THIS PERFECT KISS

by Christie Ridgway

  But Kim didn't have time to puzzle that out. Intent on getting away, she fumbled with the door handle as the pair rushed toward her.

  "Kim!" Greg called. "Kim, wait!"

  Still fumbling to open the door, she closed her eyes to the sounds of his voice and the too-near footsteps, which was maybe why she couldn't avoid something furry and gray that reached her first. The creature scrambled up her clothes to perch, unbelievably, on top of her head.

  Her head was then, just as unbelievably, completely covered with netting as Iris yelled, "Gotcha!" and swung her butterfly net to capture her prize.

  Kim froze. Greg grinned. Iris shook her forefinger. "You're not supposed to be running away." Kim supposed she was talking to the furry thing.

  Yet Greg's gaze met hers. "That's right. You weren't, were you?" he asked softly.

  Iris was still scolding her pet. "Don't you love me?"

  "Don't you?" Greg's voice, soft and low again. "Don't you, Kim?"

  Oh, God, she did. She loved both of them so, so much.

  "And you belong to us," Iris continued crossly.

  "That's right," Greg murmured. "You do."

  And, oh, Kim wanted to.

  "Now, you be good, Kiss," Iris said.

  Kim frowned. "Kiss?"

  "Certainly," Greg answered, and with one smooth movement he deposited Iris on the ground, plucked the creature and the net off Kim's head, and handed them both to the child. He leaned forward, his mouth near Kim's. "Your wish is my command."

  Then he kissed Kim. Kissed her in front of her daughter. Kissed her in front of the household help who were trailing out the front door. Kissed her in front of the Caidwater mansion, where all the pain—and all this joy—had begun over four years ago.

  Kim clutched Greg's shoulders. Wasn't this a mistake? Shouldn't someone rescue this good, decent man from her wickedness?

  But then a plan blazed in her mind, the first real, Kim-initiated, Kim-rescue plan she'd ever had. It poured out of the deepest part of her and blazed so sun-in-the-heavens bright that it eclipsed the dark force of Caidwater and the shadows of her fear and shame.

  She broke the kiss and looked at the house, the daughter she'd longed for, the man who'd waited for her. The only thing truly powerful here was love. And it was her power. It was a gift she had to offer to Iris and to Greg that didn't come from her body or her mind, but from the unsullied, pure goodness of her heart. Nothing, no one, no choice made in the past, had ever tainted that.

  "Marry me, Greg," she whispered. "Marry me and let me make you happy."

  For once in her life, she thought she could do it. She thought she deserved to try.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  « ^ »

  Rory strode in the direction of Things Past, moving quickly despite the weight of the damn cloud that seemed to be following him more closely than ever. Though Greg had minimized the hubbub around the house by disappearing two days ago with Iris, leaving a note about a quick trip to Vegas, bad luck continued to dog Rory.

  With the fund-raiser just three days away, he was without food for the party. The contracted caterers had been forced to cancel because of a hepatitis outbreak, and every alternate was booked solid due to the Valentine's Day weekend.

  Desperation had drawn him to the memory of Jilly's picnic, the one provided by her friends with their new catering business. Maybe new enough to be available over the holiday weekend.

  But first he had to get Jilly to give him their number.

  Jilly. Anger at her flared for a moment, then died out. When she'd reneged on their bargain the other morning, he'd barely remembered they had a bargain. He'd barely remembered his own name. Sex with Jilly blew his mind and that morning the pieces had been so scattered it had taken him several minutes to gather them together before he could talk to her.

  She'd been angry and he knew why. No woman liked being treated as a lay instead of a lady, but he couldn't take back the word then. He wouldn't now. The danger for him had always been in controlling how he felt about her. Using that harsh word had done it for him.

  Reaching her shop, he glanced at the display window, then dug his feet into the sidewalk. The person behind him plowed into his back, but Rory didn't move or acknowledge the muttered insult. Taking a deep breath, Rory closed his eyes, then opened them again.

