by Nora Roberts
"Wear one on your wrist on the job, they end up smashed." He wanted to touch her. She looked so neat and tidy that the idea of mussing her up was enormously appealing. "Damn shame my hands are filthy."
Alerted, she released his wrist, brushed one hand against the other. "So's your face. But you're still pretty." After shifting her briefcase strap more comfortably on her shoulder, she stepped back. "Six-thirty, then. Don't forget the files."
She'd changed three times before she caught herself. A business dinner, Regan thought as she dropped down on the padded stool of her vanity, was a business dinner. Her appearance was certainly important, but it was secondary.
She bit her lip and wondered if she should have gone with the little black dress, after all.
No, no, no. Annoyed with herself, she snatched up her brush. Simplicity was best. The restaurant in West Virginia was casual, family-style. The purpose was professional. The blazer, slacks and silk blouse in forest green were right. There was no harm in jazzing it up with the moonstone lapel pin. But maybe the earrings were wrong. She could go with plain gold hoops instead of the more dramatic dangles.
The hell with it. She dropped her brush, then tugged on her suede ankle boots. She would not fall into the trap of thinking of this as a date. She didn't want to date Rafe MacKade. Just now, with her business showing real promise, she didn't want to date anyone.
A relationship, if indeed she decided to cultivate one, was three years down the road. Minimum. She would never make the mistake her mother had and depend on someone else for emotional and financial support. First, she would make certain she was solvent, solid and secure. And then, if and when she chose, she would think about sharing her life.
No one was going to tell her if she could work or not. She would never have to cajole an extra few dollars out of a man to buy a new dress. Maybe it suited her parents to live that way—and they'd certainly always seemed happy enough. But that wasn't the life Regan Bishop wanted.
It was just too damned bad that Rafe was so dangerously attractive. And, she noted when she heard the knock on the door, prompt.
Confident again after the quick pep talk, she walked out of the bedroom, through the small, cozily furnished living room, and opened the door.
And, oh, she thought one last time, it was really too bad.
He flashed that grin at her, and those wonderful green eyes swept down, then up. "Looking good." Before she could think to avoid it, his mouth brushed hers.
"I'll get my coat," she began, then stopped, the door still open to the wind. "What are those?"
"These?" He jostled the bags he carried. "These are dinner. Where's your kitchen?"
"I—" He was already in, kicking the door behind him. "I thought we were going out."
"No, I said we were having Italian." He took quick stock of the room. Lady chairs, gleaming tables, pretty little knickknacks and fresh flowers. All female, he mused. And the portrait of a gloomy-faced cow above the sofa added wit. "Nice place."
"Are you telling me you're cooking me dinner?"
"It's the quickest way, without physical contact, to get a woman into bed. The kitchen through there?"
When she'd managed to close her mouth, she followed him into the galley-style kitchen off the dining el. "Doesn't that depend on how well you cook?"
Appreciating her response, he smiled as he began pulling ingredients out of the bags. "You'll have to tell me. Got a skillet?"
"Yes, I have a skillet." She took a large cast-iron pan from its cupboard, then lips pursed, tapped it against her palm.
"You conk me with it, you'll miss out on my ziti with tomato and basil."
"Ziti?" After running her tongue around her teeth, she set the skillet on a burner. "I'll wait until after I eat." She got out a second pan for the pasta and handed it to him.
Once he'd added water and set it to boil, she watched him wash greens for a salad.
"Where'd you learn to cook?"
"We all cook. Chef's knife? My mother didn't believe there was women's work and men's work. Thanks," he added and began chopping with a quick, negligent flair that had Regan lifting her brows. "There was just work," he continued.
"Ziti doesn't sound like farm food."
"She had an Italian grandmother. Can you stand a little closer?"
"Hmm?"
"You smell good. I like to smell you."
Ignoring that, and the little twist in her stomach, she picked up the wine he'd brought along. "Why don't I open this?"
"Why don't you?"
