The Daddy Decision

by Donna Sterling

  Cort raised an affable gaze to Laura and Steffie, then held up his hand in a welcoming gesture, indicating his willingness to be sat upon by either of them.

  “Go ahead and sit down, Laura,” Steffie urged as she squeezed by her to answer a question Rory was asking about the computer.

  Laura swallowed against a suddenly dry throat Surely there had to be another chair? Or a stool. Or even a crate.

  But she found nothing in the cluttered little office that she could possibly sit on. Not even floor space. “Maybe we should wait for Fletcher,” she suggested. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon. He wouldn’t want to miss the show.”

  “He can watch it later,” B.J. replied in her gruff, decisive voice. “We made copies of the CD for everyone. Besides, most of the photos were taken before he moved in.”

  Laura reluctantly digested this information, thought about the prospect of actually sitting on Cort Dimitri’s lap and considered claiming that she preferred to stand. It had been a long flight. Her legs were somewhat cramped from sitting.

  But if she were to say so, others might take her refusal to sit on his lap as a sign that she was holding a grudge against him. Or, worse yet, that she was afraid to sit on his lap. Afraid of the prolonged, undeniably intimate contact.

  Cort’s gaze lingered on her face. Beyond his pleasant nonchalance glimmered a disturbing awareness. He knew of her reluctance to sit on his lap. His gaze penetrated hers, as if searching for the reason.

  “Here,” he said, rising slowly without breaking eye contact. “Take the chair. I’d just as soon—”

  “No, no, don’t be silly!” Mortified for causing the awkwardness she’d sworn to avoid, Laura caught his shoulders before he’d fully risen and pressed him back down, her smile desperately friendly. “There’s no need for you to stand, Cort.” She hastily withdrew her hands from his wide, solid shoulders, conscious of the thrill coursing up her arms from the brawny hardness of him. Heat lingered in her face, and she was aware that the others had cast casual glances their way. “I don’t mind sitting on your lap,” Laura assured him. At a sudden thought, she added, “Oh! Unless you would mind. Or if Steffie would rather sit here.”

  “No, no, I’ll clear off a space at my desk and perch there,” Steffie announced, appearing beside her. “Park yourself, girlfriend.” Grabbing Laura by the arms, she pushed her down, down, down onto Cort’s warm, hard lap. “You don’t mind,” Stef asked him. “Do you, Cort?”

  “Not at all.”

  The polite utterance rushed against Laura’s jaw with the fragrance of fine brandy. His suddenly overwhelming nearness sent frissons of sensation racing across her skin, beneath her sweater, front and back. But most distracting was the heat radiating through her from the contact with his sinewy thighs.

  Forcing herself to breathe evenly, she directed her gaze toward the television screen and concentrated fiercely on controlling her heart rate.

  Nonchalance. She had to strive for friendly nonchalance.

  But seated as she was—diagonally across his lap—she couldn’t help but see his dark, rugged face only inches from hers. He seemed to be studying her.

  His gaze slowly swept over her hair. Her face. Her mouth.

  Irrational heat shimmered through her, and she nearly groaned. He was only looking, for God’s sake! And yet she felt his gaze, like a feather-light caress. Like a shot of potent brandy, warming her all the way through.

  The lights clicked off, cloaking them in yet a deeper feeling of intimacy. Rory’s rock music blared from the speakers and colors flashed across the screen.

  Cort-shifted his large, solid body in the chair, leaning Laura into a more comfortable position against his tautly muscled chest and shoulder.

  She resisted. She didn’t want a more comfortable position. She was already far too aware of every muscle he moved, every breath he took. Of his strong, steady heartbeat. His body heat engulfing her like a warm bath. The musky, masculine fragrance of that heat, so instrinsically familiar.

  She had to calm down! She remained rigid and tense, not allowing her back to rest against him.

  The show, she realized, had already begun. A slide show. She’d somehow missed the opening.

  A photo of the Hays Street house—the shabby, threadbare Victorian manor where they’d all lived—finally distracted her enough to engage her attention. She’d loved that house. She’d been happy there. At least, for a while.

