“What were you doing in Denver?”
“I spoke last night in Boulder, at the University of Colorado.”
One brow moved up her smooth forehead as she blew a breath into her cup. “About?”
“The role of journalism in wartime.”
One side of her hair fell across her cheek. “Sounds interesting,” she said, and took a drink.
“Riveting.” He pushed her hair behind her ear, and she didn’t jump out of her skin nor grab his wrist this time. “I’ve decided on my ulterior motive.” He dropped his hand.
She tilted her head to the side and set her cup on the counter next to his. A frown pulled at the corners of her porn-star mouth.
“Don’t worry. All you have to do is come with me to find a Christmas gift for my father.”
“You forget what happened when you wanted a birthday gift for Leo.”
“I didn’t forget. It took me a good fifteen minutes to cut all that pink crap off the fishing pole.”
Her scowl turned into a pleased smile. “I guess you learned your lesson.”
“What lesson is that?”
“Not to mess with me.”
Now it was his turn to smile. “Clare, you like it when I mess with you.”
“What have you been smoking?”
Instead of answering, he took a step forward and closed the distance between them. “The last time I messed with you, you kissed me like you didn’t want me to stop.”
She tilted her head back and looked up at him. “You kissed me. I didn’t kiss you.”
“You practically sucked the air out of my lungs.”
“That isn’t how I remember it.”
He slid his palms up the arms of her thick, bumpy sweater. “Liar.”
A furrow appeared between her brows, and she leaned back a little. “I was raised not to lie.”
“Honey, I’m sure you do a lot of things your mama raised you not to do.” His hands slid to the middle of her back and he brought her closer. “Everyone thinks you’re nice. Sweet. Such a good girl.”
She put her hands on his chest and swallowed. Through the blue wool of his shirt, the soft pressure of her touch heated his skin and warmed the pit of his stomach. “I try to be a nice person.”
Sebastian chuckled and plowed his finger through her soft hair. He held the back of her head in one of his hands. “I like it when you don’t try so hard.” He looked into her eyes and saw the desire she tried so hard to hide from him. “When you let the real Clare out to play.”
“I don’t think…” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Sebastian, I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Open up,” he said as he brushed his lips across hers. “And I’ll change your mind.” Just once. Just for a minute or two. Just to make sure he wasn’t mistaken about the last time he’d kissed her. Just to make sure he hadn’t exaggerated that kiss in his own mind to fulfill his X-rated fantasies.
He started slow. Teasing and coaxing. The tip of his tongue touched the seam of her full lips, and he placed soft kisses at the corners. She stood perfectly still. Stiff, except for her fingers curling into the front of his shirt. “Come on, Clare. You know you want to,” he whispered just above her mouth.
Her lips parted and she sucked in a breath, his breath, deep into her lungs. He took full advantage and his tongue touched the inside of her hot, moist mouth. She tasted like chocolate and like the desire she was trying to deny herself. Then she turned her head to one side and melted into his chest. Her hands slid up to his shoulders and the sides of his neck. Sebastian turned the heat up a bit and applied a little more pressure. She responded with a sweet moan that spread heat across his flesh and gripped his lower belly in a white hot fist. But just as the kiss was starting to get real good, the front door of the house opened and closed and Clare practically jumped out of her skin. She took a few steps back and Sebastian’s hands fell to his sides. Her eyes were wide and her breathing uneven.
Sebastian heard his father’s footsteps a moment before Leo walked into the kitchen. “Oh,” the old man said, and came to a stop on the other side of the table. “Hello, son.”
Sebastian had never been more relieved to be wearing an untucked Pendleton wool shirt in his life. “How are you feeling?” Sebastian asked, and reached for his mug.
“Better.” Leo looked over at Clare. “I didn’t know you were here.”
Clare, being Clare, smiled and wiped her face free of expression. “Sebastian helped me with the lights.”
“Good. I see he gave you something nice and hot to warm up your insides.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
Sebastian tried not to laugh-for about half a second. Then his amused chuckle filled the kitchen.
