“You would—being male,” she said teasingly.
His tone changed from casual to gruff and gravelly. “And a male you can kick out any time, Laura. If I’ve misunderstood how you feel…”
His comment seemed to linger in the air. Laura lifted the clean pan out of the sudsy water and rinsed it. Her counters needed wiping; there was a fingerprint on a cupboard, then the stove… She was suddenly very busy. Only a few moments later, there was nothing left to do.
She slipped her hands into the pockets of her sundress and turned to face him. “No. You haven’t misunderstood anything,” she said softly. “But I can’t promise you anything either, Owen. Maybe I am afraid…of a physical relationship.” She took a breath. “I also know it isn’t fair to ask you to wait while I sort out that part of my life.”
“Fair?” he chided. He took two steps forward, close enough to brush her cheek tenderly with his hand. “It takes two to be fair, Laura. You’ve been hurt…and I’ve been pushing you faster than you wanted to go. We’ll wait until you’re ready.”
“And if that’s never?”
He smiled. “Never’s a silly word, sweet.”
She looked at him searchingly. The man said he loved her, and if the look in his eyes was anything to go by, he meant it. He also had all but said he was willing to settle for a platonic relationship for now…but she knew better.
Owen was a virile man, a sensual man, and he wanted her. She wanted him just as much, but expressing that desire—she wasn’t sure if she could, when it meant the risk of failing him as a woman. For now, it wasn’t a problem. For now, she had those convenient stitches she kept teasing him with.
But those would heal. And if she’d learned nothing else from her marriage with Peter, she’d learned that two people have to give and need and want in the same way. Laura couldn’t take love and caring from Owen without offering them equally in return.
Chapter 7
Laura opened the refrigerator and glared at the treasure trove of chocolates. Jaws clamped together, she closed the refrigerator and stalked back to her dining room-cum-office.
Mari was six weeks old today; Laura’s stomach was finally flat again, and there was no way she was going to blow it by bingeing on chocolates. If alcoholics and chain smokers could kick their habits, so could she.
She muttered one brisk “Damn Owen,” and collapsed in the chair behind her desk. Work was stacked everywhere, ready to distract her. A Queen Anne tiger-maple spice box needed shipping. She was in the middle of a search for a presidential portrait clock with an Aaron Willard label. There was a letter by the phone promising her a sizable commission if she could find a set of dram cups for a collector of antique sterling wine tasters. She started shuffling paper.
A half hour later, she bolted from the chair, stalked to the refrigerator, removed an infinitely small, sweet cherry coated with white chocolate and defiantly popped it into her mouth.
The taste was enough to make her lean weakly against the wall in delirious pleasure. Lord, it was good. Owen made wonderful chocolates.
Owen was also the reason her desk was piled too high with more work than she could possibly handle. Laura listened at the stairs for Mari’s wake-up-from-nap cry, heard nothing and determinedly returned to work. Picking up the phone, she flicked an imaginary piece of lint from her pink cotton skirt and forced herself to concentrate on business.
Or tried to concentrate on business. The taste of chocolate lingered on her tongue. After three weeks of watching them accumulate on her shelf, surely she deserved one fall off the chocoholic wagon? It wasn’t as if she really believed there was a natural aphrodisiac in Owen’s candy.
And even if there were, depriving herself had successfully made her feel like a martyr…but hadn’t helped her in the least with getting Owen off her mind.
It was his fault. For two weeks, he’d just been around, like the teasing presence of something she couldn’t have, like a craving for something she knew was dangerous.
Take Saturday, for instance. She’d patiently explained to him why they couldn’t take Mari to a movie—filmgoers didn’t appreciate disturbing influences like screaming infants. Only Mari hadn’t disturbed anyone. She’d gurgled contentedly from Owen’s lap in the darkness and appeared enthralled by the love scenes. Laura had also been enthralled by the love scenes. Owen had munched on popcorn.
And then on Wednesday, she’d voted for McDonald’s, and had been outvoted in favor of a restaurant with candles and damask tablecloths and wine and the most delectable prime rib… Owen should have known better. Mari never stayed good that long at mealtime. Only Mari had been an angel, perched on her infant seat next to the table, and Owen had looked delectable in his charcoal suit, with his sleepy gray eyes and husky voice.
