It's In His Kiss

by Mallory Kane

  Okay, what about dinner? Michael had said she could cook, so she supposed she should. The refrigerator was a wasteland, as far as potential meals were concerned. Holding her nose, Cat emptied the milk down the sink and ran copious amounts of water afterward to get rid of the smell. Then she opened the freezer and took inventory.

  Ice. Good. Beer mugs. Okay. A Dove Bar. Better. A frozen TV dinner. She picked it up and brushed off the frost. Salisbury steak and gravy. Ugh. Make that a frost-bitten TV dinner. She tossed the package back into the freezer. Oh, well.

  "I should have stopped at the grocery store," she muttered.

  With hope dying fast in her breast, she turned to the cabinets. A quick perusal yielded dishes, glasses, the empty shelf that should have held coffee mugs. Finally she opened a cabinet stocked with food.

  Without much enthusiasm, Cat took inventory. There was a can of asparagus. She set it out on the counter. A jar of spaghetti sauce. Come on, Michael. Surely you've got spaghetti. She pushed aside three cans of tuna, refusing to even consider tuna casserole. Behind a jar of mushrooms, and a can with no label on it, was a red cardboard package. Fettuccini.

  "Success," she murmured in satisfaction.

  Within a half hour, Cat had spaghetti sauce with mushrooms, cooked fettuccini, and two small dishes of cold asparagus with a dollop of mayonnaise, and a squeeze of lemon. Not bad for foraging, she congratulated herself. She put the asparagus in the refrigerator and turned the spaghetti sauce down to low, and went into the living room and turn on the television.

  * * *

  At twenty minutes past midnight, Michael let himself into his apartment, sincerely hoping Cat was asleep. After their encounter this morning, he'd decided it would be better if he saw her as little as possible.

  What had he been thinking, inviting her to live with him? He'd barely made it through work today, because his brain kept displaying full color pictures of Cat in her bikini panties and tiny little top. How was he going to last for the next weeks, until she found an apartment? He sighed. A lot of cold showers, late nights at the office, and a whole lot of raquetball.

  He sniffed as he locked the door behind him. She had cooked spaghetti from the smell. He hoped she'd left something for him. He'd been so busy wrapping up the court case, he'd forgotten to eat.

  The light over the sink was on. It cast a pallid glow over the kitchen area, and barely spilled into the living room.

  Michael tossed his briefcase onto the table and headed for his bedroom, tugging on his tie. He shed his suit, then pulled on a pair of sweat pants, and returned to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door.

  "Oh--."

  The sleepy voice behind him sent a shiver up his spine. He turned around just in time to see Cat unfold her legs and get up from the couch.

  "Hi," she said, stretching and yawning. Her action pulled the Halloween sleep shirt up her thighs. "What time is it?"

  Michael swallowed and turned back to the refrigerator. If he let his gaze linger on her one more instant, he couldn't be responsible for where his hands went. Pushing away the idea of sliding that orange shirt further up her body, he leaned over and stared at the refrigerator shelves.

  Cat turned on the kitchen light, groaning as she squinted at the clock on the stove. "After twelve," she said. "You sure are late."

  "I was busy," Michael said shortly. What was he looking for? Oh yeah, food.

  "Move over." Cat nudged him out of the way with her hip and reached for two plastic containers. "Here," she said on a yawn.

  He took the two containers and she grabbed a plate then pushed the refrigerator door closed with another flip of her hip.

  "Hungry?" she asked drowsily.

  Yeah, but not for food. Michael forced his gaze away from her talented hip, grimacing at his thoughts as he took the top off the sauce pan. "Mmm, smells good."

  "It was better at seven o'clock," Cat groused. "Why're you so late anyhow?" She unwrapped a plate of cold asparagus with mayonnaise.

  Michael handed her the sauce and she handed him the asparagus. He reached into the sink for a fork. "Hey. Where are my dishes?"

  Cat stuck the sauce in the microwave, then turned, licking her thumb. "Oh. I put them in the dishwasher."

  "Oh yeah. I'm out of dishwashing liquid. I meant to get some."

