by Amy Summers
"I hate change," she said, her voice choked and wavering.
He wanted to turn on her, yell, tell her to grow up. Instead he cleared his throat and said gruffly, "All things must change or die, Trish. You know that." Shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers, he stared out toward where the water lapped against the shore and cursed himself for not taking her in his arms. Did her sorrow embarrass him? He wasn't sure. But he knew it disturbed him, and he knew he wasn't good at dealing with this sort of emotionalism.
Trish had turned and was looking at him with a frown. "'Change or die'?" she echoed scornfully. "Isn't that just a bit melodramatic?"
Swinging back to face her glare, he shook his head. "Not at all. Life is growth. Growth is change. Change is inevitable."
"So is smog. That doesn't mean I have to like it."
"Who said you have to like it? But you do have to accept it."
"No." Her eyes glittered with challenge now. "I don't have to do any such thing. I'm... I'm going to write to the paper, get a picket line together, sue the contractor!"
"Hire yourself a skywriter," he continued for her just a bit mockingly. "March on Washington, bomb the building. That ought to do the blue herons a lot of good."
Her eyes wavered and her anger deflated. "I guess it's a little late, isn't it?"
"I think so."
She bit her lip. At least her eyes were no longer rimmed with tears. Chris felt rather pleased with himself. Maybe he knew more about comforting than he'd thought. Get her angry. Make her laugh. That was the answer.
"I still hate change," she muttered stubbornly, glaring at the construction as though just her energy could blast it away.
"Change is what we're stuck with," he said in return. "Just look at us. Our relationship has done nothing but change from the first time we met."
She sighed. "And you like that?"
"I didn't say I liked it. It's just the way it is. Look at how you distrusted me at first. Then you hated me."
"I did not!"
He shrugged. "You did a good imitation. Then..." He touched her chin with one finger and gave her a slow smile. "Then you kind of liked me—that afternoon at the pool."
She flushed, remembering. "That... that was a mistake."
He grinned, his fingers fanning out to caress her cheek as she looked up at him. "Right. A mistake." His gaze settled on her lips, then moved lazily back to meet her green eyes. "Then today you set it up so I would have to kiss you."
Her eyes widened in horror. "I did no such thing!"
He shrugged, moving closer, enjoying the way the breeze ruffled her hair, the way her fresh scent filled his senses. "It wasn't me who spread that story about us being engaged," he said softly. "You got your kiss, Trish. Was it all that you expected? Or were you disappointed?"
The background was fading away and all her awareness was centered on him. "I...no, it was just... fine."
"Fine? Only fine?" He touched her feather-soft hair, letting it tickle his fingertips, then curled his hand around her ear. "I think we should kiss again, just to find out if that's changed."
His touch was turning her knees to water. She shook her head. "No," she said hoarsely. "I... I don't think we should."
He raised one eyebrow in question. "Why not?"
She licked her lips and tried to force herself to pull away. But she couldn't. It was as though he had her in a spell. "You kiss funny," she said in desperation.
His head jerked back and he stared at her, his hand still in her hair. "What?"
That had been a stupid thing to say. She wasn't sure how she was going to get out of this one. Nothing came to mind and she merely stared back at him, appalled at her own tactlessness.
"You don't like the way I kiss?" he was asking her, actually looking offended. It was obvious no woman had ever said such a thing to him before.
"I didn't say I didn't like it." She searched her mind but couldn't think of a thing to add.
"But you said I kiss funny."
"I meant...it made me feel funny." No, this was worse. She should learn to say nothing if she had nothing intelligent to say.
At least the laughter was back in his gaze. And his fingers spread against the side of her head, making her want to nestle her face in the palm of his hand. "Trish, darling," he said with soft humor, bending near. "If this is the first time a kiss has made you feel—quote—funny—unquote—I think we may have made a breakthrough here."
He was going to kiss her again. Trish's heartbeat was quickening. She knew what this was. She had no illusions. He was a playboy. He kissed women as casually as she poured herself a glass of milk every evening. It meant nothing at all. But she didn't care. She swayed toward him and his arms came around her.
The intensity of her response took her breath away. His large, powerful body held hers in an embrace that gave her a feeling of protection she'd never had before. And at the same time his hands trailed across her skin, tantalizing, setting her senses ablaze with longing.
Her head fell back and his mouth closed on hers, hot and exciting. All reality fell away. Nothing mattered but the places where his body touched hers, and his mouth mattered most of all. His heat poured into her—golden, sundrenched, making her gasp with wonder. The magic was still there. She'd never known a man's kiss to be so awesome.
Images swirled in her head, images of crashing waves and Suzi storm clouds, of suntan lotion being rubbed on satin skin, of sun-baked bodies entangled in the sand. Her muscles seemed to melt away, leaving only his arms to support her. She felt as though she could stay here forever, locked in his care, caught in the whirlpool of his sensuality.
When they finally drew apart she felt like a swimmer coming up for air, her lungs about to burst. They stood very close for the next few moments, both breathing hard, gazes caught in mutual wonder.
"How do you do that?" he asked her softly.
