In Bed with the Wild One & In Bed with the Pirate

by Julie Kistler

  Toby grew contemplative. “I often asked Free what she wanted. She always said a trip or a piece of jewelry or dinner out. Do you know how many times I would love to have heard her say, ‘You. You’re what I want’?”

  “Is that what you asked her?” Kate bit her bottom lip. It was none of her business what they talked about after she and Tiger left. But to her surprise, Toby responded.

  “No. But Free said something else that haunts me. When I asked her why she’d done what she did, she said, ‘What did you expect?’ It killed me. I couldn’t even go upstairs and get some damn clothes.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Those were the exact words my mom said to me after my relatives took Frank and Angela, my kid brother and sister, away to live with them. Remember when I mentioned a sadder time of my mom’s life? This was that time. My mom looked at me with that tired, beaten look I hated, and said, ‘What did you expect?’ I knew she was really talking to herself. Knew there was nothing I could have done. I still felt I’d let her down. Let the family down.” Toby’s eyes darkened, looking inward, back to those times.

  Kate smiled, or tried to, but whatever camaraderie she and Toby had shared before felt muted, distant. He clearly felt he’d also let Free down. A barrier had been constructed between them, and her name was Free. Kate slid the scarf off her shoulders. “Shall we attempt the scarf-around-the-hips thing? Time for us to get home.” But inside, she was saying to herself, What did you expect, Kate? He belongs to another woman.

  7

  THE EVENING SKY TURNED PURPLE, a dusky backdrop to swirls of gray fog. Kate and Toby headed north on Stockton, walking briskly down the sidewalk past Washington Square. As another blast of cold air whipped by, Kate tugged the shawl around her shoulders. “Summer in San Francisco,” she said with a shiver, “is more like winter in some parts of the world. Are you okay with that rip? I mean, not too much cold air is getting in?”

  “No,” Toby said adamantly. He’d left the table at the restaurant with Kate walking closely behind. She’d giggled, saying they probably looked like Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn in Bringing Up Baby when Cary had to walk closely behind Katherine to hide her missing skirt panel. Except in this case, Kate was “covering” Toby’s behind. Later, in the men’s room, he’d checked the damage. The rip was relatively insignificant. One would have to look really closely to catch a flash of his tiger-striped undies.

  At the time he’d thought how cruel fate could be. Why couldn’t he be wearing leopard-spotted undies? Or zebra-striped undies. No, he had to be wearing tiger-striped, like some kind of perverse reminder of Free’s meanderings.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” he said, “you can pick me up something else to wear….” He let his voice trail off, hoping Kate hadn’t heard his suggestion all that clearly. Because if she bought him clothes again, he’d probably end up looking like Captain Hook.

  In Washington Square, a group of Chinese tai chi practitioners slowly lifted their feet and swayed their arms in unison. Toby stopped in his tracks and stared at the group.

  “What is it?” Kate asked, stopping with him.

  “Let’s jump one of those tai chi guys—someone my size—and steal his outfit.” Maybe tomorrow night Toby could cook Chinese instead of Italian. He’d call his taichi getup part of the dinner theme.

  “You’re going over the edge.”

  “Actually, I went over a long time ago.”

  “You look great as a pirate,” she blurted.

  He glanced at her. Was Kate blushing? Maybe it was the angle of the streetlights that were starting to come on. “I look like what?” he asked, knowing he’d heard correctly but wanting to hear it again.

  “Like a pirate,” she whispered. She tilted her head and gave him a look that made his heart pound loudly, thunderously. “Because that’s what you are,” she added, her voice dropping to a husky register that made his blood surge. “A pirate.”

  Damn right. He’d spent his career as a corporate raider, the equivalent of piracy, but only at this moment, with this woman, could he grasp or embrace his own essential nature, his passion, his inner yearnings for adventure. He’d learned to despise plundering corporate America. But to plunder his own deepest nature, to call forth Kate Corrigan’s fantasies, to invade and steal her admiration was to make his piracy something sacred. Meaningful.

  He swallowed.

  She was close, and he caught her scent again. Lilacs. The fragrance teased the cool evening air, and teased him. She was so near, all he had to do was take a step to close the distance between them. One step and he could embrace her, embrace a new life.