And there were other times. He was always showing up for breakfast. Twice he’d shown up after a long day in New York only to fall asleep on her couch.
His scotch had found its way into her cupboard.
He’d gone with her to buy a new car and acted like a husband, all picky and difficult about details and price and color. He wanted her to buy a high-powered van that cost a fortune. Instead, she’d bought a used Volvo.
On Tuesday, she’d taken Mari to Paige’s. Owen had been waiting as if the prospect of a grocery-store trip delighted him. Never again. Shopping had taken her twice as long as it should have; he was a terrible impulse buyer.
He’d taken up chess. In a sense. He’d bought a chess set and brought it to the house and expected her to teach him how to play. Then beat her, the skunk.
When he was beat from a tough day, occasionally he brought home a domineering attitude. Once reasoning failed, she tried spilling a glass of lemonade on his pants. Any sane man would have walked out the door right then and there, but Owen had burst out laughing and the evening had ended with a serious talk about men who took charge too often…and about men who were trying to learn tolerance and patience.
And Mari. Mari had smiled, her first one that Laura was absolutely positive wasn’t gas. Owen was there.
Owen had been there almost every day for two weeks. He hadn’t always been on his best behavior, but he never played games. Trust was building, whether Laura wanted it to or not. Trust, caring, affection, laughter, love…and he’d sidestepped every possible chance to touch her. He was clearly leaving that completely up to her.
Work, she reminded herself, picking up the list of estates that might have wine tasters for sale, and frowned. She was supposed to be concentrating on presidential clocks.
“Exactly where I was afraid I’d find you.”
Laura’s head jerked up in surprise and pleasure. Damn the man. She was increasingly aware that even the look of him was enough to turn her on, and neither overwork nor chocolates helped.
His pin-striped suit wasn’t her favorite; it made him look formidable and austere when she knew he was gentle and humorous. Regardless, the suit fit his whipcord-lean frame perfectly; he was standing with that knee-forward masculine stance she was beginning to find so familiar…and only belatedly did she note the steadfast glare in his charcoal eyes.
“I forgot something?” she guessed guiltily.
“The doctor. I told you I’d be back to watch Mari while you went to the doctor.” He added, “This is the second appointment you’ve tried to wiggle out of this week.”
“The doctor,” she echoed glumly. “I completely—”
“Forgot.” Owen moved forward swiftly, stealing the paper from her one hand, the ballpoint pen from the other. “That was your excuse two days ago when you canceled. Not this time, Laura.”
His eyes swept lazily over her pale pink ribboned top, her untidy knot of light brown hair, her slim, bare legs. She flushed, for no reason. For two weeks, his hands had behaved themselves. His eyes just didn’t always.
Laura was well aware of what was going on. Owen was waiting for her to cross mountains she just couldn’t cross.
But she wanted to. Increasingly, she despe
rately wanted to. “Owen, I can’t…” She hesitated. “Go to the doctor, I mean. Mari’s still napping, and if I leave now she’ll wake up and be hungry—”
“So you’d better be on your way in a hurry,” Owen interrupted calmly.
“I’m not dressed for the doctor.”
“You don’t dress for the doctor. You undress for him.”
“Her,” she corrected absently. “My obstetrician is a her. And anyway, I’m perfectly healthy. The whole thing is nonsense. I have a thousand things to do; I’ve seen enough doctors in the last few months to support the AMA.”
“Primarily for Mari. Now it’s your turn. And tell the doc about the long hours you’ve been putting in lately.” He disappeared and returned seconds later with her sandals dangling from one finger.
Laura paused. “You know,” she said conversationally, “I thought we’d worked this bossy streak out of you in the last few weeks.”
Owen chuckled, but the glance he sent Laura was thoughtful. Sun flickered on the delicate slant of her cheekbones, highlighting the translucent quality of her skin. She was so beautiful…and so darned close to worrying herself ill. Over something she shouldn’t be worried about at all. “I’d rather you took my car than the rattletrap you bought,” he offered, and firmly, gently reached out to steal her hand.
