Moved by instincts, by an overwhelming need to connect, Fiona pressed her lips to the finger he held against them. She saw a strange look enter his eyes. A look that was equal parts tender and passionate and left her instantly weak.
Hank dropped his finger, replacing it with his lips as he pulled her even closer to him. His mouth covered hers as desire, intense and demanding, rapped urgent knuckles at the walls of his restraint.
He had no more restraint. What he had was an overwhelming need to make love to this woman who intrigued him so.
Fiona’s head began to spin again. Just for now, just for this evening, she would delude herself. She would pretend that she was just as beautiful as Bridgette, as beautiful as the women who passed through Hank’s life had to be.
And just for now, she would pretend that this was not a one-time thing, but something that was the beginning of forever.
The way she fervently wished it was.
Hank hardly recognized her. She seemed to transform in his arms. The timid, shy girl was gone, replaced by a woman whose kisses had turned urgent. Whose desire seemed to be as towering as his own.
He had no idea he could become so aroused, so excited.
She was a revelation.
She was an experience. As he was drawn deep into the distinctly different layers of making love with her, it somehow brought him closer to himself than he had ever been. In making love with Fiona, from the most minute contact, he began to feel things he’d never felt before. Tastes, sounds, sensations, all new, all swirled around him, crowding his senses, his mind. Opening them like windows that had been left shut for too long.
She smelled of spring wildflowers, like the ones he remembered in his mother’s kitchen. Like newmown hay when it first sat in the fields, waiting to be gathered.
She smelled of home, he realized somewhere in the recesses of his mind as he covered her body with a rush of urgent kisses.
It was a strange feeling for a man his age to suddenly realize that he had left home looking for a piece of it in this corner of the world.
It was stranger still to realize that he had found it within a woman whose image he had doodled on the side of his yellow pad.
9
The scent of wildflowers drifted to him a moment before he woke up.
Wildflowers.
Fiona.
Hank reached for her as he slowly opened his eyes, only to discover that he was reaching for air. Fiona wasn’t there.
Moving his hand over where she had slept, he found that her side of the bed was cool. She’d been gone for a while.
Hank looked at his watch. It was just barely seven o’clock. Way too early to be up on a Saturday, especially since they hadn’t gotten all that much sleep last night.
Disappointment nibbled at him. He had envisioned a long, decadent morning where they would make slow love to each other before either set foot on the floor.
Obviously, they’d had different plans for the start of their day.
With a reluctant sigh, Hank got up and looked around for his jeans. He wasn’t sure where he had tossed them. His mind hadn’t been on his jeans at the time. Last night was a haze that was still clinging to his mind as well as his body.
Several minutes later he finally found them under the bed.
Hank smiled to himself as he pulled them on, the memory of Fiona settling warmly over his thoughts. She had been incredible once they had cracked open the door to this unexpected side of her.
Well, maybe not so unexpected, he mused, running his hands through his hair in lieu of combing it. He’d had a feeling, looking into her eyes that very first time, that there was passion there, just beneath the surface. But then, he’d also figured that she would be here this morning when he woke up, so he could hold her and remember last night.
And do it all over again.
He figured he was batting five hundred. Not bad for his first time at bat in this particular game.
Except that it didn’t quite feel like a game to him. It felt like something…
Something more.
The adage about recognizing something only when he finally came across it whispered along his mind. His grandfather had told him that. It had been one of the few conversations he’d ever had with the solemn old man. Hank remembered every detail. You always remembered when it came to the most important moments in your life.
Just as he remembered every detail of last night.
Hank looked around for his shirt, then remembered that it was in the living room. Was she in the living room, as well? He went to find out.
The yelp was strictly involuntary as he felt Velcro wrap herself around his leg, one claw sinking into his bare foot just as he crossed the threshold into the living room. A crash from the kitchen came in response to his cry. It sounded as if something had broken.
When he hobbled into the kitchen with Velcro still firmly attached to the lower part of his leg, Hank saw Fiona on her knees, picking up the pieces of what had once been a blue mixing bowl. What looked like pancake batter pooled around the pieces. There was a flash of embarrassment in the quick glance she spared him before looking down again.
Moving awkwardly because of the temporary ornament he was sporting, Hank joined her.
“Velcro, scat!” Fiona ordered. Her voice was far more forceful than anything Hank had heard from her before. Velcro obviously felt the same way because she scurried off.
Hank gingerly picked up the blue and white pieces. “I missed you in bed this morning.”
Fiona had no idea that this was going to feel so awkward. She had no experience with waking up with a man in her bed. “Um, I had to get up.”
He dumped the pieces into the trash. “Catering a party today?”
It would have been easy just to say yes and hide behind that. But she didn’t want to end what had happened last night with a lie.
“No.”
“But cooking relaxes you,” Hank remembered. The way she was avoiding looking at him told him he was right before she said a word.
“Yes.”
She was piling the pieces on top of one another in her hand. He took them from her and threw them out. Carefully dusting off her palm, he took her hand in his and rose to his feet, pulling her up with him.