After she'd set it on the counter to breathe, she scooted behind him to reach the cupboard to get a salad bowl. When he asked for music, she slipped back into the living room and put Count Basie on low. Why, she wondered, did a man look so sexy with his sleeves rolled up, grating carrots into a salad?
"Don't open that olive oil," she told him. "I have some."
"Extra virgin?"
"Of course." She tapped a long-spouted copper pitcher on the counter.
"Count Basie, your own olive oil." His eyes met hers, laughed. "Want to get married?"
"Sure. I've got time on Saturday." Amused that he didn't have such a quick comeback for that, she reached overhead for wineglasses.
"I was planning on working Saturday." Watching her, he set the salad aside.
"That's what they all say."
Lord, she was one terrific piece of work. He moved closer as she poured the wine. "Tell me you like watching baseball on TV on hot summer nights, and we've got a deal."
"Sorry. I hate sports."
He moved closer still, and with a wineglass in either hand, she moved back. "It's a good thing I found this flaw now, before we had five or six kids and a dog."
"You're a lucky guy." Heart jittering, she backed up again.
"I like this," he murmured, and traced a finger over the little mole beside her mouth. Inching closer, he ran his finger down to flip open the buttons of her blazer.
"Why are you always doing that?"
"Doing what?"
"Fooling with my buttons."
"Just practicing." The grin was quick as lightning, and just as bold. "Besides, you always look so tidy, I can't resist loosening you up."
Her retreat ended with her back between the side of the refrigerator and the wall.
"Looks like you've backed yourself into a corner, darling."
He moved in slowly, slipping his hands around her waist, fitting his mouth to hers. He took his time sampling, his fingers spread over her rib cage, stopping just short of the curve of her breasts.
She couldn't stop her breath from quickening or her lips from responding. His tongue flicked over them, between them, met hers. His taste was dark, and rabidly male, and streaked straight to her center like an arrow on target.
The small part of her mind that could still function warned her that he knew exactly how he affected women. All women. Any woman. But her body didn't seem to give a damn.
Her blood began to pound, her skin to vibrate, from the shock of dozens of tiny explosions. She was certain she could feel her own bones melt.
She was exciting to watch. His eyes were open as he changed the angle of the kiss, deepened it, degree by painfully slow degree. He found the flutter of her lashes arousing, the faint flush desire brought to her cheeks seductive. And that helpless hitch of breath, that quick shiver when his fingers skimmed lightly over the tips of her breasts, utterly thrilling.
With an effort, he stopped himself from taking more. "God. It gets better every time." Gently he nuzzled his way to her ear. "Let's try it again."
"No." It surprised her that what she said and what she wanted were entirely different. In defense, she pressed a wineglass against his chest.
He glanced down at the glass, then back at her face. His eyes weren't smiling now, weren't gently amused. There was an edge in them now, dark and potentially deadly. Despite all common sense, she found herself drawn to this man who would take, and damn all consequences.
"Your h
and's shaking, Regan."
"I'm aware of that."
She spoke carefully, knowing that the wrong word, the wrong move, and what was in his eyes would leap out and devour her. And she would let it. She would love it.
That was something she definitely had to think over.
"Take the wine, Rafe. It's red. It'll leave a nasty stain on that shirt."
For one humming moment, he said nothing. A need he hadn't understood or counted on had him by the throat with rusty little claws. She was afraid of him, he noted, deciding she was smart to be afraid. A woman like her didn't have a clue what a man like him was really capable of.
Taking the glass, he tapped it against hers, making the crystal ring, then turned back to the stove.
She felt as though she'd barely avoided a tumble from a cliff. And realized she already regretted not taking the plunge. "I think I should say something. I, um..." She took a deep breath, then an even deeper gulp of wine. "I'm not going to pretend I'm not attracted to you, or that I didn't enjoy that, when obviously I am, and I did."
Trying to relax, he leaned back against the counter, studied her over the rim of his glass. "And?"
