Hell, no, he wasn’t. That’s why he’d gotten in the trouble he had; that’s why he’d gotten the reputation he had; that’s why he’d left Tobias.
So why the hell did it hurt to hear it?
Miss Trudi had gotten him out of the house—he wasn’t sure how. It was the least she could do, considering she’d dragged him in there and then pushed the button on the bomb with her Why ever not, Steve?
Zach had told her to mind her own damned business next time, and then he’d grabbed the wheelbarrow.
He turned, and there in the doorway of the shed, silhouetted by waning daylight, was a woman. Not Fran. He knew that instantly.
“Zach?”
“You, too, Annette?” he snarled. “You’re going to tell me to stay away, too?”
“No. Not me, too. I only have a minute, but… This isn’t only about you, or about you going away.”
He gave a scoffing grunt.
“It’s not just you,” she repeated. “After the gossip about our wedding falling apart and Lily and everything, Steve is protective of Nell with everyone. He worried that I might hurt her, and when I first met her he came rushing in as if I posed some grave danger or—”
“You? But he loves you—she loves you.”
“She didn’t know me then—” the look she gave him provided a split second of warning before she added the final word “—either.”
It still rocked him. His daughter didn’t know him.
“Remember, I’d been away a long time, too,” she continued. “I’d never met Nell until this spring. And Steve was right there, worrying that our past would affect how I dealt with Nell, that I might fail to recognize she’s become an individual these past eight years.”
Yeah, he got it. Annette was kind, but subtle she wasn’t. She was saying he also had to deal with Nell as she was now. No rewinding this story to when she was a baby. He had to deal with her as a girl who’d had a father for eight years, and it wasn’t him.
“I’ve got to go, but…Zach, you know you were surprised Steve was protective of Nell with me because Steve loves me? That’s my point. Because he loves you, too.”
Chapter Seven
Zach came downstairs to the kitchen after his shower to find Fran dressed in loose gray slacks and an equally loose black top with the slightest V at the neck. That irked the hell out of him for no reason he could put his finger on.
Then, with one hand on the counter’s edge, she squatted to pull a pot from a bottom cabinet.
Two things happened.
The fabric of the loose slacks tightened over her rounded backside and she gave a half sigh.
His reaction to the sound eased his reaction to the sight enough that he could move.
Two strides forward and he grasped her wrist, lifting her hand from the counter, drawing her up.
“C’mon.”
She looked at him as if he’d grown two heads. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re going out.” He tugged at her wrist.
“Where?” But she was moving.
“I don’t know yet.”
“But, Zach, I’ve started dinner and—”
“Is there anything cooking?” He scanned the stove. No indicator lights were on. He would have slowed enough to turn them off. No sense burning her house down.
“No, but I’ve defrosted a—”
“Throw it away when we get back.” As he headed outside, he grabbed her house keys from the peg by the door. Fran pulled the door closed behind her. “Right now we’re going out.”
“But my hair’s still wet from my shower. Your hair’s wet and—”
“It’ll dry. No more excuses.”
That wasn’t quite the end of it. She continued her protests about hair, clothes, wasted food and the general impossibility of doing something on the spur of the moment.
And the more she talked, the more determined he was. So he nixed her suggestion of the Tastee-Treat. She then set to convincing him they really weren’t dressed for the Toby.
He agreed with her and drove past it without a glance.
When he pulled into the drive of the Tobias Country Club, her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
He drove up to the porticoed entry, flipped the kid standing there his keys.
“But, Zach—”
“No buts.” He gave the kid a ten and went around to open the passenger door, reaching across Fran’s motionless body to release the seat belt. Motionless but not ineffectual.
Oh, that body was affecting him plenty. Her breath on the fine hairs at the back of his neck. The closeness to her breasts. The tender seam at the top of her thighs. A tempting heat that seemed to call to him…
What the hell was he thinking? Fran Dalton hot for him? It was his own heat he was feeling. Like a dog in heat. And he’d better get a grip on it. Fast.
Shock made Fran practically dead weight, so he slid his hand under her upper arm and half lifted her out.
“Zach, you can’t—”
“We can.”
He linked his hand with hers and led her through the front doors of the Tobias Country Club.
The interior hadn’t changed. He supposed they must have replaced furniture, carpet and such to keep it looking so much the same after more than eight years, but he couldn’t tell.
He led Fran to the discreet stand angled at the arched entry to the dining room.
“Two for dinner.”
The man standing there turned back to them from contemplating the dining room—as if he hadn’t spotted and sized up the newcomers the instant they walked in the door. And Zach knew at least one thing had changed at the Tobias Country Club. Walter was no longer Cerberus, guarding the gates of Hell, as he and Steve used to call the place.
“Casual—” The man sneered the word. Walter never would have been so obvious. “—fare can be obtained at the bar.”
“Not the bar. The dining room. Dinner. For two.”
The man made the mistake of meeting Zach’s eyes and faltered an instant. Then he rallied. “We are completely booked tonight.”
He said this without regard for the fact that two-thirds of the tables were empty. At the same time, Fran’s shock apparently had worn off sufficiently to allow her to pull back against Zach’s hand. He tightened his hold.