  He opened his mouth to stammer something, anything, but a blast of chilly air rushed past. With an audible shiver, Kate began walking away, her long legs covering ground like a Thoroughbred. “Come on!” she called, her slim frame disappearing into the shadowy hues. “Let’s get home, get warm.”

  Home. Warmth. Kate.

  Take me to your home, Kate. Admit me to your heart. The thoughts sprang up from some dark internal well, just as his pirate persona had. The pirate—and the man—willingly followed her footsteps.

  KATE AND TOBY LET THEMSELVES into the inn. The foyer was dark, except for the light from the faux Tiffany lamp that sat on the carved elm wood table. The reds, golds and blues spilled a patchwork of color onto the hardwood floor.

  “That’s funny,” Kate said, switching on a light. “I thought Melanie would be up, baking a few extra thousand brownies.” Something on the table caught her eye. “A note,” Kate murmured, picking up a piece of paper. She read it out loud. “Katherine, dear, an elderly couple checked in, asked for The Wild Room. Verna will be in late tomorrow morning and I’ll be in later this evening. P.S. I hope you didn’t pay for dinner. P.P.S. Verna left some of her departed husband’s clothes in Kismet for Toby. Love, Mother.”

  “She didn’t say where she went?” Toby asked, peering over Kate’s shoulder at the note.

  “It’s a little frightening imagining my mother kicking up her pastel heels somewhere in San Francisco. But who knows, maybe there’s a Betty Crocker convention at the Moscone Center.”

  But despite Kate’s flippant tone, Toby caught a look of concern on her face. As she placed the note back on the table, he touched her arm reassuringly. “Your mother has common sense. She’ll be safe.”

  Kate nodded slowly, obviously unsure. “San Francisco isn’t Beaufort. But you’re right, my mother is a big girl. Anyway, if Verna’s going to be late, I’d better see what I can do to prep for tomorrow morning’s breakfast. Usually Verna keeps some frozen rolls or something on hand that I can serve.”

  “How about sandwiches?” Toby chuckled to himself, but stopped abruptly when Kate flashed him a look.

  “I can cook, you know,” she said defensively, stopping in front of the swinging kitchen door. “Maybe not as well as Melanie, but it’s not as though I don’t know what an oven is.”

  “I, uh…didn’t doubt it.” Actually he had no doubt Kate could take apart an oven and put it back together in record time.

  “You’re just like my family, not trusting me in the kitchen.” She fisted her hands on her hips, as though defying him to say anything.

  He knew better than to respond to that. Growing up with two sisters and a mom had taught him a few things about how to deal with women, such as when to change the subject. “Forget the kitchen. What is the one thing at which you’d really like to excel?”

  Kate blinked. “I’ve always wanted to perform a Motown medley to throngs of screaming fans.”

  Now he blinked. He also knew when to call it a day. “I think it’s time for me to go to bed.”

  The look Kate gave him almost made him ask if she’d like to join him. After a moment of intense eye-locking, she murmured, “G’night. If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  Back in Kismet, the land of fate, he checked out the clothes Verna had brought over: a pair of faded blue jeans and a black T-shirt, both washed and neatly fo
lded. Toby unbuttoned his red silk shirt and hung it carefully over the back of a chair. Time to slip the pirate look and ponder his fate.

  He stared out the window at his home, watching the shadows behind the living room drapes, wondering how to get back in there by tomorrow night. But his thoughts kept being interrupted by images of Kate. Kate in that killer red outfit, licking chermoula off her fingers. Kate in that killer red outfit, belting out “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.” Kate in that killer red outfit doing anything.

  Clank! Smash!

  Was someone breaking in? Kate was downstairs, alone.

  He tore out the door, down the stairs and raced through the swinging kitchen doors.

  Catching his breath, at first he thought he saw a ghost. Then he realized it was Kate, coated with white flour. “What…happened?” he said between gasps.

  She was breathing as hard as he was. “I had everything under control. A couple of electric beaters, humming like fine-tuned engines, were mixing batches of batter. I had lifted the flour bag, ready to pour some into another bowl, when I noticed one of the engines—I mean beaters—was overheating.” She swiped at her brow as she looked around the white-dusted room. “I lunged for the mixer and dropped the flour.”