"And." She scooped back her hair. "And I think complications are...complicated," she said lamely. "I don't want—that is, I don't think..." She shut her eyes and drank again. "I'm stuttering."
"I noticed. It's a nice boost to the ego."
"Your ego doesn't need any boosting." She blew out a breath, cleared her throat. "You're very potent. I have no doubt sex would be memorable— Don't smile at me that way."
"Sorry." But the smile didn't dim. "It must have been your choice of words. Memorable's good. I like it. Why don't we save time here? I get your point. You want to mull the idea over, make the next move when you're ready."
She considered, then nodded slowly. "That's close enough."
"Okay. Now here's my point." He turned on the burner under the skillet and added oil. "I really want you, Regan. It hit me right off, when I walked into Ed's and you were sitting there with little Cassie, looking so pressed and polished."
She fought to ignore the flutters in her stomach. "Is that why you offered me the job on the Barlow place?"
"You're too smart to ask a question like that. This is sex. Sex is personal."
"All right." She nodded again. "All right."
He picked up a plump roma tomato, examined it. "The problem here, as I see it, is that I don't much care for mulling over things like this. No matter how you fancy it up, sex is still the animal. Smell, touch, taste."
His eyes were dark again, reckless. He picked up the knife, tested its point. "Take," he added. "But thaf s just me, and there are two of us here. So you go on ahead with your mulling."
Baffled, she stared at him as he chose a clove of garlic. "I'm trying to decide if you expect me to thank you for that."
"Nope." Expertly he laid the flat of his knife over the garlic, gave one quick pound of his fist to crush it. "You're just supposed to understand it, like I'm understanding you."
"You're a real nineties man, MacKade."
"No, I'm not. And I'm going to make you stutter again. You can count on that."
Challenged, she picked up the wine, topped off their glasses. "Well, you count on this. If and when I decide to make my move, you'll do some stuttering of your own."
He scooped the minced garlic into the oil, where it sizzled. "I like your style, darling. I really like your style."
Chapter 4
Sunny skies and a southerly breeze brought in a welcome end-of-January thaw. Icicles dripped prettily from eaves and shone with rainbows. In front yards and fallow fields, snowmen began to lose weight. Regan spent a pleasant week earmarking stock for the Barlow place and hunting up additions to her supply at auction.
When business was slow, she revised and honed her room-by-room decorating scheme for what was going to be the MacKade Inn at Antietam.
Even now, as she described the attributes of a walnut credenza to a pair of very interested buyers, her mind was on the house. Though she hadn't realized it, yet, she was as haunted by it as Rafe had been.
The front bedroom, second floor, she mused, should have the four-poster with canopy, the rosebud wallpaper and the satinwood armoire. A romantic and traditional bridal suite, complete with little bowls of potpourri and vases of fresh flowers.
And what had been the gathering room, on the main level, had that wonderful southern exposure. Of course, Rafe had to pick the right windows, but it would be spectacular in sunny colors with a trio of fi-cus trees, hanging ferns in glazed pots, and pretty little conversation groups of boldly floral love seats and wingback chairs.
It was perfect for a conservatory, a place to gaze through the glass into the woods and gardens, with forced narcissi and hyacinths brightening midwinter gloom.
She couldn't wait to get her hands on the place, add those tiny, perfect details that would make it a home again.
An inn, she reminded herself. A business. Comfortable, charming, but temporary. And it wasn't hers. With an effort, she shook her head clear and concentrated on the sale at hand.
"You can see the marquetry is high-quality," she continued, keeping her sales pitch moderate and pleasant. "The bowfront cupboards on the side are the original glass."
The woman fingered the discreet tag longingly, and Regan's sharp eye caught the hopeful glance she sent her less enthusiastic husband.
"It really is lovely. But if s just a little more than we had in mind."
"I understand. But in this condition—"
She broke off when the door opened, furious with herself for the quick leap, then the quick disappointment when it wasn't Rafe who came in. Before she could smile a welcome at Cassie, she saw the livid bruises on the side of her friend's face.
