she looked at Reeves Grant. Anticipation of what? The whole thing was becoming absurd, and she was sure the chaos existed only in her mind. He wasn’t aware of it.

  Indeed, when she looked back at him he was kneeling down with the damp towel, mopping up the puddle he had made. “Please don’t bother with that,” she said as she ascended the ladder with an armload of books.

  “I think my clothes have dried somewhat, and if I get this water up, I won’t feel so guilty about invading your store. Do you live here?” he asked abruptly.

  She was stunned for a moment and suddenly wary. Then she remembered getting the towels. And with her casual appearance, of course, he would deduce that she lived here.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Upstairs there is a small apartment. I’ve been here for three years.”

  “Three years?” He seemed shocked. “You’re an American.”

  It wasn’t a question, but she replied as if it had been. “Yes. I’m from the Midwest. Three years ago I found myself at loose ends and went to London. Business associates of my father helped me get this job. There is a chain of these English newsstands throughout Europe, usually in smaller towns where American and British newspapers are harder to find. We, of course, cater mostly to English-speaking tourists.”

  “What happened three years ago to make you feel at loose ends?” It was as though he had heard nothing else, but had homed in on the one point in her narrative that she wished he had overlooked. She was tempted to tell him that it was none of his business and dismiss the subject immediately.

  However, looking down at him from her place on the ladder, she saw the green eyes staring up at her, demanding the truth. One strong hand, with fingers sensitive enough to handle the delicate intricacies of his cameras, was resting next to her bare foot on the rung of the ladder.

  She pulled her eyes away from his as she mumbled, “My husband died.” Her shaking hands busied themselves with the books she was lining up along the top shelf. It was taking much more time than should be necessary to get them just right.

  “What are you putting up there?” he asked, breaking a silence that was stretching dangerously long.

  “Philosophy and religion,” she said. “The current bestsellers go on the bottom shelves. The spicier the book, the lower the shelf.” She looked down at him and smiled impishly.

  He laughed. “Good merchandising,” he said. “Here. This is all.” He handed up the last of the books and she leaned down to take them.

  At that moment another crack of lightning struck close to the small shop and after a sizzling explosion at each fixture the lights went out.

  “Jordan!” She had momentarily lost her balance, but his hands came up around her waist to steady her on the ladder. “Are you okay?” he asked in the sudden darkness.

  “Yes,” she answered breathlessly. His hands were warm through the thin cotton of her sweater. Cautiously, her feet found the now invisible rungs and she eased her way down until she had gained the floor. “I’m afraid your first impressions of Lucerne will be bad ones,” she said tremulously. His hands were still firm around her waist.

  “I’d say my first impressions have been delightful.” His voice was vibrant and its intensity startled her. His hands moved up almost imperceptibly until they spanned her rib cage.

  “I’ll get some candles,” she said shakily. “This happens frequently, you see.” She stepped away from him quickly. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Oh, no. I’m afraid of the dark,” he said. “I’m coming with you.” He hooked a thumb into a belt loop on her side, which placed his fist at the swell of her hip. “Lead the way.”

  She felt her way around the shelves and racks, stumbling in the dark and ever aware of the figure looming close behind her, bumping into her every few steps.

  “We have to turn right up the stairwell. It’s rather tight.”

  “I’m right behind you,” he said, and placed his other hand on the opposite side of her waist.

  It took them several minutes to navigate the dark stairs, for in the narrow confines of the stairwell even the lightning flashes didn’t provide them with any illumination.

  “Here we are,” she said with relief when they reached the second floor. She wasn’t afraid of the darkness, or of the storm, or of being left without electricity. She was terrified of the sensations this man, and his touch, aroused in her. “Wait here. The candles are in the kitchen.”

  “Hurry,” he said.

  She laughed and tripped toward the drawer where she knew she would find a serviceable candle and matches. They were exactly where they should be, but she didn’t seem to be capable of striking the match. Her hands were trembling and totally useless.

  “Damn!” she cursed under her breath.

  “What’s the matter?” He spoke from directly behind her. She hadn’t heard his approach and dropped the matchbox in surprise.

  “Did I frighten you?” he asked solicitously.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. I can’t seem to get the match struck.” It seemed imperative that some kind of light banish this darkness. It was too complete, too encapsulating, too intimate. His nearness was making her extremely nervous and edgy.

  He took up the matchbox from where she had dropped it on the countertop. With one swipe across the bottom of the box the match flared to life.

  “Thank you,” she murmured as she lifted the candle toward the small flame. She looked up at him and found his face unnecessarily close to hers.

  “You’re welcome,” he answered. He leaned down slightly and she was held in breathless suspension when she thought he was about to kiss her. Instead, he blew softly on the match and it went out, the smoke waiting between their faces.

  Was it relief or disappointment she felt? Hurriedly she turned away from him and moved toward the door that connected the tiny kitchen to the living room.