“Check again.” Zach kept the order pleasant, but implacable.
“Zach…” Fran said from behind him.
“As I said,” the man intoned, “we are booked for tonight. Furthermore, jackets are required of gentlemen in the dining room.”
“Guy,” said a deep voice, “I am certain that you can find a jacket that will fit Mr. Corbett from among those kept on hand for members and guests who require one.”
The eyes of the man behind the lectern widened at the name, but Zach was more interested in the new arrival.
“Walter? Is that you?”
“Yes, Mr. Zach, it is.” A twitch at the corners of his creased mouth was the only emotion that showed. “Guy.”
At that quiet reminder, the man headed for the closet. Zach had rarely eaten dinner here when he wasn’t clothed out of that closet.
“I thought you’d be retired by now, Walter. Off fishing.”
Walter allowed himself a small sigh. “I had hoped to retire at the beginning of this summer, Mr. Zach—or, I should say, Mr. Corbett—”
“You should say Zach, no Mister.”
“However,” the older man resumed as if he hadn’t heard that comment, “the training period for my successor is proving more protracted than anticipated.”
“Let me guess,” Zach said, “Guy was one of Lana’s hires.”
That twitch returned to Walter’s mouth. But he neither confirmed nor denied—still a diplomat. He had to be to survive in this job. All he said, as Guy returned with a jacket that was less hideous than Zach had feared, was, “I hope you enjoy your dinner, Mr. Zach.”
“Thank you, Walter. I’ll come see you later to catch up.”
“I look
forward to that.”
Guy seated them with acceptable courtesy and the waiter—another stranger to Zach—swooped in with warm cheese muffins, deposited menus and asked if they wanted drinks. Zach ordered a carafe of sauvignon blanc.
“Why did you do that?” Fran asked after he left them alone.
“I thought you’d object if I ordered a full bottle.”
“I don’t mean that.” She flapped her hand—a most un-Fran-like gesture. He felt way too pleased with himself at throwing her off balance enough to cause it. But she had her calm back when she continued. “I meant all of this. Insisting we go out, coming here, pushing that maître d’s buttons.”
“The first part’s easy.” He tore open a muffin and smelled the moist heat, the tanginess of the melted cheese. He placed a muffin on Fran’s bread plate, where she couldn’t miss the scent. “I insisted you come out because you work too damned hard and then you go home and work more. No way in hell was I letting you cook dinner tonight.”
“I do not—”
He cut her off. “We’ll have to agree to disagree about that.”
“Even if we forget that, why on earth did you come here? I thought you hated this place as a kid.”
“Oh, I did. I definitely did. But I also know it has the best food in the county. Steve and I used to say it was the only prison made bearable by the food. No sense letting a little thing like childhood trauma come between me and my stomach.”
He grinned. She didn’t.
“Zach, as long as you brought up the subject of Steve—you weren’t fair to him earlier.”
“You mean not telling him about Ambrose? I didn’t know how to tell him without sounding like… He loved Ambrose.”
Her face softened. “Was that what you argued with Lana about?”
“Not really. She realized she couldn’t talk Steve out of marrying Annette, which meant he wouldn’t be her perfect Corbett heir puppet. So she set her sights on me.”
Fran nodded, as if that explained something. “But I don’t mean you were unfair to Steve about Ambrose or Lana. I mean that line about your being dead. It’s what he’s feared most. Right from the start.”
Something in Zach slowed. “How about you? Were you worried about that? Were you worried about me?”
Temptation—at least he thought that’s what he saw in her face—gave way to clear-eyed calm. “I had enough to worry about with the people who stayed here without worrying about one who…”
Her words rolled to a stop as a well-dressed couple in their late forties rose from a table kitty-corner from them and the man’s voice cut through the room. “I agree with you one hundred percent, Jeannette. I’ve lost my appetite for dessert, too, when they lower the standards like this.”
“Not even dressed correctly,” Jeannette sniffed.
The couple could have chosen another exit, but they took the path that led directly alongside the table where Zach and Fran sat. And they continued telling each other how disappointing it was to have their dinner disturbed by those who didn’t belong.
Zach pushed his chair back and stood in the path of the man, who was walking ahead of his companion. The man was stockier than him, but he didn’t look as if he knew how to take advantage of that. Besides, Zach wouldn’t let things get to that point, not with Fran looking as if she’d like to rap his knuckles, possibly with a hammer.
“Good evening,” he said, in a low, neutral voice.
The man growled. The woman sniffed.
And suddenly Zach was grinning. “New members, huh?”
“Excuse us.” The man exaggerated the phrase.
Zach stepped back with a wide gesture. “I certainly don’t want to deny myself or the other diners the pleasure of your departure. Have a good evening.”
The man glared, the woman harrumphed, but they moved past. Zach sat and encountered Fran’s disapproving frown.
