by Cathryn Cade
Sara stared as Trace made the last turn onto a sweep of driveway that he followed around to the left and a bank of garages. Behind the house was a huge multi-leveled patio bordered by a full tennis court, what looked like acres of lawn and several outbuildings. Steam rose from a back portion of the patio.
She sat up straight. “Wow. Is that a swimming pool?”
He stopped the car before the garage. “Yup.”
“Darn it. You didn’t tell me. I didn’t bring a suit.”
Trace grinned. “Gotcha covered. Don’t worry about it.” Then he opened his car door and got out. Sara leapt out of her side, staring at him as he walked back to the open trunk.
“What does that mean?”
He merely grabbed her larger suitcase, her smaller bag already over his shoulder, then picked up his leather duffle and stepped back. “Close the trunk, would you?”
Sara complied and followed him along the side of the house and across a small side patio. “Trace Bowen, I am not wearing some little G-string that you picked out,” she warned, quietly because she could hear voices from an upper level of the patio. She and Trace stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to it, with a door into the house to one side.
He set down her suitcase and turned to her, his eyes twinkling. “It’s okay, Red. You trust me, remember?”
Then he bent and kissed her. Not a peck or a friendly smack. No, this was a kiss. The kind she’d imagined getting from him the first moment she saw him, the first time he’d looked at her with those brown eyes that really saw her, saw into her, saw the woman she really was. And in seeing so much, had scared the living daylights out of her.
His lips were warm and soft and pliant, covering hers and coaxing them to kiss him back, to part under his and cling, taste him the way he was tasting her. As if she were the most enticing, delicious dish he’d ever sampled. And he did it all without thrusting his tongue into her mouth the way most guys seemed to, or breathing hot, damp breath all over her.
When he lifted his head, Sara discovered she was the one holding him, one hand cupping his smoothly shaven jaw, his skin warm and electric under her hand. Her other hand was spread on his polo-shirt-clad chest.
She blinked, her gaze falling to his mouth. His lips were damp from hers, and so enticing she leaned up on her tiptoes, craving more of his taste as much as her next breath. And she hadn’t even been drinking mai tais. Geez, she’d kissed two guys in the space of a week.
“Really, can’t you two even make it into the house?” drawled a feminine voice from the stairs above them. “There are bedrooms inside, you know.”
Trace didn’t look up or react in any way. Which meant he’d known someone was there. This snapped Sara out of her kiss-induced fog like a drizzle of ice water.
“Get the door, would you, honey?” he asked.
Sara nodded automatically and reached for the doorknob, stepping back as she pulled the door open for him to carry their luggage inside. Then she looked up, over her shoulder.
A woman lounged against the wrought iron stair railing, a highball glass in one hand. With glossy dark hair and dramatic cosmetics, she was voluptuous in a red summer dress and stiletto heels. With her heavy makeup, it was hard to guess her age, anywhere from Sara’s age to mid-thirties. She watched Trace disappear, then surveyed Sara, her dark gaze sweeping her from head to toe. Her full lips turned up at one corner.
Sara, with her new hairdo and wearing her new snug skinny-legged pants in taupe, whisper-light rayon sweater set in turquoise and coordinating turquoise leather sandals, held her look just long enough to make a point and then turned away with a toss of her long hair to follow Trace into the house. She didn’t teach middle school for nothing, she thought wryly. She could deal with bullies in any form. Also, she might not be wearing the pearl dress yet, but she knew she looked her best.
“Who was that?” she demanded quietly.
Trace stood waiting in a wide hallway paneled in rich woods with a burgundy flowered runner on the floor. “Harrison’s daughter, Manda,” he said tersely. “She’s a bitch—don’t listen to anything she says. Also, don’t bother to be polite to her—she won’t respect it or return it.”
“O-kay.” Great, the enemy had been sighted and engaged. One of them anyway. If Trace’s stepfather was as obnoxious as his daughter, this was going to be a long evening.
Sara followed Trace up a wide staircase into a huge foyer with a vaulted ceiling and a light fixture so large and ornate it could only be described as a chandelier. Open doorways led to spacious rooms with plush furnishings she’d seen only in magazines and home-decorating stores.