“He always did like the cocoa with crunchy marshmallows,” Leo added, then turned his attention to his son. “What are you laughing about?”
“Oh,” Clare said through a huge sigh of relief, and saved Sebastian an explanation. “Cocoa. Yes, Sebastian was kind enough to make cocoa.” She took a few steps and reached for her coat. “I need to get the linens out of my trunk and then I think I’m done for the day,” she said as she shoved her arms into her coat. “Unless Mother has more for me to do.” She wrapped her scarf around her neck. “What am I saying? Of course she’ll have more for me to do. She always does.” She looked across the kitchen. “Leo, take care of yourself so that your cold doesn’t get worse, and I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow at Mother’s party.” She turned her gaze to Sebastian. “Thank you for your help.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
She held up one hand and her blue eyes got wide. “No!” Her smile wavered but remained in place. “Stay and visit with your father.” She picked up her gloves and walked out of the kitchen. A few moments later the door closed behind her.
Leo glanced across at Sebastian. “That was odd. Did something happen that I should know about?”
“No. Nothing happened.” Nothing that he was going to talk to his father about. Leo definitely shouldn’t know about the kiss. “I think she’s stressed about the party.”
“You’re probably right,” Leo said, but he didn’t sound convinced.
Twelve
Clare moved among various members of her mother’s social clubs and charity organizations, smiling and making small talk. Several decibels below the hum of conversation, Bing Crosby crooned “The First Noel.” For the annual Christmas party, Clare had stuck a sprig of holly berries in the small breast pocket of her fuzzy angora sweater. The sweater closed with pearl buttons down the front, and the bottom hit just below the waistband of her black wool pants. She’d strapped red high-heeled sandals on her feet and pulled her hair back in a simple covered ponytail. Her cosmetics were flawless and her red lipstick matched her sweater. She looked good. She knew she did. No use denying it. It was just too bad she was having a harder time denying that she’d dressed with a certain reporter in mind. She could tell herself that she always tried to look her best, which was pretty much the truth. Only she’d never been quite so picky with her coal eyeliner, or applied mascara and separated her lashes quite so perfectly, just to attend one of her mother’s parties.
She didn’t know why she’d gone to so much trouble. She didn’t even like Sebastian. Well, not that much. Certainly not enough to get all anal about her appearance. Too bad she tended to forget that she didn’t really care for him the second his lips touched hers. He had a way of making every rational thought melt. Of heating her up inside and making her want to be absorbed into his big chest.
She told herself that it had little to do with Sebastian himself and more to do with the fact that he was a healthy heterosexual man. Testosterone clung to his skin like an intoxicating drug, while he manufactured enough pheromones to overdose any women within a hundred yards. After Lonnie, she was especially vulnerable to that kind of sexual force.
The last time he’d kissed her, she’d had every intention of just standing there, aloof and uninvolved. The best
way to discourage a man was to remain unmoved in his embrace, but of course that hadn’t happened. If Leo hadn’t entered the carriage house, she didn’t know how far she would have let things go before stopping him.
But she would have stopped him because she did not need a man in her life. Then why the red lipstick and fuzzy sweater? an inner voice asked. A few months ago she would not have even paused to ask herself the question, let alone consider an answer. She made small talk with her mother’s friends as she thought about it and decided it was plain old vanity, exacerbated by lingering insecurities from childhood. But it didn’t matter anyway. His rental car was no longer parked in front of the garage. He’d probably returned to Seattle, and she’d gone to all the trouble of looking good for a house full of her mother’s friends.
An hour into the Christmas party Clare had to admit things were progressing surprisingly well. The gossip ranged from the mundane and disapproving to the ultra juicy. From the latest fund-raiser and overall appalling quality of the younger club members, to Lurleen Maddigan’s heart surgeon husband running off with thirty-year-old Mary Fran Randall, the daughter of Dr. and Mrs. Randall. Understandably, both Lurleen and Mrs. Randall had declined the yearly invitation to the Wingate Christmas party.
