Her stomach hollowed out and her fingers trembled and damned if she didn't have the insane thought that she wanted to kiss him. And touch him. And feel him kiss her. And touch her. And—
“When am I going to get inside?”
“I'm wondering that myself.” Boy, was she ever.
“I was thinking tomorrow morning would be a good time. The boys and I can work on the interior in the mornings, so that we'll be out of your way come afternoon.”
“You and the boys…?” His words registered and heat flamed her cheeks. “You mean the house.”
“What did you mean?”
“I, uh, meant the house, too.” She busied herself searching for her house key. “I just wanted to make sure that you meant the house and that we weren't getting our wires crossed with one person thinking one thing and the other thinking something else.”
“What else?”
“Not that anyone was actually thinking anything else,” she rushed on, desperate to ignore his question and the vivid image that it stirred of him leaning over her. “Or that there's anything else to think. Boy, it's getting late. I've got a ton of work to do. You can let yourself in tomorrow morning.” She motioned around her as she shoved her key into the lock. “It's going to be great. I can feel it.”
Liar. The only thing she felt was hot. And embarrassed. And the insane urge to drop her briefcase, wrap her arms around him, and show him the “what else” she'd been referring to.
Okay, so maybe she'd gained twelve pounds instead of ten and the added weight was making her suit tight enough to constrict blood flow to her brain.
She drew in a deep breath as she unlocked the door. Her chest pressed against the confining buttons and she couldn't seem to get enough air. Yes, that was it. Thankfully, otherwise she would be inclined to think she was actually attracted to Beau Hollister.
“You forgot something.”
“Pardon me?” She turned.
“You forgot this.” He bent and picked up a glass Pyrex casserole dish, the top covered with aluminum foil. “One of your neighbors dropped it by about fifteen minutes ago. She said to tell you to keep the faith and remember, he's not worth killing your figure for.”
“It's my neighborhood watch. They don't want me going off the deep end because my ex left me.”
“Aren't neighborhood watches usually more interested in crime?”
“The women handle the emotional well-being of the neighborhood, and the men worry over the physical well-being.”
“That explains the old man who keeps walking by here with his pit bull.” He motioned to the weathered-looking man with a shock of white hair who stood a few houses up, watering his lawn. His dog barked from the porch.
“That's Mr. Mitchell. I heard he had his flowerbed trampled by a plumber last year and he hasn't been the same since. Just don't make any sudden moves toward my begonias”—she motioned to the small flowerbed off to the side of the house—“and you'll be okay.”
He smiled and she smiled.
And then she frowned because her heart skipped when it should have been beating. A calm, steady beat rather than the fast, furious drum of a woman on the edge.
“I really have to go.”
Chapter Eight
With the casserole dish in hand, Xandra left Beau standing on the front porch and retreated into the secluded safety of her front hallway. The door clicked shut behind her and the dark interior swallowed her up. She tried for another deep breath with little success.
Her heart was pounding and her blood was rushing and she actually felt light-headed…It was the suit, all right. A problem she could easily fix.
Add to tomorrow's to-do list: Buy larger suits.
A quick trip to Saks and she would be back to her usual self. No more shortness of breath. No more pounding heart. No more trembling hands. And no more mental road trips into Smutville with Beau Hollister.
He was supposed to lust after her, not the other way around. This was her moment of retribution. Her proverbial bird flip to every guy who'd failed to notice her back in high school. Her moment in the sun.
The thought wasn't as calming as it should have been. She needed something full of preservatives and totally unhealthy for that.
Flipping on the light, she set her briefcase on the floor and the casserole dish on a small antique table that held magazines. She started down the hallway, shedding clothing along the way. The shoes went first. The suit jacket followed. She loosened the button on her skirt and untucked her blouse and…Ah, there. Now she could breathe.
A few minutes later, she sat on her sofa and powered up her laptop. She loaded the CD-ROM that had come with her procreation planner and readied herself for her first truly proactive step in achieving personal success: the Perfect Daddy list.
She'd vowed to take a step forward both personally and professionally each day from here on out, and so she was going to add at least one daddy must-have to her list every day.
Starting now.
She keyed a few of the general traits that every woman usually wanted in the father of her child.
Handsome.
Intelligent.
Rich.
Nix that. He didn't have to be rich because he wouldn't be providing for her. He just needed the brains and the drive to make himself rich if he wanted.
Determined and capable of monetary success.
The entry stirred an image of Beau standing on the scaffolding, looking so tall, dark, and handsome. And intelligent. And very determined.
And capable of monetary success?
Yes and no. Yes, he'd looked more than capable of monetary success—he had his own business, which came highly recommended. But no, he did not look capable in the daddy sense.
And why not?
Because he was Beau Hollister, of all people. The man responsible for the worst sexual experience of her life, and no amount of monetary success could overshadow that fact. Her Perfect Daddy would know his way around the bedroom. Conceiving her child was going to be a momentous occasion in her life. One she definitely wanted to enjoy.
Experienced and capable when it came to sex.
She finished keying the next entry, stared at it for a moment, then deleted it and retyped it.
