Throwing off her nightshirt, she tugged on the shorts and then the shirt. There were a lot of things lately, she thought, that she never found the time to do. She wondered if life was ever going to slow down to the sort of pace where she could finally catch up to it—and catch her breath as well.
Probably not. If it did, she’d probably be complaining that she was bored. Amanda laughed to herself.
Once dressed, she got down on her hands and knees to search for her running shoes. They were lost somewhere amid the chaotic mess that existed at the bottom of her closet. She chewed on her lip, annoyed. Another tiling she meant to get to.
She flung a rubber bone out as she went on parting shoes and clothes that had been pulled down from their hangers. Her closet was obviously Christopher and Muffin’s new play area.
She was rewarded several trying minutes later with two running shoes. The laces were partially undone and tangled together at the ends. More of her son’s handiwork. How could one little boy be in so many different places in such a short space of time?
It took her another five minutes to untangle the laces and get ready. Time was ticking by quickly and there were a hundred things she had to do. Amanda tried not to think about it.
“I’m going out for a run,” she called out to Carla as she came down the stairs.
She heard the sound of dishes coming from the kitchen. Christopher was having breakfast. Almost at the front door, Amanda stopped. For a moment, she was tempted to go in and say good morning.
But she knew that if she went in to say hello, her chances of getting out to run would be instantly cut in half. Christopher would insist on going out the front door with her, then down the driveway, and probably down the block as well. Then he’d wail because she wouldn’t let him come out onto the greenbelt with her. A fast getaway was the only sensible move.
“Sorry, sweetie,” she said under her breath as she pulled her hair through a rubber band, “but this is about preserving your mommy’s sanity.”
Glancing over her shoulder toward the kitchen, Amanda made her escape.
She pulled open the front door and tripped as she crossed the threshold. “What the—?’
On the doorstep was a magnum of champagne in a silver bucket. Attached to it was a single red rose.
Chapter Eight
There was a note attached to the neck of the champagne bottle. Amanda carefully pulled it off, folded the tape under it, and looked slowly around to see if anyone was watching her. The greenbelt was deserted and there was no one out on the cul-de-sac. But she couldn’t shake the eerie sensation that she was being observed.
Still holding the rose, Amanda fingered the folded note. Maybe Whitney had sent this. But she doubted it. She looked down at the flower. This was a romantic gesture, and Whitney had a lot more important things on his mind at the moment.
Shifting the flower to her other hand, Amanda unfolded the note. It was written in an easy, wide hand. It wasn’t from Whitney. And it wasn’t anonymous.
The note was from Pierce.
She wouldn’t have thought this was his style. He seemed like someone who was inclined to reach out and take what he wanted, or who sat back and waited till the woman fell into his lap. This gesture was far too romantic for someone like Alexander. He certainly didn’t strike her as the type who would write poetry for a woman. Dirty limericks, maybe, but not poetry.
This was a poem.
Nothing fancy, yet it was eloquent in its understatement. Eight short lines in iambic pentameter comparing her to the wild rose she held in her hand. The gist of it was that wild roses weren’t as beautiful as their more sophisticated cousin, the rose, but they had a certain untamed, compelling charm that was enhanced by their determination to survive, untended.
Amanda folded the note.
Wild, am I? Mess with me, Alexander, and you’ll find out just how wild I can be.
Amanda frowned in order to keep from smiling. At least he doesn’t use hackneyed cliches.
She crumpled the note in her hand and started to toss it away. But the garbage was all the way on the other side of the garage and she thought it was a sin to litter. Shrugging a little too carelessly, she tucked the note into the double-sided pocket of her sweatshirt and tried not to think of the man who had written it.
And because she didn’t want to think about Pierce, his face rose up before her mind’s eye, to tease her and annoy her, just the way he always managed to. Despite herself, she could feel something warm stirring within her.
Don’t be a fool, Amanda. You’re playing right into his hands.
She knew from experience that men like Pierce didn’t care about the women they pursued, they only craved the thrill of the hunt. Conquests equalled manhood. Maybe he kept notches on his headboard, she thought cynically.
Any man as good-looking as Pierce Alexander had to be as shallow as a puddle on a rain-slicked street in May. Because of his looks, he hadn’t had to develop a meaningful personality, or ethics, or feelings of decency, only perfunctory lines. She was sure, from some of the talk she had overheard, that all he had to do was whistle and there would be women fighting for the privilege of falling into his bed.
Let them fall. She was too smart to get tangled up with someone like him.
For a moment, remembering Jeff and his womanizing, Amanda was seriously tempted to deposit the flower, the champagne, and the note into the garbage. But there was no sense in letting a perfectly good magnum of champagne go to waste just because she didn’t care for the sender.
Vintage champagne, she noted, looking at the year on the label as she placed the bottle just inside the door. She dropped the wild rose next to it. Maybe Carla would put it in a glass of water. If Christopher didn’t eat it first.
At least the man had taste, she thought, closing the door again. Of a sort.
Amanda tucked her hands into her sweatshirt pockets and crossed to the entrance onto the greenbelt. Her fingers came in contact with the note. Absently, she curled them around the paper.