She stared, not sure if he were teasing her, or what he meant if he were serious. He couldn't possibly have been swept up in the magic the way she had been. Could he?
"Do what?" she asked breathlessly.
But he only shook his head, his hands caressing her shoulders. "Did you feel 'funny' this time?" he asked softly.
She dropped her gaze in embarrassment. "That's none of your business."
His hands moved to hold her face as though it were a precious work of art, making her look back up, and his gaze deepened. "I want to make you feel 'funny,' Trish," he murmured, his face coming near hers again. "I want..."
A sudden wave of panic swept through her and she pulled away, avoiding his gaze.
"We'd better get back," she said quickly. She stared at him, putting her fingers on her face where his hand had been. He was much too much for her, and she knew it. She turned and took one last look at the monstrosity that had been plunked down on top of her childhood memories. "Come on."
He watched her start back through the cave, thinking how very good she had felt in his arms, thinking he wanted her there again—soon. But why had it been this way? Why hadn't he been able to take her in his arms for simple comfort—why had he needed to turn it into romance and sex in order to open up to her that much? He'd never realized before that he had this inability to deal with sadness and loss on a human scale—that he needed to turn it into a man-woman thing in order to handle it. He was going to have to think this through. When had he lost the capacity to reach out to another human on a normal level?
But her kiss had been worth waiting for. Even though coming here with her had shattered all his good intentions, it had been worth it. This was one woman he didn't want to let out of his sight for long.
They walked back without the happy anticipation they'd come with. But the mood between them was warm, warm and close. They talked softly on their trek, teased one another, laughed. It seemed natural for Chris to put his arm around her shoulders as they reached the start of the boardwalk. Trish smiled when he did it.
People were beginning to flock down to the m
arina from the clubhouse. It was almost time for the yachts to begin coming in. But they hardly noticed, still involved in their conversation, until Suzi came toward them, marching smartly across the boardwalk.
"Where have you been?" she demanded when she was in hearing range. "You've been gone forever."
"We went to the cove," Trish began, ready to launch into her outrage about the development going on there. But Suzi didn't give her a chance. Frowning down at their sandy bare feet, she shook her head.
"Well, Trish, you've done your job perfectly well, but Mom and Dad were playing off a different script. Things are going from bad to worse. They had a tremendous fight and now everyone is choosing sides. It's awful. You've got to come back in and help me pick up the pieces."
Trish felt sick. She'd been so sure all they needed was a chance to be together and everything would be all right again. Was it hopeless? No, never that. She glanced at Chris and suddenly realized he was looking at her with growing suspicion in his eyes.
"Job?" he muttered. "What does she mean by that?"
Oh, Lord. Trish looked from Chris to her sister and back again. Oh, Lord, don't let Suzi say anything that will...
"Thanks for cooperating, Chris," Suzi was saying firmly, ignoring the warning flashed from Trish's eyes. "Trish volunteered to keep you out of the way for a while so that we could try to give our parents a chance to get back together again. It didn't work." She shrugged. "That's the way it goes. Maybe next time." Turning, she strode on back toward the clubhouse, leaving them behind.
Trish felt a headache beginning right where happiness had been throbbing only moments before. How could everything seem so right one moment, so wrong the next?
Chris was staring at her as though he could hardly believe what he'd just heard. "I see," he said coldly. "So the whole thing was a setup from the start." His gaze was savagely cynical. "Everything, including the kiss. Is that it?"
She put a hand to her head and sighed. She could deny it...make excuses, find rationalizations. She could shout back at him. But what good would that do? Her parents were still apart. She'd been out kissing this playboy while her parents' lives were being shattered even further. She turned toward him, exasperated.
"Oh, come on, Chris," she snapped. "Cut the outrage. You're the playboy. Surely you can take it."
He stared at her, anger building. He knew about using people. He'd been guilty of that particular sin a time or two in the past. But the thought that she had been using him, that she had lured him out to the marina, not because she wanted to be with him, but because she wanted to keep him out of the way, was infuriating. And even more infuriating was the realization that he had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. He'd actually been convincing himself that she was special, not like other women. And all the time she'd only been hiding her contempt for him.
"It's always the innocent-looking ones who turn out to have the hidden agenda," he said, sounding flippant but barely hiding his bitterness. "When were you going to let me know I was just a pawn in your game?"
He turned away before she had a chance to answer. After all he had his own agenda, one he'd been ignoring for too long. "Never mind, Trish," he called back as he left her. "I've got work to do. It's been fun. See you around some time."
She watched him go and wondered why it hurt to see him angry. She should have told him she was sorry—but right now her emotions were in such turmoil she wasn't sure what she was thinking or feeling.
He'd said some things to her that she was saving to ponder later when she was alone. And at the same time, she knew it was no use to think of them. You couldn't take anything that he said seriously. He'd said it all before so many times. Of course, he was just a playboy, exciting and fun, but not built for the long haul.
“Let him go,” she told herself.
That was over. It was time to get back to the real problem—her parents and their deteriorating marriage. Turning she saw her mother coming down the ramp, arm in arm with Bert, and she sighed.