  No, it was real. In the window of Things Past—the window he'd never paid any attention to before—Jilly had hung an image of his face in a plastic bubble over a kinky-looking bathtub setup. Worse, she'd put words in his mouth. A cartoon bubble of white cardboard, affixed to the plastic bubble. And the words springing from his lips in bold black letters shouted, "Cast a vote for safe sex! Visit French Letters!" An arrow pointed to the place next door.

  His stomach sinking lower, Rory let his gaze slowly follow the arrow toward French Letters. He blanched, and then, zombielike, walked toward the condom store's window. No. His mouth soundlessly formed the word as he watched what was happening.

  But this was real, too. A strangled moan—something close to a calf's bleating—slipped from his throat. The woman the world considered his fiancée was dressing a window in a condom shop.

  And, oh, my God, how she was dressing it. He pushed his sunglasses more firmly onto his nose and glanced around the street. It seemed blessedly paparazzi-free for the moment, but the vipers had the habit of trolling likely locations. It wouldn't surprise him to discover Jilly's shop on the scandal-seekers' list.

  Trying to breathe through his lung-squeezing anxiety, he stepped up to the window. Certainly a gentle reminder of her position—well, his position as the would-be Blue Party candidate—would coax her out of the condom shop. He tapped on the glass and she looked up.

  Without thinking, he drew a finger across his throat. Cut it out! he mouthed.

  So it wasn't quite as gentle as he'd planned. Neither was the look she gave him in return. He didn't need an accompanying finger gesture to know exactly what her response to him was.

  She went back to adjusting the window display, which exhibited a kitchen scene, complete with a mannequin in a June Cleaver dress, starched apron, and pearls. "Vintage wear from Things Past," announced a small placard. Both June and Jilly stood beside a small table, and as Rory watched, Jilly bent her head over a fruit bowl and the bunch of bananas she was currently outfitting with condoms.

  Rory blew out a long breath as he watched her roll an apple-green, ribbed Trojan over one of the yellow fruit. That calf-bleat slid through his throat once more. He tapped on the glass again. Impatiently.

  Vigorously.

  She just as vigorously ignored him, picking a cucumber from the bowl and then dressing it with a purple, nubby-sided rubber that looked more like a Koosh ball than a safe-sex tool.

  He could imagine what the Blue Party would think about that. He knocked on the glass. She pretended not to notice as she rummaged through a basket of foil-wrapped condoms, biting her lip as if mulling over which one would look best on the obscene-appearing spaghetti squash in her hand.

  Rory saw red. He hated the idea that anyone glancing in would assume Jilly to be some kind of sexpert, for God's sake. After all, who had taught her how to use a rubber? He had. Who had taught her everything she knew about sex, dammit? He had. Despite everything that went right and everything that went wrong between them, who had missed her like hell the past few nights in his bed? Rory had.

  Not even attempting to draw logic lines among the three thoughts, he stomped into the shop, a series of trumpet notes—ta-da da da da daaaa—announcing his presence. He ignored the sound. He ignored the gender-unspecific salesclerk who rushed up to him in an overabundance of pierced body parts. He leaped into the display area and grabbed the squash and the unwrapped latest latex choice out of Jilly's fingers.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  She tried grabbing them back. "I'm putting together a window display for a friend."

  "This—this isn't … seemly."

&nb
sp; "Seemly?" She choked out a laugh.

  Red was tingeing the edges of his vision again. Any Tom, Dick, or Harry could walk past and assess her condom technique, for God's sake. Coupled with her hot little body in those tight jeans and a bowling shirt—"Angel" embroidered over the pocket—and she was asking for trouble.

  He ground his teeth together. "I don't want people to get the wrong idea about you."

  She made another grab for the condom and managed to get her fingers on it. "You mean, like you did?"

  Hell, yes, that was exactly what he meant. He didn't want some La-La Land Lothario to seduce innocent Jilly into his bed just because "Angel" looked devilishly sexy. With a tug, he pulled back on his end of the latex and the thing started to unroll. Rory stared, shocked. The flesh-colored rubber was embedded with red, green, and blue rhinestones. "Ugh. Who would wear something like this?"