Experienced and capable when it came to hot, steamy, thrilling sex.
There. That definitely put Beau last when it came to potential prospects.
Then again, she had zero possibilities at the moment, which meant he was the only man on that particular list.
Before she could think too hard about the notion, she saved her file and turned off the computer. Better to stop now before she found herself remembering the past and several key factors leading up to their fast and furious sex session. Like how she'd actually enjoyed Beau's touch. And his kiss. And the way he'd stroked the side of her neck with the pad of his thumb just before he'd dipped his head and licked her pulse beat…
She shook away the memory, set her computer aside and pushed to her feet. In the kitchen, she hit the switch and fluorescent light flooded the newly renovated space. It was the only room that had had a complete makeover before she'd bought the house thanks to the fact that the previous owner had been a professional chef. Everything was brand new, but at the same time it retained its old-world charm. While the appliances were state-of-the-art stainless steel, the cabinets had been finished with a pine glaze that gave them a worn look. The countertops were done in granite. The floor was the original hardwood resanded and refinished. Wood groaned with each step as she headed for the cabinet where she'd unpacked her groceries the previous night. Her gaze lit on an unopened bag of Doritos and her mouth watered.
The phone rang just as she reached the countertop. She grabbed the receiver that hung on the wall to the left.
“Don't do it,” a voice declared.
“Excuse me?”
“Don't touch the chips.”
Xandra glanced around her, from the stainless steel refrigerator at one end of the counter, to
the matching oven at the other. No stranger lurking in the background. No video camera visible to the naked eye.
Her gaze swiveled back to her hand just an inch shy of the bright red bag.
“Who is this?”
“Katy.” The voice went from stalkerlike to sorority-girl sweet. “Katy Templeton from across the street.”
Xandra turned toward the window that faced the front of the house. The shades were up, the curtains parted. She saw a woman framed in the window of the house that sat opposite hers. She was pretty in a pink jogging suit, her brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Identical toddler boys overflowed her arms, one poised on each hip. A phone nestled in the space between her chin and shoulder.
“I know it seems like a good idea to lose yourself in a bag of Four Cheese Doritos and a big bowl of cheese dip and a glass of chocolate milk but, trust me, it's not worth it.”
Xandra eyed the single bag sitting next to a four-pack of toilet paper and this month's issue of Cosmo. “I don't have any cheese dip or chocolate milk.”
“That's beside the point. I know you're upset now, but no man wants to marry an Anna Nicole Smith when they can have a Tyra Banks. I know. I've been there. David and I broke up twice while we were dating. The first time, I got so freaked that I put on ten pounds. The second time, I put on twenty. But then David—bless his heart—promised me a platinum wedding band and a honeymoon in Bali if I dropped the weight. Talk about incentive.”
“You mean your husband wasn't going to marry you if you didn't lose the weight?”
“Not a chance. Who wants to marry a cow? Not David. He's into sales and marketing. His life revolves around image. But that's beside the point.”
“Which is?”
“Losing it was so tough because I had really let myself go. We're talking twenty pounds. Luckily I was extremely thin to begin with and I could stand to gain a little weight. But you're right there on the edge.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don't get me wrong. You look great. But there's a fine line between voluptuous and chubby. So don't do it. Don't destroy yourself.”
“It's just a few Doritos.”
“Now. But then comes the cheese dip and the chocolate milk. Before you know it, you're licking the lid from a pint of Ben & Jerry's because you've inhaled the contents and you're desperate for more. Don't start down that path. Turn the other way now. I left an asparagus and turnip salad for you.”
“You're the one responsible for the Pyrex dish.”
“Certainly. I'm number two on the phone tree, so I whipped up my specialty. Asparagus has lots of vitamins to boost your energy and turnips are a cleansing vegetable. Doritos have no nutritional value whatsoever. Swear you won't eat them.”
“This is silly.”
“Listen, the boys want juice boxes and dinner. I'm here if you need me. Until tomorrow morning, that is. Julie will be taking over then. That's Julie with the beige Ford Expedition, not Julie with the red one. Now swear.”
“I'm not going to do any such thing.”
“Then I'll just have to keep talking.”
“I swear.”
A dial tone filled Xandra's ear. She eyed the Doritos for a full minute as guilt churned inside her.
Well, hell. She couldn't very well eat the Doritos when she'd sworn. Even if the swear had been coerced.
She let loose a deep sigh and tried to calm the pitter-patter of her heart. No luck. She turned toward the pantry, pulled open the door, and eyed the contents. A bag of Oreos called to her from the top shelf.
The phone gave a shrill ring just as she pulled the bag free and closed the pantry door.
“Too much sugar,” Katy said before Xandra had a chance to say hello. “And sugar turns to fat and fat turns to cellulite and before you know it you're having liposuction. Swear you won't eat the Oreos.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Say the words.”
“I swear.” Xandra slid the receiver back into place. She thought about walking back down the hall and retrieving the casserole. But asparagus and turnips?
She turned back to the Doritos. Before she could reach forward, the phone rang again.
“Look,” she said when she snatched it up. “I'm not trading my Doritos for a platinum wedding band and a honeymoon in Bali.”