They turned and headed up a second flight of stairs, this time turning right into another wide hallway. Trace led her to the far end and through an open door into a big bedroom with a king-size bed and the mementoes of a boyhood filled with sports, including a trophy case. A large color photo of a teen-aged Trace swinging a golf club held pride of place over a gas fireplace.
She stopped inside the door. “This is your room, huh? Where am I sleeping? Next door?”
He set their luggage down and came back to her. His face was still taut. “With me. The bed is huge. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, I promise. But you’re staying in this room, or we turn around and go home now.”
She opened her mouth to protest and then stopped, watching him. He waited, his mouth set, gaze guarded as if waiting for her to refuse. But adamant.
“You mean that, don’t you?” she asked, perplexed.
“Yes.”
She sighed. “Are you going to explain any of this anytime soon?”
Trace stepped forward, his shoulders relaxing. He cupped his hand around the side of her neck, her hair sliding over his fingers. His thumb under her chin, he gently tipped her head up to smile at her. “I’ll explain. Thank you, Red. Your trust means a lot to me.”
He brushed a soft, all too brief kiss over her lips and lifted his head.
“Now, time for you to meet the folks.”
“Wait.” She stopped him, her hand on his chest. “Would you do me a favor, Trace?”
“What?”
She fiddled with the bottom button on his shirt placket, then forced herself to drop her hand and pull back, away from his grasp. “Would you not…kiss me anymore? I said I’d do this. You don’t have to coax me into it. But I don’t appreciate being kissed just to put on a show.”
Not when she’d thought he meant it at first. And realized that she wanted him to mean it. When Kai kissed her, it was sweet and hot, but it was more with the understanding that it wasn’t going anywhere, because he was still in love with that guy. With Trace, it was different—open-ended and thus dangerous.
His gaze changed. “Red,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”
She backed up another step, shaking off the humiliating awareness that he knew just how much his kisses affected her but that the feeling didn’t extend to him. “Save it, Bowen. Let’s do this.”
He nodded, but his gaze didn’t leave her face. “All right. Time to change and head downstairs. You can have the bathroom and this room. I’ll change in the closet.”
She nodded and went to unzip her suitcase. “Change in the closet” indeed. That said volumes about the differences in their upbringing. She hadn’t even had a closet in her tiny bedroom, while his was clearly more of a dressing room.
A little while later, she looked at herself in the full-length mirror on one wall of the big bathroom. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” she murmured to her reflection.
Her new dress fit like a dream. A small one. The short skirt hit her mid-thigh, and the bodice was a simple halter top with a vee just deep enough that the shadow between her breasts was visible. If she had larger breasts, that would be cleavage, but on her it was a shadow.
The cream color and gentle gleam of the faux pearls accentuated her light tan and set off her auburn hair. She’d splurged at the Macy’s sale counter and bought a chunky faux pearl bracelet and barrett
e. Her hair was pulled up and back at the sides to frame her face, twisted at her crown to add height and then fastened with the barrette.
With some light blush, mascara and blended fawn and mauve eye shadow to play up her eyes, she was ready. She turned for one last look, admiring her strappy little sandals as she did so.
“Sara, you ready?” Trace called from the bedroom.
In answer, she opened the bathroom door and walked out to meet him. “Ready.”
The look in his brown eyes made it all worthwhile. His brows flew up, and then his gaze traveled slowly from her head to her toes and back up again.
“You look…amazing,” he said, and the look he gave her said he meant every word.
She promptly blushed with pleasure. “Thank you. Not too shabby yourself.”
He wore a pair of cream slacks, brown woven slip-ons and a brown tropical-style silk shirt that played up his brown eyes and contrasted with his blond hair.
“You’re the best-dressed guy I know,” she decided. Except for the librarian at school, whose partner worked at a men’s clothing store downtown, so he had a head start.
Trace grinned. “You’re the best-dressed PE teacher I know.”
