by Diana Palmer
"It's just another Tuesday," her fiance said shortly. "I don't know why you make such a big thing about Tuesdays."
"You'd have to be a reporter to understand, I guess," she said generously. "Look . . ."
"Invite him to supper," McCabe said lotto voce.
She gaped at him. "It's Tuesday!" she burst out.
"I heard you the first time!" Andy shouted.
"I'll cook," McCabe said simultaneously.
"Don't be absurd, you can't even stand up!" she threw back at him.
"Are you implying that I'm drunk?" Andy asked, aghast.
"Not you - McCabe, McCabe!" Wynn ground out.
"McCabe's drinking, and you're there alone with him?" Andy gasped.
Wynn held out the receiver and cocked her head at it threateningly.
"Don't do it," McCabe advised. "I can manage to get something together before you come home. I'll sit down and cook."
She eyed him warily. The old McCabe was arrogant and commanding, not 1)leasant and cooperative, and she was immediately suspicious. "You wouldn't mind?"
"No," he said. "I'd love to see Andy again. Invite him over. About six."
She felt as if she were walking obligingly into a shark's mouth, but it had been years since she and McCabe had spent any time together. Perhaps his experiences had changed him. Mellowed him. She was even in a forgiving mood. Didn't he seem different?
"Andy, come to supper at six," she said, holding the receiver to her ear.
"Supper?" Andy brightened. "Just the two of us?"
"McCabe's here, too," she observed.
"We'll just ignore him," Andy said.
There was a pause. "He isn't going to stay for the wedding, to give you away?"
"If he does, we'll let him be bridesmaid," Wynn said darkly.
Andy giggled. "That's cute, McCabe in ruffled satin ..."
She started laughing and had to say a quick good-bye and hang up before she really got hysterical.
"Bridesmaid?" McCabe murmured with pursed lips. "Remember that old saying, Wynn - I don't get mad, I get even?"
"I can outrun you," she reminded him.
"Yes. But I'm patient," he returned. His eyes narrowed and ran over her slender body in a way that made her frankly nervous. "I can wait."
"I've got to get back to work. After supper," she continued, moving toward the kitchen to get a towel to mop up the spill,
"we'll discuss your new lodgings."
"Suits me," he said obligingly.
That really worried her. McCabe never obliged anybody.
She went back to work with a frown between her wide-spaced green eyes. It deepened when she saw Ed.
"You didn't mention that you were taking a vacation," she said with grinning ferocity. "Or that your brother-in-law was coming to stay in your house. Or that -"
"Have a heart, could you say no to McCabe?" he groaned.
"Yes! I've spent the past seven years doing just that!"
"He's like a son to me," he said, looking hunted as he paused in the act of pasting up the last page of the paper, the front page, with a strip of waxed copy in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other.
"He's been shot to pieces, Wynn."
She straightened wearily and the fight left her. "Yes, he told me."
"I just hope he'll give himself time enough to heal completely before he goes hack down there."
She felt the blood leaving her face. "You can't mean he's talking about going back?"
He shrugged. "You know McCabe. He loves it, danger and all. It's been his life for too many years."
"He could stay home and write books!" she threw back. "He's a best-selling author, why does he need to risk his life for stories someone else could get?"
"Ask him." He cut off another column of copy and pasted it around another story in neat pieces, just right for a two-column headline. "I think it's the lack of an anchor, Wynn. He doesn't have anyplace that he feels wanted or needed, except at work."
"His mother loves him."
"Of course she does, but she's spent her life avoiding his father and now, McCabe. She's independent, she doesn't need him. And who else is there?" he added.
She stared blankly at the half-made-up page. "At his age, there must be a woman or two."
"No."
She looked up. "How do you know so much about him?"
"I helped raise him, remember? He used to hang around my house as much as he stayed at his own. We've kept in touch all this time." He glanced at her over his glasses and smiled. "I always wanted to be a war correspondent, you know. But I had a family, and I didn't feel I had the right to take the risk. McCabe's shied away from permanent relationships for much the same reason, I imagine. Rough thing for a woman to take, having her man on the firing line most of their married lives."