“Of course you're not, dear,” came Jacqueline Farrel's voice. “You're a sane, rational womanist in the prime of her life. Unlike your poor mother who is this close to popping a major vessel and stroking out.”
“What's wrong?”
“I'm giving dating advice on my show. The executive producer wants to add an element of realism to Get Sexed Up! and the whole idea is making my stomach churn. Then there's your—”
“Dating advice?” Xandra cut in. “You?”
“Ridiculous, isn't it?” Before Xandra could respond with an enthusiastic “hell, yes!,” Jacqueline rushed on, “The whole segment will center around a quartet of women in four different metropolitan cities—we're filming on location, so I'll be in Houston in a few weeks. Cameras will follow the women on an evening out, I'll evaluate the tape, offer comments, and then the women will head back out and try again using my advice.”
“I can kind of see it. Dr. Phil has his families and you have your daters.”
“They're not daters, dear. They're single, independent, professional women looking for long-term commitment in a vastly shrinking pool of potential partners.”
“It sounds interesting.”
“It's prostitution, that's what it is. A full-fledged exploitation of the entire man-woman relation ritual in the name of ratings.”
“I can see your point.”
“Of course you can, dear. You're not the problem. You're never the problem. It's my blasted producer. And then there's your father. Since your sister's enslavement ceremony—”
“It's called a wedding,” Xandra cut in.
“Same thing. Anyhow, since the enslavement, your father has become completely obsessed with the whole couple thing. He wants to open a joint checking account.”
“When you guys have only been together a measly thirty-seven years?”
“That's what I told him, but he simply will not leave the subject alone. And then there's Skye, who is totally obsessed with this procreation business. Now don't get me wrong, I love babies. I would adore a happy, healthy granddaughter. But your sister is dead-set on having a boy because that man—”
“His name is Clint and he's your son-in-law.”
“Whatever, dear. Anyhow, that man wants a boy and so Skye wants to give him one. Sure, boys are nice. Necessary. The world needs them. But to purposely try for one? I tell you, my heart can't take much more.”
“I think you worry too—”
“And then there's Eve. Do you know what she's done now?” Before Xandra could take a guess, her mother rushed on, “She got a tattoo. Not that I have anything against tattoos, but this is not a Kama Sutra position or the words to a voodoo sex spell or a female praying mantis devouring her mate or any of the other things I might expect from your sister. It's a man's name and it's tattooed right on her gluteus maximus. I saw it myself when I stopped by for coffee last week on my way to the studio. A man's name, for heaven's sake. She's like branded cattle. But I know you don't want to hear any of this.”
“I don't mind.”
“Of course you don't mind. You're such a sweet, obedient child. And so patient to listen to all of my worries. But enough about me. How's the business doing?”
“Actually, we're doing pretty well. I'm working on this new proj—”
“Of course you're doing well. You're a Farrel, dear. You would think that the apples wouldn't fall far from the tree, but I swear your two sisters were switched at birth. Imagine Skye wanting a boy on purpose…” Jacqueline spent the next several minutes going on about everything from boy babies to a new yoga technique she'd just learned to combat stress.
“It really leaves me feeling clear-headed and more focused. It's the
only thing that's kept me from giving up the ghost over the past few months with the enslavement and your father and that blasted tattoo.”
“That's great, Mom.”
“Of course it is, dear. I'll be sure to show it to you when I make it down to tape the Houston Smart Dating segment in two weeks.”
Which meant Xandra had two weeks to break the whole Mark thing to her mother. Two weeks to confess that she wasn't the perfect womanist daughter in the perfect womanist relationship, following in her mother's perfect womanist footsteps.
“Not that you need a stress-relieving technique,” her mother went on. “Why, you're much too young with too good a head on your shoulders to fall victim to such a thing.”
“Actually, I could use a good technique. Since I gave up the smoking, it's been nothing but gum and candy. Anything that will relieve my cravings—”
“Gum is bad for you, dear. And the candy. Just say no.”
“It's not that easy—”
“Of course it is. You're my daughter, after all. Strong. Independent. A fearless Farrel without two ungrateful daughters and a stubborn significant other determined to send you to an early grave—they're calling me to the set. Take care, dear.”
“Nice talking with you, Mom,” she said into the phone as the dial tone echoed in her ear.
Oh, well. It's not like she wanted to really talk to her mom; Jacqueline complained and Xandra listened. That's the way it had always been. The way it would always be because Jacqueline Farrel thought her youngest daughter had it all together. No complaints. No worries. Even when she did manage to slide a worry of her own into the conversation, Jacqueline tuned it out, and Xandra let her. Because that's what Xandra always did. She lived for everyone else first, and herself second.
She forced the thought aside. This was her mother, for heaven's sake. The woman who'd given birth to her. The least Xandra could do after eighteen hours of labor, complete with a full two hours of pushing, was play the good daughter and pretend life was perfect.
The sound of a door closing drew her to the window and she glanced out to see Beau load the last of his equipment, climb into the driver's seat, and rev the van's engine. Her gaze locked with his for a split second and her heart gave a double thump.
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