“Right.” She obeyed his gesture to the door and preceded him from the room into the hallway. “I’m the only PE teacher you know.”
“There is that,” he said absently. She looked over her shoulder to find his gaze on her ass. He looked up and smiled again. “Can’t decide if you look better coming or going, Red.”
This news left her speechless. He took her hand in his and led her down the staircase to the ground floor.
They walked back down into the huge foyer. The chandelier now sparkled with a multitude of lights. Trying not to gape, she followed Trace out onto a stone patio that looked over the valley below at one end and the back lawns at the other.
Tiki torches burned around the perimeter of the huge patio, and soft music played from hidden speakers. The area was full of people, most of them middle-aged, some younger. The women wore short cocktail dresses, the men tropical shirts and slacks or shorts. They were clearly an affluent crowd, well-fed and well-dressed.
Sara noted Manda with a short, stocky, balding man and another couple. Then her attention was caught by a slender, attractive woman with short blonde hair in aqua silk with brown pearls at her ears and throat, diamonds flashing on her hands, and Trace’s smile. The woman hurried toward them, arms open.
“Trace,” she cried. “You’re here.”
Sara was surprised by the fervor with which she grabbed Trace, as if she hadn’t seen him for months. Then she noted the empty highball glass in the thin, bejeweled hand.
“Hi, Mom,” Trace said, bending to hug and kiss his mother on the cheek. “You look good. Look beautiful.”
His mother drew back, tipping her head toward Sara with a girlish smile of delight. “Oh, you. Do you really think so?”
“Yes, Mom. I do.” Trace reached for Sara, drawing her back to his side. “Mom, this is Sara. Sara, my mother, Frances Hardy.”
Frances beamed at Sara, still holding on to Trace. “How nice to meet you, Sally. Is it Sally, or did I…?” She giggled and looked up at Trace.
“Sara,” he repeated, his face serene, voice calm. His grip on Sara’s hand was beginning to feel like a vise.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hardy,” Sara said politely. She wiggled her hand, and Trace’s grip loosened instantly. “Thank you for allowing Trace to bring me to your party.”
“Oh, you are so welcome. Call me Frances,” his mother insisted. “Sara. Sara. I can remember that. Now come and have a drink, you two. Oh, and meet everyone.
“Harrison.” She waved her empty glass at the beefy, silver-haired man watching from the midst of a semicircle of other men. “Come and meet Trace’s girlfriend.”
Trace let his mother lead the two of them to her husband. The group opened, with smiles and greetings for Trace, and smiles for her.
The hair on the back of Sara’s neck stood up. She felt like an unwary fish that had allowed another fish to lead her into a reef, only to find herself surrounded by sharks.
Harrison Hardy was the king of the sharks, a sleek predator in a Tommy Bahama silk Hawaiian shirt and khakis, with silver hair, tanned skin and a ring the size of Texas on the beefy hand that held his highball glass. His gaze, cold and assessing, didn’t match the wide smile he wore.
He took Sara’s hand, and for one panicked moment, she thought he was going to kiss it, but he’d merely squeezed it in a way that intimated they were practically family, and complimented Trace on his good taste in young ladies, all the while smiling at her. Yuck, and double yuck.
She smiled the way she did when dealing with a particularly obnoxious parent who insisted she was being unfair to expect their child to do whatever exercise or assignment she’d given. “Hello. So nice to meet you.”
She murmured the phrase several more times as the other men greeted Trace and he introduced her to them.
“Well, need to get my girl something to drink,” Trace said and hauled Sara away. He did it with class, his hand on the small of her back, but she found herself hustling along beside him toward the tiki bar set up at one end of the patio. A tiki bar, really? It was a classy tiki bar, but still, she’d only seen them set up on beaches. She wondered what Kai would think of this and decided she would tell him the next time she saw him—about the bar, not about her and Trace. That was too hard to explain.
“Can’t walk fast in these shoes,” she pointed out, running to keep up with Trace.
“Sorry.” He stopped, only because they’d reached the bar. The Hispanic bartender smiled an enquiry, and Trace looked down at her. “What do you want to drink, honey?”