  He scanned the area. She’d obviously turned off both mixers. Despite her flour crisis, she’d kept her head. He glanced at her spiky hairdo, which now looked like a flocked Christmas tree. That fit in with the rest of the room’s decor, which looked as if it had been sprinkled with snow.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” she answered, sounding a bit unsure.

  He wondered if she’d ever done anything in this kitchen besides pour herself a cup of coffee. Obviously there hadn’t been any frozen rolls, so she’d resorted to cooking. Shaking his head at the mess, he gave her a look she took all wrong.

  Kate’s chin wobbled as a tear spilled over. It traced a wet path down a white-caked cheek. “Whatever this looks like, I’m not like Free.”

  “No, no, you’re not,” he quickly admitted. “I didn’t mean…” Not only was she unlike Free, Kate was unlike any woman he’d ever met. But he kept that thought to himself. In her current vulnerable, Christmas-flocked state, she might misinterpret the compliment and feel worse than she already did. “What were you trying to do?” he asked, trying to sound upbeat as he surveyed the scene.

  “I was trying—” her voice wobbled, her shoulders shook “—to make…biscuits.” She began to wail.

  She looked so fragile he felt a stab of remorse. “Let me help,” Toby said, which was exactly how he would have handled such a crisis growing up, jumping in to save the day—or in this case, the biscuits.

  He took a step toward Kate, meaning to wipe some flour off her cheek. When he raised his hand, however, she fell against him. Another sob broke loose. Just as he’d done on numerous occasions with his kid sisters, he put his arms around her, rocking her a little as she cried and sniffled on his shoulder.

  Except she didn’t feel like a kid sister, especially when she was pressed against his naked chest. Earlier, on the street, he’d wondered what it would be like if he stepped toward her and took her in his arms. Now he knew. Holding Kate felt warm, pleasurable. Her hair—soft, feathery—brushed underneath his chin. Her body molded against his as though they were two pieces that fit perfectly. A sizzling current shot through him and spun a few crazy laps around his stomach, igniting his insides with heat. If he kept holding her like this, he’d soon be hot enough to bake those biscuits himself.

  He pulled back from her, holding her at arm’s length.

  She looked up at him with big, blue teary eyes. “I’m not Free,” she whispered shakily. “I know what a can room is.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. Kate had turned this heated, my-body-can-bake-biscuits moment into one of lighthearted whimsy. She had a knack for adding a delightful slant to life’s darker moments. That was the kind of woman to spend a lifetime with. A woman who was not only your lover, but your friend. A woman who…was this woman.

  Was he crazy? He had to get back on good footing with Free, at least for tomorrow night, not fantasize about Kate. Pulling away a little, he said solemnly, “Item one—you’re not Free. Item two—what exactly are you making?”

  “Southern biscuits.”

  “Sounds reasonable.” Although he felt anything but as he looked into those liquid blue eyes. He quickly glanced away as though interested in whatever she’d been assembling for this Southern biscuit task. Without his glasses, the periphery of the room looked a little hazy, although he could clearly see the items on the counter: a bowl, what looked to be an assortment of forks and knives, a container of milk, a hammer—he opted to ignore why that tool was out—and several baking sheets, one of which lay on the floor.

  She followed his gaze. “It was all going well until I picked up the bag of flour and got distracted. The bag was unwieldy, soft—I couldn’t get a handle on it.”

  “You couldn’t get a handle,” he repeated absently. He definitely had a handle on her, though. His fingers gently kneaded her shoulders. She definitely felt unwieldy, soft…

  “I lost my grip. It tipped.”

  He tightened his grip, not wanting to lose it yet.

  “And the bag slipped.” She jerked her gaze back to him. “Ka-boom.”

  He paused, still gripping the unwieldy soft package in front of him. “I’ve finally figured out how you blew up my car,” he said mischievously, “but this is a new one—blowing up a bag of flour.”

  She put on the impish grin that did funny things to his insides. “No, it exploded when it hit the floor. For a moment, it was like a montage of Mutiny on the Bounty and The Great Ziegfeld—a whiteout swirl of sea foam and feathers.” She gestured broadly. “Wild! Dramatic!”