“Lurleen hasn’t been quite right since her hysterectomy,” Clare heard someone whisper as she carried a silver tray of canapés to the dining room table.
Clare had known Mrs. Maddigan most of her life and figured Lurleen had never been quite right. Anyone who made Joyce Wingate look like a slacker had severe control issues. Still, cheating wasn’t right, and getting dumped for a woman half her age must have been humiliating and hurtful. Perhaps even more humiliating and hurtful than finding your fiancé with the Sears man.
“How is your writing, dear?” asked Evelyn Bruce, one of Joyce’s closest friends. Clare turned her attention to Mrs. Bruce and fought the urge to squint. Evelyn refused to believe she’d actually reached the age of seventy, and still dyed her hair bright red. The color made her look as white as a corpse and clashed horribly with her scarlet St. John suit.
“Good,” Clare replied. “Thank you for asking. My eighth book is out this month.”
“That’s wonderful. I’ve always thought that someone should write a book about my life.”
Didn’t everyone? The problem was, most people thought their lives were more interesting than they actually were.
“Perhaps I could tell you and you could write it for me.”
Clare smiled. “I write fiction, Mrs. Bruce. I’m sure I couldn’t tell your story as well as you. Excuse me.” She escaped into the kitchen, where Leo was preparing a new batch of eggnog. A potpourri of cinnamon and clove simmered on the stove, filling the house with the smells of the season.
“What can I do?” she asked as she came to stand beside the older gentleman.
“Go enjoy yourself.”
That wasn’t likely to happen. The old guard Junior Leaguers weren’t exactly fun gals. She glanced out the back window at her Lexus parked next to Leo’ s Town Car-no sign of the rental.
“Did Sebastian go home?” she asked, and reached for a corkscrew.
“No. We returned the car. There’s no use in having it when Sebastian can drive the Lincoln while he’s here.” Leo folded beaten egg whites into the eggnog mixture. “He’s over at the carriage house by himself. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you went over there to say hello.”
The news that Sebastian was still in town sent a zap along her nerves, and she tightened her grasp on the bottle. “Oh…ah, I couldn’t leave you to do everything.”
“There isn’t that much to do.”
Which was absolutely true, but the last thing she needed was to be alone with Sebastian. Sebastian made her forget she was on a man hiatus.
She grabbed a bottle of chardonnay and stuck the corkscrew into the top. “The ladies can always use more wine,” she said.
“Did something happen yesterday between you and Sebastian?” Leo asked as he placed one bowl of eggnog in the refrigerator and took out another bowl he’d prepared earlier. “When I walked in the house, you looked a little rattled.”
“Ahh, no.” She shook her head and felt her cheeks get warm as she recalled the kiss the day before. One moment she’d been enjoying cocoa, and the next, she’d been enjoying Sebastian.
“Are you sure? I remember how he’d get you all riled up when you were a girl.” Leo set the bowl on the counter and sprinkled nutmeg on top. “I think he liked to pull your pigtails just to hear you scream.”
Clare pulled the cork out and let a pleasant smile curve her lips. These days he had a whole new way of riling her. “Nothing happened. He didn’t pull my hair or swindle me out of my money.” No, he’d just kissed her and made her want more.
Leo looked closely at her, then nodded. “If you’re sure.”
Lord, she was a good liar. “I am.” She grabbed the wine and moved to the pantry.
Leo chuckled and called after her, “He can be a rascal.”
“Yes,” Clare said, although there were other words that fit him better than rascal. She opened the pantry door inward and moved inside, turned on the light and walked past a stepladder and rows of canned goods. On a back shelf, she grabbed a box of Wheat Thins and Rye Crisps.
Returning to the dining room, Clare set the wine beside the other bottles. She replenished a red wicker tray with crackers and plucked a green grape from its vine. From the parlor, she heard her mother’s laugh above the group of voices in the foyer next to the Christmas tree.