Wynn had thought of that, but she wasn't admitting it. Neither was she admitting how many newscasts she'd chewed her fingernails over before she stopped watching them altogether, or the kind of worrying she'd done about McCabe over the years. He shouldn't matter, of course, he was only her guardian.
"Wynn, are you listening?" Ed asked shortly. "I said, I've still got a hole on the front page. Go call the fire chief and see if they've had any fires overnight, okay?"
"Sure thing, Ed."
The hectic pace kept her from thinking about McCabe any more until quitting time. The phones rang off the hook, people walked in and out, there were additions and deletions and changes in ads and copy until Wynn swore she'd walk out the door and never come back. She threatened that every Tuesday. So did Ed. So did Judy. So did Kelly and Jess. It was a standing joke, but nobody laughed at it on Tuesday.
At five o'clock, the pages were pasted up and Kelly was driving them the thirty miles to the printer. The wreck Kelly had covered earlier took up a fourth of the front page. It had been a tragic one involving people from out of town, two carloads of them. Wynn was sad but involuntarily relieved that no one from Redvale had fallen victim. It was harder to do obituaries when you knew the victims.
She dragged herself in the door at a few minutes past five, weary and disheveled and feeling as if her feet were about to fall off from all the standing she'd done. She already missed the air-conditioning at the office. She didn't have it at home, and it was unseasonably hot.
"Is that you, Wynn?" McCabe called from the kitchen.
"It's me." She'd forgotten for an instant that he was here, and her heart jumped at the sound of his deep voice. She tossed aside her purse and paused to take off her suede boots before she padded in her hose onto the tiled kitchen floor.
He glanced up from the counter where he was perched on a stool, making a chef's salad.
"Long day?" he asked, glancing down at her feet.
"You ought to know," she returned. "Can I help?"
"Make a dressing, if you don't have a prepared one."
"What's the main course?" she asked, digging out mayonnaise and catsup and pickles.
"Beef bourguignon. Do you like it?"
She stared at him. "You didn't mention that you did gourmet dishes."
"You didn't ask." He turned on the stool to study her. His shirt was open down the front, and she kept her eyes carefully averted. McCabe, stripped, was a devastating sight. She'd seen him that way at the pool, of course, wearing brief trunks that left his massive body all but bare. He was exquisitely male. All bronzed flesh and hard muscle with curling thick hair over most of it. Wynn didn't like seeing him without a shirt. It disturbed her. Seeing Andy the same way didn't, and that disturbed her, too.
"You look bothered, honey," McCabe commented, flicking open another button, almost as if he knew!
She cleared her throat. "I need to change first, before I start this," she said, leaving everything sitting on the counter while she escaped to her bedroom.
She closed the door and slumped back against it heavily. What was wrong with her, anyway? McCabe was the enemy. Unbuttoning his shirt wasn't going to change that, for heaven's sake!
Was she an impressionable girl or a woman? She shouldered away from the door. A woman, of course!
Ten minutes later, she went back into the kitchen and McCabe stopped with a spoon in midair above the stew and just stared.
The dress was emerald-green jersey. It had spaghetti straps that tied around her neck and across her back, leaving it bare to the waist behind. It outlined her high breasts, her small waistline and the deep curve of her hips with loving detail, and clung softly to her long legs when she walked. With her long hair piled atop her head and little curls of it hanging around her neck and temples, she was a sight to draw men's eyes.
"Do you wear dresses like that often?" McCabe asked, scowling.
"Of course I do," she said softly, and turned away. "Are you through with supper? I'll finish making the dressing."
"Not in that dress you won't," he said curtly. He moved, leaning heavily on his stick, and was behind her before she knew it. One big warm hand caught her waist firmly and held her away from the counter. "It would be a crime to ruin it."
Her body tingled wildly under his hard fingers, as if she'd waited all her life for him to touch it and bring it to life. She felt herself tremble and hoped he wouldn't feel it.
"You shouldn't be standing," she reminded him.