"If you'd excuse me for just a moment, I'll give you time to talk it over."
An antique bangle jingling on her wrist, sensible shoes clacking, she moved swiftly through the shop. Saying nothing, she took Cassis's arm and led her into the back room.
"Sit down. Come on." Gently, she eased Cassie into a chair at the tiny iron table. "How bad are you hurt?"
"It's nothing. I just—"
"Shut up." Grinding back the spurt of temper, Regan slammed a kettle on the hot plate. "I'm sorry. I'm going to make some tea." She needed a moment, she realized, before she could deal with this rationally. "While the water's boiling, I'll go finish up with my customers. You sit here and relax for a minute."
Shame swimming in her eyes, Cassie stared down at her hands. "Thanks."
Ten minutes later, after ruthlessly hacking the price of the credenza to move the customers along, Regan hurried back. She told herself she'd gotten the anger under control. She promised herself she would be supportive, sympathetic.
One look at Cassie, slumped in the chair while the kettle belched steam, had her exploding.
"Why in the hell do you let him do this to you? When are you going to get tired of being that sadistic bastard's punching bag? Does he have to put you in the hospital before you walk away?"
In utter defeat, Cassie folded her arms on the table, then dropped her head on them and wept.
Her own eyes stinging, Began dropped to her knees beside the chair. In the tidy little office, with its icecream-parlor chairs and neat rolltop desk, she struggled to face the reality of battering.
"Cassie, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Cass. I shouldn't be yelling at you."
"I shouldn't have come here." Lifting her head, Cassie covered her face with her hand and fought to get her breath back. "I shouldn't have come. But I just needed somebody to talk to."
"Of course you should have come here. This is exactly where you should have come. Let me see," Regan murmured, easing Cassie's hand away. The bruises ran from temple to jaw, in ugly purple. One of Cassie's lovely smoke gray eyes was swollen nearly shut.
"Oh, Cassie, what happened? Can you tell me?"
"He... Joe... he hasn't been feeling well. This flu tha
t's been going around." Cassie's voice hitched and jittered. "He missed a lot of work, being sick, and yesterday they laid him off."
Avoiding Regan's eyes, she fumbled in her bag for a tissue. "He was upset—he's worked there almost twelve years now, on and off. The bills. I just bought a new washing machine on credit, and Connor wanted these new tennis shoes. I knew they were too expensive, but—"
"Stop," Regan said quietly, and laid a hand over Cassie's. "Please stop blaming yourself. I can't bear it when you do."
"I know I'm making excuses." With a long, shuddering breath, Cassie shut her eyes. To Regan, at least, she could be honest. Because Regan, in the three years they had known each other, had always been there. "He hasn't had the flu. He's been drunk almost day and night for a week. They didn't lay him off, they fired him because he went to work drunk and mouthed off to his supervisor."
"And then he came home and took it out on you." Rising, Regan took the kettle off the boil and began to make the tea. "Where are the kids?"
"At my mother's. I went there last night, after. He hurt me pretty bad this time."
Unconsciously she touched her hand to her throat. Beneath the turtleneck there were more bruises, where Joe's hands had held and choked her until she accepted that he would kill her. Almost wished for it.
"I got the kids out, and I went to Mama, because I needed some place to stay."
"Okay, that's good." Ready to move step-by-step now, Regan brought two china cups to the table. "That's the best way to start."
"No." Very carefully, Cassie wrapped both hands around her cup. "She expects me to go back today. She won't let us stay another night."
"After you told her, after she saw you, what he'd done, she expects you to go back?"
"A woman belongs with her husband," Cassie said simply. "I married him for better or for worse."
Regan had never understood her own mother, the easy subservience, the catering. But, while it had infuriated her often, it had never appalled her like this.
"That's monstrous, Cassie."
"It's just Mama," Cassie murmured, wincing as the tea stung her puffy lip. "She believes a woman should make a marriage work. It's her duty to make it work."