“Owen…” He seemed to be dragging her toward the door. And the feel of his firm, strong fingers over hers was the touch of diamonds, producing brilliant, crystal-like sensations that made her pulse leap.
“Don’t worry about Mari. Out you go, now.” He opened the door and playfully patted her through it.
On the other side of the screen, Laura perched with her hands on her hips, shoes still dangling from her fingers. “Could I at least have my purse?” she asked dryly.
“Yes.” He shook a finger at her. “I’ll get it. Don’t come back inside.”
She had her shoes on by the time he slipped her purse through a narrow opening in the screen. Laughing, Laura grabbed it. “I hope Mari’s terrible for you. I hope she gives you fits. I hope she wears you out. I hope—”
Owen waved her off, then stood there, his smile fading. He badly needed to know what the doctor had to say. After spending every spare moment with her over the past few weeks, he felt love growing inside him like an insatiable wonder. And Laura, the way she brightened when he walked in, her laughter, her teasing…he knew what she felt. If not as deep as his own, he was nevertheless increasingly certain that she felt love for him, too.
And lately she was finding excuses to touch him. The slight adjustment of a tie that didn’t need straightening. Her hand slipped through his when they walked. The brush of fingers on his shoulders, the starkness of wanting in her eyes the night they’d watched the stars…it was all there. The chemistry of desire.
Owen had waited, and was prepared to wait a great deal longer for her to initiate a change in their relationship, but he was increasingly aware that she wasn’t going to. He guessed that she had built up a fear that was way out of proportion. She was overworking, taking on extra projects when she’d originally planned to accept only a few commitments this soon after the baby. And she was worrying, not sleeping nights. She’d be eating dinner, then look up at him, then start talking a mile a minute and pick at her food.
Perhaps she didn’t feel the desire as strongly as he did. Perhaps he just wanted her to.
He did know that they couldn’t go on like this much longer. Laura was hurting more, not less.
“Owen? Mari?” Laura rushed through the door with an expectant smile. A light was on in her living room, but there was no sign of life. Mari’s diaper bag was gone from its usual spot near the door.
She found a note propped against her lighthouse clock, and shook her head with a wry grin. The bold scrawl stated simply that Mari had been in no mood to wait peacefully for her mother. Owen had drawn a small map at the bottom of the page.
Owen’s place? Obviously, it had to be. For weeks, she’d wondered what his home looked like, but a small crease dented her brow as she hurried back to her car. By now, Mari was undoubtedly roaring-hungry and giving Owen fits.
He didn’t live far away, but it took her a long time and a little backtracking to find the winding country road hidden in a narrow hollow between wooded hills. A quarter-mile of shade, then a blast of late afternoon sun, and she stepped out of her car, ready to rush pell-mell into the house. Then she paused for a moment, bemused.
Somehow, she’d expected Owen to have an ultramodern place. She couldn’t have been more wrong. It was a rumbling Norman-style house with a turreted stucco, wood and brick exterior. The circular driveway led to an imposing entrance, and the well-landscaped grounds were softened by spreading yews and flowering rhododendron. To one side, she could see a wrought-iron balcony overlooking a long slope of lawn that descended into a steep wood.
“Like it?”
“Love it!” Laura pivoted on her heel. Owen was standing in the doorway with a hungry, wailing Mari in his arms. His suit coat and tie were gone, his shirtsleeves rolled up. One did have the impression that a twelve-pound package of trouble had put one controlled, competent businessman through the mill. She rushed forward guiltily. “Darn it, I’m sorry, Owen. I didn’t mean to be so long—”
“No problem.”
“She’s given you a terrible time?” Mari, instead of calming down for her mother, let out an even more pitiful yell when Laura cradled her.
“Relax. She’s been fine until about ten minutes ago, when she decided she wanted dinner and no more excuses.”