“They let anyone in the club these days,” someone said. “Before she married into that family, she was working at Wal-Mart.”
Clare frowned and popped the grape into her mouth. She didn’t see anything wrong with working at Wal-Mart, only the people who thought there was something wrong with it.
“How’s your love life?” Berni Lang asked from across the narcissus centerpiece.
“Nonexistent at the moment,” Clare answered.
“Weren’t you engaged? Or was that Prue Williams’s daughter?”
Clare was tempted to lie, but she knew Berni wasn’t confused. She was just using her false naiveté like a crowbar to do a little stealth prying. “I had a short engagement but it didn’t work out.”
“That’s too bad. You’re an attractive girl, I just don’t understand why you’re still single.” Bernice Lang was in her mid-to late seventies, had a slight case of osteoporosis and a severe case of old ladyitis. An affliction that hit some women after the age of seventy with the belief they could be as rude as they pleased. “How old are you? If you don’t mind my asking?”
Of course she minded, because she knew where this conversation was headed. “Not at all. I’ll be thirty-four in a few months.”
“Oh.” She raised a glass of wine to her lips but paused as if a thought had just occurred to her. “You’d better hurry, then, hadn’t you? You don’t want your eggs to wither. That happened to Patricia Beideman’s daughter Linda. By the time she found a man, she couldn’t conceive outside a petri dish.” She took a drink, then added, “I have a grandson you might be interested in.”
And have Berni for a grandmother? Hell, no. “I’m not dating right now,” Clare said, and grabbed a tray of canapés. “Excuse me.” She left the dining room before she gave into the urge to tell Berni that her eggs were none of the older lady’s damn business.
Clare didn’t believe the biological clock started counting down until a woman was over the age of thirty-five. She was safe for a year, but her stomach twisted into a knot anyway. She figured it was from the stress of forcing herself to be polite Not withering eggs. But…the twisting knot was kind of low for a stomachache. Maybe…? Damn that Berni. As if she didn’t have enough pressure in her life. She had a book deadline looming over her head, and instead of working, she was passing out hors d’oeuvres to her mother’s friends.
She carried the tray into the parlor. “Canapés?”
“Thank
you, dear,” her mother said as she looked over the tray. “These are lovely.” She straightened the holly berries in Clare’s pocket, then said, “You remember Mrs. Hillard, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Clare held the tray to one side and kissed the air above Ava Hillard’s cheek. “How are you?”
“I’m well.” Ava reached for a canapé. “Your mother tells me you have a new book out this month.” She took a bite, then washed it down with chardonnay.
“Yes.”
“I think that’s wonderful. I can’t imagine writing a whole book.” She looked at Clare through a pair of thin tortoiseshell glasses. “You must be very creative.”
“I try.”
“Clare always was a very creative child,” her mother said as she rearranged the canapés as if they hadn’t been placed at exactly the right angles. The old passive-aggressive Clare would have accidently tilted the tray so they slid to one side. The new Clare simply smiled and let her mother do her thing. Canapé placement wasn’t something to get upset about.
“I love to read.” Ava was the latest wife of Norris Hillard, the richest man in the state and the third richest in the country. “Your mother suggested that I ask you for a copy of your latest book.”
But her mother promising free giveaways was a little irksome. “I don’t give away copies of my books, but you can buy them at any area bookstore.” She looked at her mother and smiled. “I’m going to warm these up,” she said, holding up the tray. “Excuse me.”
She wove her way through her mother’s friends, dispensed a few canapés, and made it to the kitchen without losing her cool or her smile. She expected to see Leo puttering about. Instead, Sebastian stood at the counter, his back to the room as he looked out into the backyard. He wore a white T-shirt beneath a bulky gray sweater and his usual cargo pants. His hair appeared wet against the back of his head and bare neck. At the sound of her shoes on the tile floor, he turned and looked at her. His green gaze caught and held hers, and she came to an abrupt halt.
I’m In No Mood For Love Page 15