  Next came a smiling group photo of them on the front porch. The Hays Street gang, in all their youthful splendor.

  Rory had added comments to the computerized slide show in a dramatic voice-over. “The start of a new era, my friends. The Year of the Cat.” The photo showed Mangy, the tabby stray they’d adopted as their own. The next showed Steffie in a sexy Halloween costume, dressed as a cat.

  Rory had recorded a long, suggestive “Mee-ee-ooww!”

  Everyone laughed. Cort, Laura noticed from the corner of her eye, smiled.

  Photos flashed by of their first Halloween party, when they’d decorated the place as a haunted house with so much zest that neighbors stopped in to take pictures of it. Someone had persuaded a husky, muscle-bound Hoss to dress up in a huge diaper and baby bonnet for the party. He’d regretted it and sulked in a corner.

  “Blackmail material, Coach,” Cort remarked, his voice low and wry and very close to Laura’s ear.

  Tamika let out a delighted squeal from beside them. “Wouldn’t the team get a kick out of that?”

  The next photo showed Christmastime, when Laura had badgered them all into stringing popcorn around a scraggly tree. Rory had supplied them with microwave buttered popcorn, though, which kept slipping out of their fingers.

  “Hey, you can never have enough butter, I always says,” said Rory.

  Laura smiled while the others volleyed teasing comments and shared hilarious anecdotes about every photo displayed: Tamika teaching B.J. how to dance; Rory catching on fire while grilling hamburgers; Cort smirking as he doused him with a garden hose.

  And then came a photo that made Laura’s smile wobble and her heart lurch. It was a close-up of Cort and her, entwined in an embrace on the sofa, deeply involved in a kiss His dark, large hand was splayed at the small of her back, the other entangled in her hair. Their eyes were closed and their faces flushed with passion.

  “And here we have Cort and Laura once again proving the superlative bestowed upon them by lower and upper classmen alike, ‘The Couple Most Likely To.”’ Rory paused in his droll commentary for an audible “Whew!,” as if he were shaking off a sweat. “Someone stop ′em. Where’s that garden hose when you really need it?”

  Chuckles, groans and protests rose in a chorus around her, but Laura sat in stricken silence, struggling to draw a breath past her thundering heart, which seemed to have lodged in her throat.

  The screen changed to Tamika and Hoss dressed up for a dance, Steffie caught in an old nightshirt with rollers in her hair, Rory and his band rehearsing in the unfurnished dining room.

  But Laura could no longer focus on the slide show. The sight of herself in Cort’s arms had reminded her too vividly of what had gone on between them...and of the deep, chaotic feelings he hadn’t reciprocated.

  He, too, seemed suddenly subdued. Although he’d been relaxed and uttering dry witticisms that sent the others into whoops of laughter, he’d since fallen silent, his body still, his muscles clenched.

  She didn’t dare look at him. She couldn’t bear it. How could she possibly sit through even one more photo of them together?

  “And that, my friends,” Rory announced, “brings us to the action segment of our presentation.”

  With a dramatic drumroll, the still photographs gave way to the lifelike sound and action of videotape.

  2

  CORT REALIZED IMMEDIATELY that he’d made a mistake by having Laura sit on his lap. He hadn’t actually thought she’d do it. He’d read the reluctance in her gaze and had expected her to decline. She’d taken him completel
y by surprise when she’d refused the chair he’d offered, smiled her friendliest smile, pushed him back down and insisted she didn’t mind sitting on him.

  She’d lied.

  She minded. She sat as stiff and still as an icicle, and her glance hadn’t once strayed his way. If she could have hovered above him to avoid all contact, he believed she would. Why, then, was she sitting on his lap when she obviously didn’t want to?

  More importantly, why didn’t she want to? Because she couldn’t forgive his cold, hasty goodbye? Because her illusions about him had long ago fled, and she now saw him as he really was? Or simply because the years had turned them into strangers?

  Ridiculous for him to wonder. He hadn’t expected a warm reception from her. Hadn’t really hoped for one. He could have handled a snub much easier. At least he would have understood a snub.