She didn’t realize she was smiling as she began to jog.
Supermarkets always fascinated Pierce.
Coming from the heart of a poor community in Gabriel, Georgia, population 820, give or take a stranger passing through, he was accustomed to run-down general stores where a limited amount of food could be found within a dark, wooden structure with narrow aisles and half-empty shelves. Behemoth supermarkets, with their endless choices of products, still left him with a sense of awe. Looking at them always managed to remind him where he had come from, in case he ever forgot.
Unlike most other men in his salary range, who either had their housekeepers do their shopping for them or who ran in and out of the grocery store, snatching items from the frozen food section, Pierce didn’t mind shopping. He enjoyed walking up and down the aisles slowly, absorbing the atmosphere, the shoppers. Watching and listening.
You could tell a lot about people just by watching the way they pushed a cart and made their way up and down the aisles. And by what they bought.
He had been a people watcher since the days when that was the only hobby he could afford to indulge in. Coming face-to-face with the silver bottom of his coffee can this morning had given him his excuse. That and the fact that his refrigerator, after he’d thrown out the half-eaten sandwich and the carton of takeout, was pitifully empty. He’d had the remaining beer for dinner.
He had woken up this morning thinking of her. His body had throbbed urgently, annoyingly. Meandering through the store helped him unwind. It was either that or he would have to share the morning with Jose Cuervo. He was in no mood for a hangover.
A small sampling of all the essential food groups was already in his cart when he thrust two cans of automatic-drip coffee into it. Finished, he propelled the wagon slowly toward a register.
Idly, he wondered what had gone through Amanda’s mind when she had looked down at the magnum. He grinned to himself. If he knew his woman, she had probably considered throwing
it out and then changed her mind and kept it.
Just like she’d kept the poem. He had watched her tuck that into her sweatshirt before leaving. She hadn’t seen him, but he’d had a clear view of her from his car. He remembered speculating as to whether she was wearing a bra. From where he sat, because she was small, it was hard to tell.
Pierce turned down the aisle and saw that registers seven and nine were open. He maneuvered toward seven because it was closer.
He wondered if Amanda knew that they only lived four miles apart. He doubted it. He had known for some time now.
A high-pitched squeal and the sound of glass hitting the floor a few feet behind him startled him, bringing him back to reality.
Well, well, well.
“Christopher, what am I going to do with you?”
With a resigned sigh, Amanda stooped down to gather up the broken coffee jar as best she could. She shoved the smaller pieces to the side before someone stepped on them. She’d hoped that this trip to the store with her son would go better than the last time. Fat chance. It didn’t appear as if Christopher was going to be store-broken anytime soon.
“Need help?”
Amanda’s hand froze. The offer came from the owner of an expensive pair of brown loafers. The voice was all too familiar. She knew who it was even before she looked up.
First poetry and liquor, now the man. Was he following her?
She looked up, annoyance creasing her face. The momentary sweet surge she had experienced reading the poem was completely forgotten. Now that she thought about it, he’d probably plagiarized it.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
He lifted his shoulders casually, then let them drop. It was a studied gesture to hide the fact that when she looked up at him like that, with only her eyes raised, he felt a sexual pull that dramatically increased his pulse rate.
“What does one usually do in a supermarket?”
“Most people,” she said, rising, “shop. You, I imagine, harass.”
With some of the large pieces of the now-defunct coffee jar in her hand, she looked around for a trash can.
Stupid woman; she was going to wind up bleeding like a stuck pig. “Here, you’ll cut yourself.” He reached to take the glass out of her hand.
Amanda pulled her hands back and glared at him. Why was he always trying to take over? He was crowding her, just by standing here in the middle of the wide aisle, crowding her amid jars of peanut butter and jam.
“I’m a grown woman, Alexander. I am perfectly capable of throwing away glass by myself.”
His eyes slid over her, silently telling her that he agreed with at least the first part of her statement.
“Sorry.” He held up his hands, “It’s my early southern training. Never let a lady do any work.”
Southern training her eye. It was just his way of trying to ooze into her confidence. Well, she didn’t need his offer. She wasn’t one of those whimpering, helpless women who needed a man to approve of her every move. She certainly didn’t need one to offer his dubious protection.
That, she recalled, had been one of Jeff s main complaints about her. One of many. She was far too independent for his liking. Or his ego. Jeff had wanted her to play the little woman. To entertain and be an ornament on his arm when he needed it. To be quietly closeted away when his rampaging libido decided it needed to conquer new grounds. There were times, she thought, when she’d felt as if he had some sort of divining rod between his legs, pointing toward the closest available female.
Probably just like the man standing next to her.
She saw an empty bin near a register and crossed to it. “Well, to use a word in the vernacular you might be familiar with: hogwash.”
She dropped the chunks of glass into the bin. They rattled against each other as they rained down, as if to punctuate her assessment.
Pierce’s laughter, deep and warm, wrapped itself around her even though she resisted.