She was standing before him, no makeup, her hair still tousled, looking as delectable as any woman he had ever seen. Seeing no reason to resist, Hank took her into his arms.
“I know other ways that might get you to that same goal. And we could do them together.”
Being with him definitely did not relax her, Fiona realized. Besides, she didn’t want him to feel as if he owed it to her. “You don’t have to.”
“Have to?” He studied her face, appearing confused. “That’s a strange way to put it. Did any of the lovemaking last night seem forced to you in any way?” As he spoke, he toyed with the outline of her ear.
She felt herself growing warm, unable to concentrate. Shivers were beginning to dance along her spine. “No, last night was wonderful.” It was more than that. “Beautiful,” she corrected.
“Then what’s the problem?” Hank couldn’t understand why she was acting as if she were nervous again.
“There isn’t a problem.” How could she explain this to him without humiliating herself? Fiona wondered. “I’d just thought that…now that you’re awake…you’d just want to slip out and go home.”
She felt as if she was tripping over every word. Why couldn’t he have just gone and left her with her memory instead of putting her through this?
“‘Now that I’m awake,’” Hank repeated, trying to understand just what it was she was attempting to tell him. “Did I act as if I were asleep last night?”
“No, but last night was last night and today is…well, today.”
Now he was really confused. “That’s a very profound statement and I’m sure someone’s going to want to add it to their collection of proverbs, but what the hell are you saying?”
She raised her ch
in defensively. “That you don’t have to feel obligated to me. That I know that you just want to go home now that it’s done.”
She thought it was a one-night stand, he realized. Hank didn’t know whether to be insulted or to apologize if he’d somehow given her the impression that he was using her for his own end.
“‘Obligated’? I don’t feel obligated to you. I think you’ve got a slightly distorted picture here and you need to adjust your antenna, lady. I don’t want to go home, and what I feel, Fiona, is hungry.”
“I can—” She turned toward the refrigerator, but he caught her hand, stopping her.
“Not that kind of hungry,” he told her, tugging her back to him. He nipped her lower lip and felt her yielding. Excitement roared through his veins with a speed that astounded him. “That kind,” he breathed.
He still wanted her, Fiona realized. Despite the fact that they had made love half the night, he wanted her. A tenderness tugged at her heart. “Are you sure?”
He cupped her face in his hands, kissing her again. “I’m sure.”
She fought to keep her mind from sinking into the paradise he was opening up. “But we just made love last night.”
“Did we?” he murmured. He kissed each one of her eyelids as they fluttered seductively shut before him. “Oh, right. Well, since my memory’s so poor, we’ll just have to do it again until it sticks.” Tiny kisses feathered along her mouth, bit by bit. “Or until I’m dead, whichever comes first.” He grinned at her as he looked into her face. “Personally, since I’m in pretty good health, I’m hoping the end is a very long time off.”
“But—”
He kissed away her protest until she was almost numb, then said, “Now, we can stand here and talk all you want. And I surely don’t mind talking to you, but I thought that maybe we could get a little more comfortable while we did it. Like in your bed.”
She slipped her hand into his. “All right”
Hank glanced over his shoulder at the stove just before he led her out of the kitchen. “Got anything going that might boil over?”
“Only me.”
As he looked down at her face, something elusive slipped its hold on him. “Perfect.”
It was a dream. A big, beautiful dream. And she knew it. Any second now she was going to wake up and discover that these past few weeks she’d spent with him had all been just part of a misty memory, no different than the very first dream she’d had of him.
It was just lasting longer, that was all.
She wanted it to last longer still. She wanted, very simply, for it to last forever.
Fat chance.
Fiona looked at him, her heart all but twisting in her breast They’d worked late last night. He’d pretended that he was too tired to take her home, then negated that by making love with her. Over and over again.
The lovemaking had been incredibly magnificent, the kind she wouldn’t have even been able to imagine if not for him. He’d been by turns tender, passionate, then gentle again. He’d driven her out of her mind, showing her how very empty her existence had been before him.
And how very empty it was going to be once he tired of her.
He was lying beside her, facedown on his pillow, his hair messy and in his eyes. Or it would have been, had his eyes been open. Fiona resisted the impulse to touch him, to stroke his hair, to whisper just how much she cared about him.
How much, she realized, she loved him.
With slow, tiny movements, she inched her way to the edge of the bed. She wanted to get up without waking him. She knew how much he liked coffee first thing in the morning. The coffeemaker he had had outlived its usefulness. It certainly couldn’t make the kind of coffee she could.
Fiona smiled to herself, one foot touching the floor. She wanted to spoil Hank, to somehow make him feel that if she wasn’t in his life, he’d feel as if something irreplaceable was missing. Barring that, she wanted to hold on to him with both hands so that he’d never fade from her life.
Big mistake.
Hold something too tightly and it would just break away. She knew that. All she could do was pray that he’d remain in her life a little longer.