“That is exactly what I’m talking about,” she said. “This is all about making a point—no, not even making a point. It’s about making a scene that will get back to Lana. And you might find you haven’t done yourself any favors by treating those people—”
“Listen, Fran, I brought you here to have a good dinner and relax. I’ll tell you what, we’ll make a pact not to talk about those people or my family or your family or the gardens or Tobias or the past. We’ll stick to nice neutral topics like politics and religion. Okay?”
After a pause, the seriousness in her eyes eased. “Okay.”
As they enjoyed their delicious dinner—give Lana credit there, part of her image was to have her country club boast the best food—they did talk politics and religion, along with books, movies and technology. For all her serene exterior, Fran had strong and well thought-out opinions. And she didn’t defer to his equally strong, though, he had to admit, not always as well thought-out, reactions.
“I go with my gut,” he said at one point. “What hits me.”
“Getting hit in the gut can double you over,” she shot back.
And then they were back to happily squabbling over which ten movies they would want to have on a desert island—assuming the desert island had a DVD player and electricity.
Maybe it was an instance of going with his gut, but as they left the dining room, he grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the back of the building.
“I have something I want you to see.”
“Zach…” It was a question, a warning.
But he kept going and she kept following, even when he led her out the service door and down a path even more overgrown than when he’d been a teenager. The current crop of TCC teenagers must not be as amorous as he’d been, or else they had better places to go to make out.
“Here, put this on.” He took off the jacket and draped it around Fran’s shoulders. “It’ll keep you from getting scratched.”
The path widened slightly. The bench was still there. The wooden slats sagged under the years, but the cast-iron frame remained solid. He and a buddy had had one hell of a time wrestling the thing through the bushes to this spot, and there’d been a furor when Lana discovered one of her special benches was missing. That had made it all the sweeter for Zach whenever he’d used it.
But it suddenly seemed a sad and unappealing place to bring Fran—a teenager’s make-out spot. Not at all appropriate for her, or even for him anymore.
“Is this what you wanted me to see?” Fran’s voice held only curiosity.
“No.” He tightened his hold on her hand. It felt good. Smaller than his, yet strong. Among the general softness, a scrape of hard use against his tougher calluses. “Just a stop along the way. C’mon.”
He pushed deeper into the plantings, the one part of the country club grounds not defeated by Lana and her gardeners. The path barely existed here, but he was sure he was headed in the right direction—he could smell it. In another two strides he broke through, onto the first landing of the stairs leading down to the pier.
He positioned Fran in front of him, hands on her upper arms, so she faced the lake.
“Feel that? There’s something about this, isn’t there?” He drew in deep satisfied breaths.
“The lake?”
“Sure, the lake. But also that feeling of coming back out into the open, stepping free of what’s closing in around you. Getting back to where you can breathe. C’mon.”
With her hand in his once more, he led her down the steps, fast enough that she gave a laughing, protesting “Zach!” and clutched the jacket to her to keep it from falling. Then they went out to the end of the pier.
He pulled in another deep breath, feeling the coolness of the water on his face, smelling the familiar dense mix of water, earth and vegetation.
“When I left Tobias, I thought I’d never stand here again.”
“You didn’t leave. You ran off.”
Cool and unflinching as a mirror.
“You’re right. I did. I escaped as fast as my bike would take me. And found a world beyond Tobias, Wisconsin. But you
came back to care for your dad, and now you help out by looking after Nell and giving Miss Trudi rides and taking care of a dog and puppies and restoring gardens. When do you do stuff for yourself?”
“Myself?” She looked up, surprised.
His chuckle was raw. “You don’t even know the word? Here.” He bent and picked a yellow mum from the planter beside him and slipped it into the buttonhole of the jacket.
“Zach, you shouldn’t pick those. They’re—”
“After all the flowers you’ve planted, you’re entitled to wear a garden’s worth.” Going along the pier, he picked more—bronze, white, orange. “This is more like it.”
He tucked one behind her ear, nestling it into her hair.
She chuckled. “If you think I’m going to put one between my teeth…”
But he’d already found a better place for the yellow-and-white blooms; he slid the short stems into the decorous V of her top. It drooped a half inch, an inch at the most, and he realized he was breathing hard.
She looked down, then up at him, and his breathing hitched.
But he saw only uncertainty in her eyes, the kind of uncertainty that said, Why are you doing this?
What was that about? How could she not see he was interested?
To remove any doubt, he brushed his lips across her forehead, then her cheek.
He thought he felt a faint dust on her skin. Like the vermiculite she’d had him add to some plots. Only this tasted like sugar. Yes, like granulated sugar. The sweetness from her skin, the grit from her garden.
His mouth found hers, and sweetness bloomed into intoxication.
She kissed him back, angling her head, answering the press of his lips.
His hands high on her arms, he drew her flush against him. The swell of her breasts pressed against his chest, one of the flowers from her neckline tumbled to the side and down. A small gasp escaped her, and he followed that opening of her lips with his tongue.
For an instant she didn’t respond, then cautiously, she touched her tongue to his.
Who knew caution could ignite anything, much less a bonfire.
He plunged his tongue deeper into her mouth, and again. She met him, hands curled around the back of his neck.
Baby Blues and Wedding Bells Page 12