Chapter Nine
Amanda hunched her shoulders slightly, as if that could somehow afford her protection from the velvety, sensual sound of his laughter. Very deliberately, she dusted off her hands.
Pierce had the distinct feeling that she was dusting herself free of him as well.
Not yet, lady. Not until I say so.
Amanda stopped to tell a red-aproned clerk about the mess Christopher had caused in aisle five. The man nodded and went to get a broom.
When she turned around, Pierce was still looking at her. Studying her as if he were still a foreign correspondent and she were his latest assignment.
Think again, Alexander. I see right through you and your so-called southern-boy charm.
Her lips curved deprecatingly. “I think you use all that as a smoke screen, Alexander. Southern gentleman, slow as molasses, easygoing—“
His eyes held Amanda’s as a grin began to spread. “That’s me.”
She narrowed her brows. Like hell it was. He was well aware of every move he made. She’d bet her soul on it.
“If you’re so easygoing, how have you gotten as far as you have? This is a highly competitive field and you have to watch your back all the time.”
“Luck?” he offered innocently.
“Drive,” she corrected.
His grin deepened. There was something almost primally unsettling about it. She felt as if he were a jungle cat and she were his prey. The back of her neck prickled.
He saw that she was nervous and liked what he saw. It meant she was reacting to him. That, even if she didn’t realize it yet, she was interested in him. Otherwise, why would she be nervous? Disinterested, yes; aloof, yes; but nervous? No. He was getting to her. Getting toward his goal.
“Your place or mine?” he asked.
“What?” Amanda almost shouted the question.
“You said drive,” he reminded her. In a move so effortless that it caught her completely off guard, he slipped an arm around her shoulders.
She deliberately shrugged him off. Angry lights entered her eyes. “You know damn well what I mean.”
He toyed with the hoop at her ear, sending it swinging with the tip of his finger. “Maybe.”
Amanda jerked back as an electric shiver zipped through her. She wondered if the station manager would have a heart attack if she took out a restraining order against Alexander. She pictured Grimsley clutching at his chest and staggering as the story made the news on rival stations. It might well be worth the effort.
Pierce looked over Amanda’s head toward her cart.
Christopher was straining in his seat, desperately trying to reach a shelf. She’d left the cart positioned tantalizingly close to the goods.
He pointed behind her. “Don’t look now, but I think your son is about to spread raspberry jam all over your groceries.”
“What?” God, how could she have forgotten about Christopher? It was all this idiot’s fault. She whirled around to see that her son’s stubby fingers had almost secured their goal.
Pierce was quicker than Amanda. He grabbed the jar out of Christopher’s hands an instant before it met up with the same fate as the coffee jar.
Amused, Pierce returned the jar to its place. “Does he always like to clear the shelves this way?”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Amanda sighed. She was exhausted. For the moment she forgot about maintaining defenses. Going shopping with Christopher had been a great deal more tiring than her morning run. But Carla had come down with a sinus attack this morning and the pantry had been on its way to bare.
Carla had looked so miserable, Amanda had decided to give her a small respite by taking Christopher with her. She had mistakenly hoped that perhaps this one time, Christopher would behave himself.
She’d always been an impossible dreamer.
Pierce wasn’t much for children, but the boy was rather cute. In a certain way, he reminded Pierce of himself before his grandmother had attempted to beat the spirit out of him.
Mischief danced in the boy’s every movement. The kid was probably hell on wheels. Pierce looked at Amanda. “Do I get an introduction?”
She gave Christopher a disapproving look as she cleaned his fingers with her handkerchief. They’d gotten sticky somehow. Amanda was afraid to examine her groceries.
“Play your cards right and you might get adoption papers as well.”
Pierce ruffled the boy’s hair, and to Amanda’s amazement Christopher didn’t try to bite him, as was his habit with strangers. Probably sensed he’d come down with some sort of a disease if he did, Amanda thought.
Pierce studied the boy. “He looks harmless enough.”
“Looks,” Amanda pointed out tersely, “can be deceiving.” Like yours. “His name is Christopher and he’s the reason for my gray hair.”
Before she could stop him, Pierce sifted a strand of her hair through his fingers. The gesture was too intimate for her liking.
She wished he’d stop playing with her earrings, her hair, her mind. It had definitely been too long between men. But she really hadn’t given it that much thought until he had begun to remind her with his presence.
“I don’t see any,” he said.
She didn’t like the feelings he kept generating. It was as if her air supply was slowly being depleted. As if choices were slowly being drawn away from her, slipping through her fingers like water.
She took a step back defensively. “Figure of speech,” she muttered. “See you on the news.”
Gripping the cart with both hands, she began to walk quickly away from him.
Pierce pivoted his cart on its two rear wheels and did a U-turn in the middle of the aisle. The coffee cans slid back and forth, jostling against each other until they wedged between a carton of milk and a five-pound bag of potatoes. “Where are you headed?”
She didn’t even bother looking over her shoulder. “Away from you.”
He hung back for a moment. He liked watching the way her hips rhythmically swayed as she hurried away. With very little effort, he imagined her walking away nude.
Flash and Fire Page 7