Good old Bert. Maybe he could get the two of them back together after all. He was her father's best friend. And her mother's too, when it came right down to it. She had to get herself to a powder room in the club, wash her face, freshen her makeup, and get down to business. There was plenty of work to be done.
There were shouts as the yachts began to come in, but Trish hardly heard them. As the crowd poured down the walkways and ramp toward the marina, she was walking the opposite way, her thoughts as heavy as her footsteps.
Chapter 9
Four months later.
“I swear, Trish, that man at the table by the window keeps staring at you. If you're not interested, I just might start flirting with him myself."
Trish kept her attention on the salad on the plate before her. She knew who it was in the window seat. She'd seen him when she and her friend Carla had walked into the crowded restaurant, and she'd almost tugged on Carla's arm and suggested they find another place to eat. But in the end, she'd decided not to do that. She couldn't let him see that he still affected her in any way. Not after all this time.
It had been over four months since that day at the Regatta, when she'd taken him to her secret cove and lost her head over his magic kisses. She'd managed to avoid him ever since, even though he was working for her mother and Bert in some new business they were starting up, a venture she didn't like to think about or hear about.
Her parents were still separated—another subject she preferred to ignore. At first she had worked so hard, finding excuses to throw the two of them together, trying to talk to them separately, then in a conference between the three of them that quickly became a shouting match with Trish as the helpless referee. That was when she had realized that a reconciliation was going to have to come from them. The more she pushed, the more they resisted.
So she gave up on the matchmaking and was letting things run their course, hoping against hope that they would come to their senses on their own. It was beginning to look like a very long wait was ahead.
"I wish you would turn around and just look at him once," Carla was saying, peeking across the room through a curtain of ash blond hair that swept across her forehead and fell to her shoulders. "He's so handsome. And he's got that sexy gleam in his eye. You know what I mean?"
Did she ever. She didn't have to turn around to see it. That gleam had haunted her dreams for months now.
"Ignore him," she advised, spearing a long piece of jicama with her fork. "He'll get tired of staring soon enough."
Carla apparently couldn't fathom this casual disregard for the attentions of an attractive man. "Trish, really. I'll bet he knows you or something. Just turn around and take one quick look."
It was obvious Carla wasn't going to give up until Trish had acknowledged Chris's presence. She turned slowly, met Chris's dark gaze, and nodded. He raised his wineglass. She half smiled and turned back again.
"Oh, wow, you do know him, don't you? Who is he? What's his name?"
Trish could foresee a long, awkward session of questions and answers if she didn't nip this in the bud. "Carla, I'd rather not talk about him."
"But why not?"
Trish hesitated, then plunged in. What the heck. Carla was a sweetheart, but in this case, she was asking for it.
"We were engaged once," she said softly. Well, it was almost true. "It…..it was very brief." Hardly more than an hour or so, in fact. "We were torn apart by circumstances." His pigheadedness—my carelessness. "One thing led to another." He stuck out his pride and I trampled on it. "And suddenly, it was over."
Carla's eyes were full of pity. "Oh, you poor baby. He's so...so..."
Yes, he was, but he was also the sort of playboy a serious woman didn't need in her life. "I really don't want to talk about it, Carla."
Her friend nodded sympathetically. "I know. It hurts too much, doesn't it?" She reached out and took Trish's hand and suddenly the light of inspiration filled her blue eyes. "Maybe I could help you. I could be a go- bet
ween. I could talk to him…"
Trish had to work hard to keep from groaning aloud. "Carla, please. It's over, and that's the way I want it. Please, let's drop the subject."
It only occurred to her for a split second or two that she was echoing the exact words her mother used every time Trish tried to bring up ways for her to reconcile with her husband. But she dismissed those similarities out of hand. This was completely different, of course.
The fact was, just being in the same room with Chris was affecting her ability to think clearly. More than once she found herself staring at Carla without the slightest idea what her friend had been saying. Her attention had been hijacked by a man in a window seat, a man she never wanted to see again.
"Well, I really do need to get back to the store," she said suddenly. "We're getting in a shipment of stickers today, and if I'm not there to supervise, Wendy will take two cases of everything. She can't resist stickers."
She gathered together her purse and parcels and stood, barely noticing Carla's startled expression, because her whole being was focused on the moment she would turn and meet Chris's eyes again.
She turned. She looked. And what met her gaze was an empty chair and a busboy clearing away the remains of a mushroom omelet, some sourdough rolls and a glass of wine.
She'd been dreading the moment she would have to walk by him, and now that it had come, he was gone, and a feeling of such loss, such devastation swept over her, she had to sit back down in her chair until it passed.
She quickly rationalized the feelings away and shoved thoughts of Chris to the back of her mind. She was too busy to think about him anyway. Business was booming in her shop and she was implementing a new art section, hiring student artists to come in and personalize items she sold in her store on a custom basis. The reaction had been enthusiastic and she was caught up in plans, so there was little time to think of things that might have been.
“Didn’t you want to go?” Carla pointed out, completely bewildered by Trish’s actions.