  "I squeezed enough out to wash one more load." She planted her fists on her hips. "Well?"

  "Well what?"

  "Where were you?"

  "Who are you, my mother?"

  "Nope. Just your roommate. Did you have a hot date?" Cat dug her fingers into his ribs.

  He took a swift breath as her touch ripped through him like lightning. "Stop it! No, I did not have a hot date."

  "Oh I'm sorry, Michael. Was she lukewarm? That's too bad." She jabbed him in the side again, curling her fingers into his skin.

  "Hey!" He jerked, almost spilling the asparagus.

  Her sleepy eyes lit up. "You're still ticklish." She reached for him again but he dodged her fingers.

  "I am not," he laughed. "Besides, if you want to get into a tickling war, just remember, I'm a lot bigger than you are now."

  Cat looked up at him, and something about her expression made his insides tighten with desire.

  He swallowed hard, and maneuvered around her to get a fork from the drawer, thinking how small his kitchen had suddenly gotten. "This asparagus is good."

  "Thank you. I opened the can myself."

  "Talent always shows."

  Cat stuck her tongue out at him.

  "You'd better be careful with that thing," he laughed, uncomfortably fascinated with her small, pink tongue. "You might get it bitten off."

  "Oh yeah, by who?" The microwave buzzer rang and she fixed him a big plate of spaghetti. "I couldn't find any Parmesan cheese."

  He reached up, deep into a cabinet that was well above her head. "Here you go. The top shelf has all kinds of secret hiding places for food."

  "Oh great. Now he tells me, after I ate my spaghetti naked."

  Michael took his plate to the table and sat down. "Want some more?"

  She shook her head and sat down opposite him.

  "So what are you doing up, anyhow?" he asked, noticing for the first time that her nose was red and the puffiness around her eyes was not only from sleeping. "Is something wrong?" She looked like she'd been crying, although Michael couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Cat cry.

  At his question, Cat made a face. "My mother called tonight."

  "Good for her," Michael started, then belatedly noticed Cat's dejected tone. "Not good?" he said around a mouthful of spaghetti.

  She shook her head. "Awful. She wants me to go to dinner with her and Hank tomorrow night."

  "Well that's a nice gest--" he stopped when Cat shook her head. "Not a nice gesture." He sighed. "Okay, why don't you tell me what's bothering you."

  "I don't want to go to dinner with them. I'm not sure how many more episodes of 'Janice's husbands' I can take."

  Michael finished his spaghetti and took his plate to the sink. He turned around.

  "Rinse it."

  "Yes, sir." He whirled back around and turned on the water. So that's what was bothering her. She didn't want to see her mother with yet another guy. Michael’s parents had been married for thirty-five years, but he’d watched Cat’s mother bounce from one relationship to another. And he’d seen Cat’s reactions, seen the many times she had reached out to her mother, only to be rebuffed. If it hadn’t been for her grandmother, Cat might have been really screwed up. "Who'd you say she's dating?"

  "All she said was Hank. Oh, and he's in construction." Cat made a face. "I may be exposed to crack--butt crack."

  Michael laughed. "I've got a life-sized picture of that. But maybe you're wrong. Maybe this is Mr. Right."

  "Oh sure. Seriously, Michael. What are the chances. After my stepdad died, Mother--excuse me. I keep forgetting she wants me to call her Janice. Janice apparently decided to choose men for their uniqueness
, to put it mildly. There was the bass player, that vending machine guy, and of course Paul, who didn't even pretend to have a job."

  "You're not being entirely fair. Slick Janssen is an excellent studio musician, and the 'vending machine guy' was actually quite an entrepreneur."

  "Well, don't forget Paul."

  "So you've got something against independently wealthy men?"

  "When all they're interested in are sybaritic pleasures, yes. Janice doesn't need a spoiled playboy, or a flaky musician or a guy who spends all his time traveling around the country selling vending machines. She needs someone steady and trustworthy, like my stepdad was. She needs security and love, not excitement. Not that she'll ever figure that out."

  Michael reflected that Janice's daughter would do well to figure out the same thing.