  "I don't know. Someone who can't afford diamonds?" she snapped. "Give it back." She tugged, and it unfurled some more.

  He hung on. "Jilly, this just doesn't look good. You—"

  She cut him off impatiently. "Why are you here?"

  "You should be glad I am. Someone has to make you see—"

  "That doing something for a friend can end in disaster?" she asked. "You already proved that to me once."

  His muscles tensed. "I remember a few times when you appeared to think it was delightful."

  She didn't even blink. "Just cut to the chase. What do you want?"

  He sucked in a calming breath. "Short of a cure for the disasters that continue to befall me, I need a caterer." He jumped on her sudden look of interest. "Let's go discuss it somewhere."

  "Nice try." She pulled on her end of the rhinestone condom, and it got even longer. "I told you, I'm doing a favor for a friend here. Let go."

  He didn't. "But I could do a favor for your friends. Those caterers. Do you think they could use a job Saturday night?"

  The tension on the condom relaxed and Jilly's eyes gleamed. "I'm sure they could."

  "Terrific." He tried to draw the latex out of her hand. "If you agree to come to the party, I'll agree to use them." He hadn't planned on suggesting such a trade, but he liked the idea now that it had popped out of his mouth.

  Her eyes narrowed. "You need them, you don't need me. I don't want to come to your party."

  He pulled. "Yes, you do."

  She pulled back. "No, I don't."

  "This is ridiculous." He yanked.

  "I agree." She yanked.

  Rory glanced out the window. Their shenanigans had drawn a small crowd, and a trickle of apprehension rolled down his spine. He could see it now, sequenced photos of their squabble splashed across papers and television screens. One never-to-be-forgotten year, his father had been the star of no less than seven televised brawls. "Jilly," he said through his teeth, pulling again.

  "Why don't you just let go?"

  Because, dammit, she was besting him at every turn. Every time he thought he had things figured out, them figured out, Jilly put in a convenient niche where he could leave her, or leave her alone, she did something else unpredictable, something else surely designed to make him nuts.

  Like leaving his bed.

  Staring her down, he pulled harder on the condom, the rhinestoned latex stretching to anatomically unbelievable lengths. "Come to the party."

  Narrowing her gaze, she hung on, her face and her grip stubborn and angry. "No."

  "You owe me. You used me." If he could hold onto that, maybe he could hold onto his sanity.

  Her mulish expression didn't soften and she lifted an eyebrow. "You used me back, remember?"

  No. But before he could get a word out, from the other side of the window there came a flash.

  Startled, Jilly released her end of the long, taut condom and it snapped like a rubber band, catching Rory across the placket of his khakis.

  "Oh!" Her eyes widened. "Are you okay?"

  It took all his willpower not to double over as more flashes went off, announcing the paparazzi had indeed arrived. "You really owe me now," he said when he could breathe.

  Jilly glanced quickly at the two photographers on the other side of the window. "Rory—"

  "No. Listen to me. The only way to neutralize what's going to come of this latest round of pictures is for you to be at the party."

  Her hand had moved to cover her mouth, but then she took it away, her voice strangely breathless. "Why should I care about your latest PR problem?"

  He ground his teeth once more. "Because you were the start of them all. Please, Jilly."

  She was still resisting and she still sounded strangely out of breath. "Maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe people will think they put our heads on someone else's bodies."

  He snorted. "Nobody has a body like yours."

  Her gaze drifted from his face down to the condom he still gripped. Her hand lifted to cover her mouth again. "Yours either," she said from behind her fingers.

  Suddenly suspicious, he ducked his head to follow her gaze. At belt level, the overstretched, garishly bejeweled condom hung limply from his hand, trailing nearly to his knees like the tired tongue of a dog.

  Oh, right. Like the tired tongue of a dog. "Shit," he muttered, tossing the thing onto the table. "Now you really owe me," he said through his teeth.

  Odd, muffled sounds came from behind the hand she had clapped over her mouth. "Okay, okay," he thought he heard her say. "I'll be there."