  “I have other candles in here,” she said by way of explanation. Quickly, with the candle providing a small circle of light, she traversed the living room, stopping periodically to ignite a scented candle. Soon the room was bathed in a soft, fragrant glow.

  “When you said you had some candles, you meant it,” he teased from the door of the kitchen when a dozen or more candles had been lit.

  “They’re really for aesthetic purposes, but as you can see, sometimes they’re functional as well.”

  She stood awkwardly, bare feet chastely together, hands self-consciously clasped in front of her. What now? “Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

  “The electricity?”

  “I have a gas stove.”

  “Great. That sounds good.”

  She walked toward him, taking one of the larger candles in its brass holder with her. He moved aside and she brushed past him into the kitchen.

  “Don’t feel like you have to entertain me,” he said as she filled a percolator with water, “but I don’t relish roaming around that maze out there without even the benefit of streetlights.”

  She smiled over her shoulder as she spooned coffee into the metal basket. “What kind of American would I be to deny aid and comfort to a fellow countryman? Where are you from, Reeves?” Reeves? Not Mr. Grant?

  “I grew up in California. Went to UCLA. Started working professionally as a photographer during college.” She had lit the stove and placed the percolator on the burner. “Say, listen, would I be presuming too much if I changed clothes? I’m still rather soggy.”

  “Yes … I mean no! By all means. You must be uncomfortable.”

  “I’ll go down and change in the bookstore—”

  “No. Use the bathroom. Here, take a candle down to get your bags.�
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  She hurried past him and got another candle from the living room.

  “Thanks,” he said as he took it from her and loped down the stairs. He had certainly gained confidence since he had stumbled up behind her only moments before, clinging to her as if his life depended on it. He was back within a minute and she directed him through her bedroom to the bathroom, hoping that it was halfway presentable. She knew there was at least one damp towel lying on the floor. When one lived alone, one didn’t give more than rudimentary attention to orderliness.

  By the time the coffee was done he was back, wearing another pair of jeans, another casual shirt—this one soft yellow—and socks. No shoes.

  “The coffee smells good,” he said from the door.

  “Have a seat. I’ll bring it in there. This kitchen is barely large enough for one person.”

  He was sprawled on the sofa, ensconced in the deep cushions of one corner, when she came in carrying the tray with the coffee, cream, sugar, and two spoons, cups, and saucers.

  She set the tray on the low table in front of the couch. Actually, it was two ceramic elephants with a piece of glass suspended between them. She poured the steaming, aromatic coffee into one cup and asked, “Anything in it?”

  “No. I’ve learned to do without luxuries in some of the places I’ve been, so I’ve grown accustomed to drinking whatever is available.” He sipped the scalding liquid. “Unless my sense of taste fails me, this is American coffee.”

  She laughed. “I have my parents send it over every few months.”

  “Ah, delicious.” He smacked his lips.

  She poured her own coffee and settled into the opposite corner of the sofa. His long legs were stretched out in front of him. In contrast, she tucked her feet under her legs.

  “What else do you miss from home?” His question was casual—almost too casual. Did it portend more than surface curiosity?

  “Conveniences. Fast-food restaurants. My soap opera.” He laughed. “Not much else. I miss my parents, though they came over last year to visit. Lucerne is a charming place. The Swiss are an intelligent, industrious, and gracious people. I’ve traveled extensively in Europe. One day I aspire to write about it. You’re rarely in the States, Reeves. What do you miss?”

  Not a woman, she thought as he began to rattle off inconsequential things. He would never be without a woman. In the soft flickering firelight of the candles his hair took on an auburn cast as it tumbled riotously around his head. Just under his eyes, sprinkling his cheekbones, was a collection of freckles, which had been washed out by the harsh fluorescent lighting in the bookshop.

  Taken apart, his features weren’t classically handsome. His nose was a bit too slender. His mouth was almost too wide. The chin was a little too stubborn. But his eyes were fabulously green and well fringed by thick, spiky lashes. All put together, he was rakishly attractive. His virility was threatening—a threat no woman could resist.

  He wore his clothes negligently. The fresh shirt he hadn’t bothered to button even as much as the one he had taken off, and the curling mat of hair revealed beneath its folds was most appealing.

  Jordan realized that he had stopped talking. “More coffee?” she asked, trying to draw enough air in her lungs to articulate the offer.

  “No thank you.”

  Another silence descended. He stared at her from a distance the width of one cushion of the sofa. Unintentionally, but quite automatically, he reached across the cushion and captured her hand, which lay on her thigh. She didn’t take it away.

  The candles cast gigantic shadows against the walls of the cozy room. The eggshell-white plaster had been chiseled off one wall, baring the ancient bricks behind it and adding character to the room. Tasteful graphics advertising concerts, ballets, and art shows had been sealed in thin brass frames and mounted on the walls.

  The tall, wide windows of one wall were draped in a paisley print in tones of gold and brown. The fabric was repeated on the sofa and on the pillows tossed into one brown club chair. The hardwood floor, which shone with a patina only age can provide, was unrelieved by rugs that would have detracted from its beauty.