  "Have you ever talked to your mother about this?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Oh come on, Michael. She's never going to listen to me. She hardly even talks to me."

  "Well she invited you out. That must mean something."

  Cat shuddered, half in jest. "I know, and I'm scared to find out just what it means."

  "Go and have dinner with them, try to keep an open mind, and see what happens."

  "Why thank you, oh great sage." Cat sat up. "Wait. I know. Go with me. You can mediate for me. Janice always liked you."

  "Oh no. Leave me out of it. This is between you and your mother. I'd just be in the way." He stood and peered into the freezer. "Want to split a Dove bar?"

  "Ugh, I don't know. It looks pretty bad. How long has it been in there?"

  "Hmm, probably longer than your mother was married to Slick Janssen."

  Cat laughed, and Michael smiled, happy to have pulled her out of her depression, at least for the moment.

  As she carefully peeled the chocolate coating off her half of the bar and ate it, a small frown appeared and she glanced up at him.

  "What?" he asked.

  "Have you ever thought about what kind of tree you'd be?

  He raised his brows and shook his head slightly. "Um, what?"

  "Tree. Have you ever thought about being a tree?" She sounded as if he were being dense.

  "No," he said slowly. "I don't believe I've ever thought about that."

  She licked chocolate off her fingers, and he found himself wanting to hold his fingers up for licking too.

  "A willow."

  "What?" He tore his eyes away from her small pink tongue.

  "I'd be a willow. You know," she swayed and waved her arms, as if she were dancing.

  He found it hard to concentrate on what she was saying. Her arms were shapely and slim, graceful as they undulated through the air.

  "I'd be graceful and pretty, and unbreakable."

  "Unbreakable," he repeated stupidly.

  Her eyes met his, and he saw that sadness in them. "Bendable. Able to take wind and storms and abuse, and not break."

  Oh, Cat. He nodded. "What kind of tree do you think I'd be?"

  "Oh an oak, for sure. Strong, steady. Tall and sturdy. Dependable. Safe." She wrapped her arms around herself and smiled at him.

  "Good old Michael, always the same," he said wryly.

  "Yeah. That's it."

  He stood. "I'm going to bed." And he left her there.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Cat swallowed nervously, took one last look in the mirror, and stepped into the living room where Michael was watching television. He spoke without looking up. "Hey, take a look at this. Did you know Christopher Walken could tap dance?"

  "Nope. Me and Chris haven't been on speaking terms for years. Michael?"

  He glanced up quickly, then did a double take. "Wow." With a flick of his wrist, he clicked the remote control. Christopher Walken’s voice died.

  "Wow? Is that a good wow or a bad wow? Do you think I'm overdressed?"

  Cat stood nervously while Michael's sharp blue eyes roamed from her slicked-back hair, over her face and down to the black slip dress with its tiny straps. She suppressed the urge to cross her arms over her breasts. The dress was not designed to wear with a bra. She saw a glint in his eye, and watched his throat work as he swallowed.

  "Well?" She whirled in place and almost lost her balance. "I'm going to kill myself walking in these shoes." She peered at his face again.

  His brow was furrowed and his eyes had turned dark.

  "You think I look awful. I never should have put all this mousse on my hair. Oh, hell." She turned around and headed back for her bedroom, but Michael's hand on her arm stopped her. She looked up at him in surprise. How had he moved halfway across the room that fast?

  "You look marvelous," he said, in a fair imitation of Billy Crystal imitating Fernando Lamas. The darkness in his eyes had changed to a sparkle, but his jaw was clenched tight. She could see the muscle bulging against his skin.

  "What's the matter, then? There's something you don't like. It's the hair, right? Is it sticking up?" She reached up but he caught her hand.

  "Trust me, Cat. It's perfect. You're perfect. I'd forgotten how good you can look when you work at it."

  Her heart fluttered ridiculously and she couldn't stop her mouth from curving into a smile. "Thanks, I think. So the dress is not too much?"

  "There's definitely not too much of the dress," he teased, his eyes flickering down to her low cut bodice. She felt her breasts tighten under the heat of his gaze.