  And then she giggled. Peals of the stuff that he swore annoyed the hell out of him, even though the bright, amused sound seemed to momentarily push his dark, hovering cloud away.

  Still seething, he held his own emotions in check as he ducked out the back door of French Letters and passed through an alley to an adjacent street crowded with shoppers. But then he caught sight of his reflection in the window of a holistic veterinary clinic.

  He paused, his confrontation with Jilly replaying in his head. The condom-covered bananas. The rhinestoned rubber stretching, stretching, stretching between them. The flash, the snap, the limp thing lying against his leg.

  And Rory laughed.

  Out loud, outright, with his head thrown back and with their entire tug-of-war rerunning in his mind once more. A passerby—in motorcycle leathers and dog collar—gave him a wide berth, and Rory laughed all the harder.

  Who knew looking like a fool could make him feel so free?

  * * *

  Three evenings later, Rory struggled to remember that fleeting feeling of liberation as he fought off a more familiar sense of dread. He stood by the windows of the playroom adjacent to Iris's bedroom, impatiently fingering the folded-up paper in the pocket of his white dinner jacket. Tiny white lights decorated the terrace below. An orchestra was tuning up in one corner and a bar was set up in another. A few small tables were scattered around the edges, but the middle was left open for dancing and for the toast Senator Fitzpatrick planned to give once Rory formally announced his candidacy.

  In addition, there were some other, splashier surprises planned to follow his announcement. Surprises that had kept workmen roaming the Caidwater roof and canoe pond for the past two days. The hoopla was all a bunch of PR nonsensical hype, of course, but Charlie Jax had shown an odd penchant for the dramatic.

  Rory touched the paper again, reassuring himself it was still in his jacket. It contained the text of his speech—if you could call the few, strangely difficult-to-find words expressing his intention a speech—and he hoped like hell that once it was uttered to the several hundred expected guests, his sense of impending doom would finally go away.

  "Iris! Aren't you ready yet?" he called out. Greg and the little girl hadn't returned from their Vegas jaunt until late in the afternoon, and Rory had done his best to charm her into getting dressed quickly. "Iris!"

  "It's Auntie to you," she shot back through the connecting door, her voice sulky.

  Rory sighed. As usual, his brand of charm fell flat when it came to Iris—Auntie.

  Even
after living with her the past few weeks, he wasn't any closer to understanding what she needed or wanted from him. He sighed, hoping that as soon as they moved away from L.A., they'd become more comfortable with each other. She was a duty he was bound and determined to manage well.

  He looked back out the window, checking for something that might account for his underlying, unquenchable anxiety. But from here he could see that the gates to the eight gardens surrounding the house were opened as they should be, each garden illuminated by more tiny lights strung in the trees and through the hedges.

  Caidwater's first-floor rooms, cleared of clothing thanks to Jilly, were also ready for visitors. The caterers, Jilly's friends, had arrived first thing in the morning. The delicious smells emanating from the kitchen assured him that at least the food was going to be disaster-free.

  Rory rubbed the back of his neck. He had a small, legitimate concern about the catering staff, however. Paul and Tran's business, until now, hadn't needed any additional servers. So to meet the demands of this emergency job, they'd been forced to recruit a good number of FreeWesters to pass the food and drink.

  Rory rubbed the back of his neck again, uneasy about mixing the staunch Blue Party supporters with the kind of people he'd met at the FreeWest gallery opening a few weeks before. He could only hope that Paul and Tran had drafted the least loony of the bunch.

  There was no more time for second-guessing, though. He'd done everything he could to ensure that the evening went smoothly. Remembering previous Caidwater bacchanalian revels—resulting in drunken brawls and ménages à trois that had made morning headlines—he'd hired a phalanx of security guards to prevent any possible scandals.

  That had been the worst part of being twelve, sixteen, twenty-two. His gut still clenched when he thought of those headlines. They were sleazy, they were titillating—God, the Kincaid men were sleazy and titillating—and he'd looked so much like them that everyone had expected more of the same. For so many years it had brought him both unwelcome attention and undeserved censure.