  This, however, made no sense at all. She was forcing herself to sit on his lap. Was this her version of an olive branch—a declaration of forgiveness? A public show of her acceptance of him? A valiant effort to please Steffie?

  Whatever her reasoning, the situation was awkward, tense and disturbing. Worse than that, actually. It was hell.

  The hell had begun the moment her firm, rounded bottom had settled snugly against his thighs. As much as she’d changed, she still fit too nicely there. Still felt too damn good.

  His blood warmed and coursed harder through his veins.

  She looked different than he remembered, yes, but not different enough to give him the mental distance he suddenly needed. Her face, though slightly thinner, was the same one he’d gazed into day after day, night after night, while he’d made love to her.

  From this close range, he could easily see that her light, golden skin was every bit as smooth as it had been years ago, when he’d been free to touch her. Free to slide his hands beneath her clothes and savor her voluptuous warmth and velvet softness.

  With a deep, silent intake of breath, he forced his attention away from her skin...and her sweater, and all the intimate territory that had once been his to explore. Territory that was now as distant and mysterious to him as the moon.

  He tried to direct his attention to the television screen, which displayed comical snapshots, but soon found himself distracted by Laura’s hair. She wore it bound at her nape with a scarf. He’d been disappointed by its darker, more subdued shade of blond when he’d first seen her. But from where he sat now, every strand shone like sunlit honey, with a silky luster that made him long to free the shining mass and thrust his fingers into its fragrant heaviness.

  He had to curl his hand into a fist to resist touching it.

  Her scent struck a familiar chord, too. Not the light, flowery fragrance she wore, but the elusive, personal aroma that somehow rose from the very essence of her. It reminded him of apple pie, hot and sweet, with just the right hint of spice and tartness to make his mouth water.

  Mmm.

  Which brought to mind the taste of her.

  A jolt of heat went through him and he forced his unseeing gaze to the television. He couldn’t think about the taste of her now—her mouth, her skin, her delectable body—not when his arousal strained behind his zipper, only inches away from her curvaceous hip. How easy it would be to wrap his hand around her outer hip and pull her firmly against him.

  He fought against a hot, red haze and finally focused on the television. He’d become spoiled, he realized. His financial success had assured him of having whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Women included. This would have to be an exception. He couldn’t have Laura. Couldn’t touch her.

  Shouldn’t even be thinking about her.

  The photos flashed by on the screen, and the joking comments of the others helped to distract him somewhat. He even managed a few dry quips of his own.

  But then came the snapshot of Laura and him caught in a deep, hungry kiss. And the desire kindled again in his loins, hot and insistent.

  God, he’d loved kissing her. Never before or since had a woman enslaved him so completely with a simple kiss. Never before or since had he wanted anyone as he’d wanted her. They’d made love every day, every night; whenever they’d found the chance. And still, he hadn’t been able to get enough of her. He’d been obsessed. He knew that now. A dangerous thing, that kind of sexual obsession.

  She didn’t know, of course, the effort it had cost him to break away from her. Or that even now, fifteen years later, random thoughts of her filtered through his mind whenever he became aroused. A damn nuisance at times.

  Not so bad at others...

  The photo of their kiss, he realized, had seemed to bother her, too. The soft smile that had been playing across her full, smooth lips had fled, and Cort sensed the tension within her coiling even tighter.

  He remembered surefire ways to ease that tension. Of course, he’d have to wind it much tighter before he’d allow her any release.

  He could start right here, at her tender nape, beneath the tie of her scarf, where wispy tendrils danced with his every breath. He would press his mouth there—swirl his tongue just beneath her hairline, then around to her ear, until a groan caught in her throat...and her back arched... and her hips moved against him....

  Thankfully, Rory’s announcement interrupted the heated flow of Cort’s imagination. He couldn’t take much more.

  Rory had said something about the action segment of their production. Before Cort could entirely divorce himself from the seductive images in his head, a very different set of images moved and laughed on the screen.

  Video. Lifelike action, color and sound. Snatches of life in the Hays Street house—rollicking parties, sleepy Sunday mornings and surprise attacks on the unsuspecting, catching each of them in embarrassingly candid situations and conversations.