  Like Kate. That wild, spiky hair, that gamine face sprinkled with flour. She was unlike any woman, all right. She was the most unnerving, colorful, fascinating woman he’d ever known. Often a little, and sometimes a lot, dangerous. Dangerous Kate. Couldn’t trust her around Firebirds or flour.

  Or me.

  He should back away…walk backward, like Kate, out through the swinging door and up to his room where he belonged. But he liked standing close to her, smelling that trace of lilac, staring into those blue eyes that sparkled like sunlight on the ocean. And he loved those lips, those full, still lightly cherry tinted lips. Did they also taste like cherries? Maybe. Plus a tad spicy from the chermoula. He trailed his tongue lightly along his bottom lip, curious to know, aching to taste. He hesitated, then leaned down, parting his lips.

  “What’s going on in here?” demanded a female voice.

  Toby halted, catching a whiff of familiar White Shoulders perfume. Without turning his head, he said, “Good evening, Mrs. Corrigan.” He released Kate, who stumbled back a step, a surprised look on her face.

  “Hi, Melanie,” Kate said weakly. “We’re baking.”

  “I don’t need to ask what,” her mother responded under her breath, her critical gaze traveling from her white-dusted daughter to bare-chested Toby.

  Br-r-ring-br-r-ring.

  Melanie, ignoring the phone, stared at the back of Toby’s pants. “Do you want that rip fixed?”

  Br-r-ring. Br-r-ring.

  Duly impressed with her homemaker’s eagle eye, Toby nodded as Kate headed for the phone.

  “Beau’s Bed-and-Breakfast,” Kate said into the receiver. “Oh, hi, Dad.” Pause. “She’s…” Kate looked at her mother, who stared back at her daughter with a beseeching look. “She’s not home, yet,” Kate said, obviously picking up on her mother’s unspoken wish. “I think she’s out, kicking up her heels.”

  Melanie smiled, a smile so relieved and happy that Toby thought he was seeing the real woman for the first time.

  “Oh, I’m fine,” Kate continued into the receiver, brushing some flour off her top. “Yes, the inn’s fine, too. No, I’m not really dating Henry anymore.”

  Now Toby cocked his head to
hear better, but Kate didn’t elaborate. What kind of man was this Henry? And if she wasn’t really dating him anymore, why? Did he not treat her well? A spark of anger heated Toby’s insides.

  “Uh, thanks for calling, Dad.” Pause. “Yes, that’s right, kicking up her heels. The pink pastel ones, I believe,” she added, her eyes twinkling. “She’s become a new woman since her arrival.” Pause. “Nice talking to you, too.” Pause. “Sounds perfect. Love you, too.” Kate hung up the phone.

  Melanie’s eyebrows arched so high they almost disappeared into her hairline. “I do believe I’ve befuddled your father for the first time in his life!”

  “About time he discovered you’re more than the perfect homemaker,” Kate said.

  “Maybe you’ve discovered that, too,” Melanie said softly, her eyes misting over. She cleared her throat. “I’ve never heard you and your father converse for so long.”

  “He definitely seemed a bit befuddled about your kicking up your heels.”

  Melanie patted the back of her hair. “Actually, I took a taxi to the Saint Francis Hotel and enjoyed a cup of tea in their sumptuous lobby. Nothing wild, but Max will never know.” Melanie’s peach lips smiled like the Cheshire cat. “What was that ‘sounds perfect’ part?”

  “He said he’s sending me a set of new wrenches for Christmas.”

  “You were always his favorite apprentice,” Melanie acknowledged. “Brad never got the hang of it.”

  “Yes, my brother excelled at partying and girls while I excelled at school and tools,” Kate said edgily. Her face turned pensive. “He’s still the one who got to go to college.” Kate gave her head a toss as though to shake off the memory. “Hey,” she said to Toby, “let’s attack those biscuits.”

  “Biscuits?” Melanie looked over at the flour-dusted counter. “I can help—”

  “No, no,” Kate said, waving her away, “I’m determined to excel in the kitchen, for once. You can go, leave me to my business.” Kate made a shooing motion with her hands.

  Melanie’s bouffant hairdo seemed to sag a little, like her spirits. “I’ll—I’ll go upstairs. You can drop off your pants later,” she said quietly to Toby. She stopped and gave him a double take. “I guess your clients really go for the sprayed-on pants, no-shirt look.”