  "Oh, ha hah. That was--let's see, a joke, right?"

  "Not really." He took her hand. "May I have this dance, lovely lady?"

  Cat laughed a little nervously. "Come on, Michael."

  But he didn't relinquish her hand.

  "Really?" She lifted her chin. "Of course, sir," she responded, and offered him her other hand.

  He sketched a bow, swept her into his arms and whirled her a couple of times, then dipped her. For a moment, Cat hung there, draped over Michael's strong arm, his face no more than two inches from hers. She felt his warm breath on her cheek, felt his heart beating, rapid but steady. Suddenly, she wasn't comfortable being so close to him. His eyes burned into hers with the strength of a phaser set on stun.

  "Enough," she gasped.

  Her head spun as he set her upright. Before he released her, he planted a quick kiss on her mouth. It seemed to last about a fifth of a second longer than necessary. "Thank you, milady. You have made my evening."

  Cat blinked. Michael had kissed her, on the mouth. In all the time they'd known each other, he'd never done that. She would have remembered.

  The kiss was brief. It could even be called perfunctory, but for some reason, it had her as fidgety as an adolescent girl who'd been kissed by the football star.

  Taking a long breath, she smoothed her dress. "I still think you should come with me. You're horrible, abandoning me in my hour of need."

  Michael pushed past her and went into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and stood looking into it.

  Cat watched him, frowning. What was the matter with him tonight? Despite their quick whirl around the dance floor and his compliments, he seemed to be in a bad mood. He cocked a hip and draped an arm over the open refrigerator door. Cat touched her lips with her fingertips as she admired the curve of his spine. When had his bare back and jeans clad bottom become so darn sexy?

  I'm going to kill you, Deb, for putting these ideas into my head. Straightening her back, she pushed the idea of Michael as hunk out of her head, and concentrated on mundane matters.

  "Is that just a man thing?" she asked.

  "What? Dancing with a beautiful woman?" He turned around, his hands full of bread and plastic packages and a jar of pickles. His voice sounded distant.

  Beautiful? Cat tilted her head and frowned at him. His face was shuttered. "N-no. But thanks for the compliment. I was referring to standing for hours in front of an open refrigerator door."

  He didn't look at her as he dumped the packages on the counter. "Yep. It's a man thing. Aren't you going to be la
te?"

  She glanced at her watch. "Oh, no. You're right. I've got to go." She smoothed her dress one more time, darted back into her bedroom to get her evening bag, and checked the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled. She smiled at her reflection. All of Deb's ridiculous notions aside, Michael was good for her. He always made her feel special, when he wasn't teasing her. She headed for the front door. Sometimes even when he was teasing her, he still made her feel special.

  "Bye, Michael. I hope you know you're missing a very interesting evening."

  "Remember, keep an open mind."

  "I'll do my best." She opened the door. "Michael?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Thanks."

  "For what?"

  "For saying--that."

  He glanced up, but didn't pretend he didn't know what she was talking about. "Hey, no problem. It was the least I could do."

  "Well, that’s true. You could be doing a lot more. You could be going with me."

  "Cat? For what it's worth, you are the most beautiful woman in Nashville tonight."

  She met his gaze. "Did I ever tell you how good it is to have you back?"

  "You’d better get going."

  Michael watched Cat leave, her shapely bottom swinging the black skirt as she hurried out the door. As soon as the door closed, he cursed, long and colorfully. The sandwich stuff he'd dug out of the refrigerator didn't interest him in the least. In fact, nothing interested him. He pushed his fingers through his hair, then wiped his face. Well, something did, but she'd just walked out the door. God, she looked good. Good enough to--. He growled, trying to regain control of his lust. She'd felt so good in his arms, so right. It was truly ironic that he'd be just as happy dancing with her as making love to her. Okay, almost as happy.

  And then there was that kiss. It had surprised her, but if he knew her at all, and he did, it had also intrigued her.

  If only she'd drop the tough act, and let him close, like they used to be. No, more than they used to be. He did not just want to be friends. He wanted the whole package. He wanted love, sex, friendship, maybe even marriage.

  * * *