  “I like your apartment.” His thumb rotated hypnotically over her wrist, then slipped lower to explore the center of her palm. He wasn’t looking at her apartment. He was looking at her mouth.

  “Thank you,” she said thickly. “I … decorated it myself. I re-covered the cushions of the couch.”

  “They’re lovely,” he replied, but his eyes were on her breasts, not the sofa. She swallowed convulsively as his eyes journeyed back up to her face and met her misty gray stare. Never in his life had Reeves been so captivated by a pair of eyes. Their light gray color was unusual, but their uniqueness was compounded by the dark blue ring that encircled that intriguing iris. The rarity of them, however, went beyond their mere physical aspects. They possessed a life and spirit all their own. The blue band surrounding that clear gray iris seemed to narrow and widen at will, allowing only fleeting glimpses into the soul of the woman. It became tantamount to Reeves Grant’s well-being to see and know all the secrets those bewitching eyes harbored.

  He stared into them now and saw himself reflected in their depths. He longed to be there in actuality, inside her head, knowing what she was thinking. He moved closer to her.

  Jordan’s heart was pounding so hard she thought surely he could hear it or see it as it stirred the fabric stretched over her now taut breasts. His eyes were too compelling, his body too warm, his hand too hot as it continued to caress hers.

  Fighting the impulse to move toward him, she pulled at her hand in an attempt to release it. He didn’t surrender it easily. She tugged on it more firmly and said, “I’ll put this away if you don’t want any more.” Her hand was relinquished as she stood and picked up the tray. Her trembling fingers could barely maintain their grasp of it.

  “I guess I’d better try the telephone again,” he said without enthusiasm.

  She was coming back into the living room after setting the tray on the kitchen table when he replaced the receiver on the candle of the extension phone. Raising imploring eyes to her, he said, “It’s still dead.”

  A thunderbolt punctuated the announcement.

  CHAPTER 2

  Why don’t you stay here?” The words were out before she could debate the wisdom of speaking them. She knew that was what he wanted her to say. At that moment the consequences weren’t considered. The obvious risks didn’t matter. It was the right thing to say in that given situation.

  “I thought you’d never ask.” He smiled broadly.

  Lest he jump to the wrong conclusion about her spontaneous invitation, she said quickly, “You can have the bedroom. I’ll sleep out here on the sofa.”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it,” he said, bowing gallantly. “By all means, the lady should keep her bed. I’ll take the sofa.”

  “You won’t even fit on it,” she objected.

  “If you could see some of the places I’ve slept when on assignment, you’d realize how great this sofa looks.”

  “Well, if you’re sure…”

  “I am.”

  “Okay. You may take a turn in the bathroom while I make up the couch for you.”

  “Right.” He saluted her and, lifting one of the bags he had carried upstairs with him earlier, went into the bathroom. He came back almost immediately and picked up a candle. Grinning sardonically, he returned to the bathroom.

  Jordan hastily retrieved extra blankets and sheets from her bedroom closet and smiled when she heard him humming over splashing water.

  With dispatch, she made the couch into a facsimile of a comfortable bed. She plumped the pillow and slipped a fresh case over it. She was straightening the blanket one more time when she heard him come in behind her.

  “Brushing one’s teeth by candlelight is an incredibly sexy experience,” he drawled.

  He was still dressed, but the collar of his shirt was damp where he had washed. Judiciously she ignored his le
ading remark. “Do you need anything else?” she asked softly.

  He set his bag at his feet and took three steps forward until he was standing inches from her. “No. Till my dying day, I’ll appreciate your hospitality, my little American cousin.”

  Before she realized what was happening, his hands were on her shoulders and he was leaning down to kiss her. His lips met hers firmly in a smacking, friendly, closed-mouth kiss. No harm done, she thought analytically.

  But when he should have withdrawn, he didn’t. His hands remained on her shoulders—indeed, his fingers were moving in a near caress. His lips hovered over hers. His breath mingled with hers, found the blend delightful, and joyously united with it into an invisible vapor that ghosted between their mouths.

  Taking her stunned immobility as an invitation, his lips hesitantly brushed across hers once, twice, then came to rest against the soft flesh. The pressure of his mouth increased until it could be said that he was truly kissing her. How easy it would be to accept this kiss, to lean against his strength, to be penetrated by the heat that emanated from his body.

  But the sheer encompassing quality of his embrace frightened Jordan. The totality of her loss of will alarmed her. If she surrendered, it would be an absolute capitulation, and she couldn’t chance that. Her hands went to his shoulders and pushed against them halfheartedly, but he accepted the discouragement and stepped away from her.

  “Good night,” he murmured as his eyes bore into hers.

  “Good night,” she answered, picking up a candle and scurrying toward the bedroom. She collapsed against the closed door and drew several restorative breaths. When she felt more normal and her pulse was beating at a comfortable tempo again, she went into the bathroom.