“Only ten minutes ago? But I thought that was why you left my place, because she was so restless…?” Laura turned to give him a quizzical look, but the baby was making it very clear she was violently unhappy. Laura hugged her lovingly. Such a temper! She had only a moment’s glimpse of the slate floor in the entranceway, before Owen led her down three steps to a sunken living room.
“I’ll bring something to drink,” Owen said from behind them, and left the room.
Unnerved by Mari’s increasingly piercing cries, Laura plopped into the nearest seat—an oversized gold sofa—and hurriedly unbuttoned her blouse. The baby stopped wailing the instant she discovered dinner. “I wasn’t even a half hour late,” Laura scolded softly, her finger stroking her daughter’s cheek. “You’d think I’d deserted you for life.”
Her eyes scanned the room curiously, from its huge stone fireplace and French doors to the luxurious Oriental rug. The moldings and floor were oak; his colors a muted gold and very dark blue. Two thick, overstuffed couches; Cezanne prints; a scrolled bar…it was a man’s room, rich in color and comforts, a distinctly restful haven.
“Here we go…”
“Oh…” Laura flushed, aware she hadn’t taken the time to search out a baby blanket—or anything else—to cover herself with. Owen’s eyes were on hers, though, not below, and he extended a wineglass to her.
“So…what did the doctor say?”
She took a small sip of wine, then set down the glass. “I love the room, and the outside, Owen. How long have you had the house?”
Owen lowered himself on the matching couch opposite her, stretching out his legs, a dry smile on his lips. So they weren’t going to discuss her visit to the doctor. “I bought the house three years ago—you hungry?”
She shook her head. “I’ve got meat defrosting on the counter at home.”
“No, you haven’t. I put it back in the refrigerator for you. Thought you might like to celebrate tonight.”
“Celebrate?”
“It feels like that kind of night, doesn’t it?”
Her eyebrows lifted like delicate wings. “Am I missing something? Did the Cubs win a game by some miracle? Has peace been declared in the Middle East? Has a bumper crop of cocoa beans just been announced?”
He chuckled and toasted her with his glass. “I thought we’d celebrate…platonic relationships.” Lazily, he stood up and bent over Mari, his hair so close Laura cou
ld touch it, his clean-shaven cheek so near she could catch a vague whiff of his shaving cream. “Isn’t she beautiful?” he commented.
Laura refrained from plastering her hand over her bare breast, but the pulse in her throat suddenly went haywire. “Particularly when she’s quiet?”
Coal-dark eyes shifted up to hers. “Whether she’s quiet, or furious, or determined to get her own way…she’s still beautiful.”
She assured herself he was talking about Mari. If Owen would just stop looking at her… “Could I take a quick tour of the house?”
He paused to consider, as if this were the toughest decision he’d had to make in years. “No fair opening closets—the cleaning lady doesn’t do closets.”
She chuckled, feeling at ease when his eyes returned to neutral territory.
“And there’s one door upstairs that’s closed—I’d like to show you that room another time.”
She lifted Mari to her shoulder, turning away to button her blouse. “You can’t throw out a teaser like that and expect me not to be curious.”
“I’ll take the baby. You go poke around and be nosy—but I guarantee I’ll know if you put one fingertip on that closed door upstairs.”
With her hands stuffed in her pockets, she poked around and was nosy. Downstairs, he had a wonderful country kitchen with oak cabinets and a skylight. Beyond was a dining room, then a wonderfully bright solarium, and a long den with a computer at one end and a billiard table at the other, the balls all set up for a break. So he liked a game of pool, did he?
She wandered upstairs, poked her head into a spare bedroom, a bath, another bedroom, and out of nowhere craved a chocolate. She needed one. I thought we’d celebrate…platonic relationships.
Sands were shifting beneath her. For two weeks, she’d been safe, and suddenly she knew she wasn’t.
She paused at the doorway to a third bedroom. Covers had been laid back on the twin bed, and turned-around chairs made a makeshift crib for Mari. The baby’s diaper bag spilled over with a dozen sleepers, and a huge box of disposable diapers stood in one corner. Owen had packed as if preparing the baby for a long trip, not a few hours’ visit.
Sweets to the Sweet Page 9