  Interspersed throughout this “slice of life” were shots of Laura and him. Kissing, usually. Or running their hands over each other in long, scintillating paths. Gazing with passionate absorption into each other’s eyes. Slow-dancing at a party in some private corner, moving together in blatantly sexual synchrony.

  A muffled sound rose from Laura’s throat, and she shifted forward to rise from his lap.

  Cort acted without thinking. He caught her to stop her from leaving. He sensed her distress, and wanted to comfort. To soothe. To hold.

  He gripped her hip and thigh, and anchored her to his lap.

  Her gaze swung to his, her eyes wide with surprise. And reproach. And something he couldn’t quite read. They glimmered the color of sweet, hot cocoa—the exact shade he remembered from the first time he’d undressed her. Color blazed in her skin, matching the warmth that simmered in his.

  His attention dipped to her mouth. Her delectable mouth . . .

  “Let me go,” she said in a tremulous whisper.

  He did. Immediately.

  LAURA HEADED BLINDLY toward the back of the house, barely noting the rooms through which she passed, needing to find a place where she could be alone. She veered through the first escape hatch she saw—sliding glass doors that led to an outside deck. Heedless of the cold and the tiny snowflakes drifting around her, she leaned against the side railing and stared up at the murky night sky.

  She needed a few moments alone to collect herself. A few moments would do it, she was sure. She breathed in deeply of the frosty mountain air, letting it cool her. It would take a good deal of cooling to bring her temperature into line. She felt flushed with heat. From embarrassment, mostly. And anger.

  Yes, embarrassment and anger.

  She’d wanted to leave the room immediately when the video segment had begun. But for some unfathomable reason, she couldn’t tear her eyes from the screen. A form of self-punishment, she supposed.

  How humiliating it had been to see herself so obviously infatuated, so wretchedly besotted, with a man who hadn’t really cared in the least about her. He’d simply taken what she’d been so happy to give. He probably could have made love to her right then and there, in front of their whole group of p
als—with the camera rolling—and she wouldn’t have noticed anyone but him.

  What a damn fool she’d been.

  The humiliation of watching herself with Cort on the screen had been bad enough, but when the pressure in her chest had grown too great and she’d attempted to leave, he’d had the unmitigated gall to stop her. The very idea filled her with rage.

  What made him think he had the right to touch her in any way, let alone to detain her against her will? Why in heaven’s name had he wanted to? To prove that he could? To show that he still had the power to melt away her common sense?

  Never had she been more enraged at a person in her life. Not even when he’d said those hateful things before he’d left her. She hadn’t been angry at all back then. Only hurt. Grievously hurt.

  But she was indeed angry now. At him. Entirely at him.

  Filling her lungs with the much-needed coolness, she stared out through the falling snow and concentrated on calming herself. Once the initial surge of anger had abated, she admitted that maybe some of the anger—a very small portion—might have been directed at her.

  And that maybe not all of the heat had been due to anger, or even embarrassment.

  As vexing as the truth was, she had to face it. She’d been ensnared once again by his nearness. His gaze. His silent but palpable interest in her. She’d felt the heat gathering in him, the rhythm of his heart quicken, and she’d responded. Oh, not in a way that anyone else could detect. Only with a secret warming of her blood and rushing of her heart.

  Worst of all, when his strong hands had gripped her hip and thigh and pressed her down onto his lap, her pulse had leaped with a fierce, sudden longing. She’d wanted to stay in the controlling grip of those hands. To turn herself around on his lap, move against his muscle-hard body, revel in the erotic pleasure of his enticing heat.

  She gulped in another huge lungful of air and raked her trembling fingers through her bangs. Good Lord, she’d put that kind of nonsense behind her long ago. Erotic pleasure. Enticing heat. Who needed any of it?

  Shaken by feelings she’d almost forgotten existed, she struggled to put it all in perspective. She’d simply been influenced by the nostalgia. Rory and B.J.’s photos had carried her back to a crazy, passionate time in her youth, and she’d responded to the memories—not to the man himself. That was an important distinction. She had grown far, far beyond her teenage infatuation with Cort Dimitri.