Gaining the floor with both feet, Fiona began to slip from the bed, only to feel her wrist being caught. Surprised, she turned to see Hank looking at her, his face still communing with his pillow. The one eye she saw was staring at her blearily.
“Where are you going?” The words were muffled against his pillow.
Very carefully, she peeled his fingers back from her wrist. He looked to be still half asleep. “To make you some coffee.”
“Coffee.” The word left his lips, a prayer onto itself. He sighed, as if he’d just sighted the gates of heaven. “Have I told you that I love you?”
Her heart slammed against her chest, a tennis ball lobbed against a wall by an overly muscled pro.
He had said he loved her.
With supreme effort, Fiona banked down her emotions, her desire to echo the words back to him. He didn’t mean that. It was the sleep talking, nothing more. Once he was awake, he wouldn’t even remember saying it.
“No,” she whispered, “you haven’t.”
“Well,” he muttered into the pillow, “I do.”
Fiona squared her shoulders, trying very hard not to let herself get carried away. “I’ll go make coffee.”
“Angel.” The pronouncement faded into the pillow. He was asleep again.
For just a moment she lingered at the foot of the bed, lingering, too, over the scene. “If I were an angel, I’d move heaven and earth to make this last,” she said softly, too softly for him to hear.
But she wasn’t an angel; all she could do was make him coffee.
Opening the bureau drawer, Fiona selected one of his T-shirts and dragged it on. Sufficiently covered, she padded out to the kitchen.
She hadn’t thought she’d wind up here like this last night. He’d originally come to her place to work, but then he’d remembered that her commercial was airing just before the ten o’clock news. Since it was the first time, he wanted her to see it on a big-screen television. His. When the commercial had come on, she’d been almost too embarrassed to watch, peering instead through the crack between her hands as she held them up over her face. It had been too painful for her to endure.
Fiona took the can of imported coffee she had given him as a small gift from the refrigerator door. Hank had been exceedingly complimentary once the program resumed. Complimentary and so tender toward her that she had all but melted into his arms.
Fiona took a pot, filled it with water and placed it on the front burner. Blue flame encircled its bottom. Every time she was around the man, her body composition changed from solid to liquid. If this kept up, the man was going to have to carry her around in one of those plastic sandwich bags.
As if he’d want to.
There was no deluding herself, no matter how much she would have wanted to. Her father, for all his thoughtless, hurtful remarks, had succeeded in one thing. He’d made her a realist. She had made herself an optimist, but only after much trying and even then, the optimism was firmly grounded in reality.
As it was now.
What she had at this moment was more wonderful than anything she could have ever imagined for herself, but wonderful or not, it was going to end.
It had already gone on far longer than she would have thought it would. Her luck was holding out an inordinate amount of time. But it was, she knew, just a matter of when, not if.
She heard the water boiling. Fiona poured it. through the old-fashioned percolator it had taken her months to find. She’d brought it with her last night for the sole purpose of giving him a “decent” cup of coffee, hoping it would take his mind off the commercial. He’d used the cup to toast her with.
The doorbell rang, startling her. She looked over her shoulder toward the bedroom. “Hank, are you expecting anyone?” she called.
Instead of a response, she heard the sound of water being tur
ned on. He was taking a shower. She struggled with the impulse to join him. The doorbell rang again.
Hesitating, she finally walked over to the door. Hank had installed a small security camera when he saw that the peephole yielded too distorted a view of whoever was ringing the bell.
Fiona looked at the black-and-white monitor and saw a statuesque woman on the doorstep. She was leaning against his bell.
“C’mon, Hank, open up the damn door,” the woman called, looking straight into the security camera. “I know you’re in there. I didn’t come all this way just to talk to you through a door.”
Well, whoever the woman was, she obviously knew him well enough to yell at him. Bracing herself, Fiona unlocked the front door.
Rather than enter, the woman, a vivacious-looking blonde dressed in a black leather jacket and black jeans, looked her up and down in surprise. Fiona noticed a motorcycle helmet tucked under her arm.
A full head taller than Fiona, the woman smiled slightly, as if sharing some joke with herself.
After a beat, she decided to share the joke with Fiona “I came because I thought he might be lonely.” She sauntered in, shaking her head. “I should have known better.” The blonde turned to face her. Fiona thought she saw amusement in her eyes. “I’ll say this for him, Hank doesn’t waste any time, does he?”
Was this an ex-lover? Or maybe a current one she didn’t know about? A sinking feeling hit the pit of Fiona’s stomach.
Either way, the woman was far more in keeping with the kind of woman Fiona envisioned Hank with. Tall, slender, blond, with a face that would have been called beautiful even if it were covered with mud.
Bridgette’s kind of face, Fiona thought. But not hers.
“So, where are you keeping him?” the woman quipped. She looked around the room, as if expecting Hank to materialize out of the walls.
“He’s in the shower.” Fiona bit her lower lip. That sounded much too intimate. “I mean—” She took a deep breath, forcing herself to sound calm. “There’s some coffee in the kitchen, would you like some?”
Fiona And The Sexy Stranger Page 12