“Something strong.” She moved closer to his side, slipping her arm around him. His lean torso was rigid with tension. “Better make yours a double too, honey.”
He shook his head once. “Last thing I need.” He looked at the bartender. “Gin and tonic, heavy on the tonic and lime. Half the gin.”
“I’ll have one of those too, please,” Sara said.
She looked up at Trace. He waited until the bartender had turned away to return her look.
“Your mom drink like that all the time?” she asked quietly.
He grimaced. “No. She doesn’t like parties; they make her nervous. Harrison likes to entertain. So she goes along, but once everyone is here, she drinks. She’ll end up going up early—smashed.”
Sara nodded. If she had to party with these people, she might pick up that habit too. No, she would slip away and go for a swim or get on an exercise bike. Too much alcohol made her feel stupid and fuzzy. She hated that feeling.
“We can hang with her for a while,” she suggested. “She’s glad you’re here.”
His gaze focused, and he smiled. It wasn’t a great effort, but it was better. “Thanks. We’ll do that. Dinner will be served pretty soon. Should be good.”
She nodded. “I smell barbecued salmon.”
Dinner was delicious. They ate sitting at a small table with Trace’s mother, who had food on her plate but ignored it to slug down another highball, smiling fondly at Trace and Sara between drinks.
Sara didn’t put much on her plate, and she was glad, because Trace was so tense that her stomach knotted in empathy. She nibbled on tender asparagus, glazed barbecue salmon and a potato dish that was savory and delicious. She had never enjoyed a fancy, catered meal less.
Trace ate only half of what he’d taken from the buffet table, and then drained his water glass. He fingered his glass as if wishing it were full of something stronger, though he hadn’t touched his glass of white wine.
“Dessert?” he asked her. “Saw the caterers bringing out something with chocolate.”
“Chocolate mousse with candied orange peel and dark chocolate leaf garnish,” his mother told them, waving her hand. “You mus’ have some.”
“Sure,” Sara agreed. “If you’ll have some with me
, Frances.”
“I’ll get it,” Trace said.
“Just wave down one of the waiters,” his mother said. Without waiting for him to respond, she fluttered her fingers at one of the young waiters, who hurried to their table. “Bring us some dessert, will you, Eric?”
The waiter was standing across from Sara, so she could plainly see his nametag. It read “Burt”. Sara caught his quizzical gaze and had to suppress a grin. He smiled, which caused deep dimples to indent his somewhat chubby cheeks. “Yes, ma’am. Right away.”
He strode away, and Trace laid his hand on the back of Sara’s chair. “Flirting with the waiter in front of your date, Red?” he murmured in her ear. “Tacky, very tacky.”
She swatted his leg under the tablecloth and smiled sweetly. His gaze holding hers, he captured her hand and moved it up his thigh. She stiffened, her eyes wide, and he raised his brows. “Something wrong, Red?”
She yanked at her hand, but his grip tightened, pressing her hand to his thigh, her little finger in the crease of his slacks at his groin. “Stop it,” she whispered, widening her eyes at him. Had he forgotten they were sitting at a small table with his mother?
“Just making sure you remember your place,” he answered.
“Oh, there’s Bernice,” Frances said with delight. “I must go say hello. You kids enjoy your dessert.”
“Okay, Mom,” Trace said. He rose to help her from her chair. “Why don’t I walk you over there?”
His mother batted at his hands. “I’m fine, silly boy. You go back to flirting with your pretty girl.” With a giggle for Sara, she walked away, listing slightly to one side.
Trace sat again. Sara wanted to chase the look from his face. “My place?” she asked, raising her brows at him. “And where would that be? Two paces behind you, sir?”
His gaze returned to hers. His hand moved on the back of her chair, the smooth pad of his thumb tracing a line of fire over her bare back. “Wherever I say it is, Red. Wherever I say it is.”
Her plan had worked a little too well. Sara sat very still, hoping no one in the vicinity could tell the son of the house was turning Sara on like a hot water tap, just with the grip of his hand on one wrist and the slow caress of one digit of his other hand.