"You sound breathless," he murmured, and she felt his warm breath in her hair, like a heavy sigh. His fingers moved experimentally to her hip and back up again, as if they were savoring the feel of her. She wanted to lean back against him and let them inch up, slowly....
She gasped and moved jerkily away from Iiim. "I ... I'll get an apron," she faltered. "Andy will probably be here any minute, he's almost always early!"
McCabe didn't say a word. He stood quietly by the counter, leaning against it and the cane, and watched her with darkrning eyes that didn't leave her for a second.
She glanced at him nervously as she fumbled with jars and bowls and spoons. "Say something, will you?" she laughed.
"What is there to say?" he asked softly.
She tried to speak, tried to find words to diffuse the tension between them, but instead she looked into his eyes and ached all the way down to her toes. Before she could move, or run, the door bell rang sharply and saved her the effort.
She turned and walked like a zombie to the front door and opened it. Andy's brown hair was rumpled, as if he'd been running his hands through it angrily, and his dark eyes were troubled. He stared down at Wynn, but didn't really seem to see her at all.
"Hi," he murmured. "Supper ready? I'm starved."
She sighed and led him back toward the dining room. "Come and say hello to McCabe first," she said.
Andy made an irritated sound. "Does he really cook?"
"Of course I do, Andy," McCabe said from the kitchen doorway, leaning heavily on his cane. He'd done up his shirt and looked presentable again, the picture of the courteous host. Like a lion bleating, Wynn thought wickedly.
"Good to see you again, Andy," he said. He extended his left hand, the right one being busy with the cane.
Andy automatically put his own hand out, but reluctantly. "Hi, McCabe," he said coolly. His eyes ran up and down the bigger man. "Got shot, I hear."
McCabe's eyebrows went up. "Did you? I thought it was a torn ligament in the paper."
Andy flushed and glared at Wynn. "You said . . ."
"No, I didn't," she said curtly. "Did you call Ed? You did, didn't you? You couldn't take my word - ?"
"Now, children," McCabe said smoothly, "suppose we dispense with the squabbling until after supper? Heated-over beef bourguignon is so tacky, don't you think?"
Andy gaped at him. "Beef bourguignon?"
"In my humble way, I enjoy gourmet cooking," the bigger man said with disgusting modesty, almost blushing. Wynn was ready to choke him. McCabe, sounding like a society leech ...
But Andy was falling for it headfirst. He laughed easily and grinned at Wynn. She could read the thoughts in his mind, the sarcasm. Big-time war correspondent. Adventure novelist. He-man. And he makes beef bourguignon and uses words like "tacky."
"Sit down and I'll bring it in," McCabe told them.
But Wynn was horrified at the thought.
"You sit down," she said coolly, glaring at him. "I don't want stew all over my floors. How in the world do you expect to manage a tureen of that plus your cane?" She went into the kitchen, still muttering.
By the time she had everything organized and started carrying in the filled coffeepot and service, the heated rolls and beef bourguignon and salad, there was an odd silence in the dining room. McCabe was leaning back, smoking a cigarette, and Andy was looking ...
"What's wrong, Andy?" Wynn asked quickly.
He glanced at her and blushed. "Uh, nothing. Can I help?"
"No, I've only to bring the dressing." She shot a glare at McCabe as she went to fetch it.
Supper was a quiet affair. She nibbled at her beef bourguignon - which was truly excellent, wine red and thick and full of melty bits of beef and vegetables and salad - and wondered why Andy was so quiet.
"We had a bad wreck today," she mentioned, trying to break the cold silence. "Some out-of-state people "
"For heaven's sake, not while I'm eating!" Andy burst out, making a face at her.
McCabe's eyebrows went up sharply.
"Are you still squeamish, Andy?" he asked politely. "Yes, I seem to remember that you never enjoyed our biology class coming just before lunch." He leaned back with his coffee in hand and pursed his lips. "The formaldehyde was nauseating, wasn't it? And those dissections ..."
Andy had turned green and was putting down his spoon. He grabbed his ice water and drank and drank.
"Stop that, you animal," Wynn growled at McCabe. "How could you?"
"I like science," he replied imperturbably, watching Andy. "Did I ever tell you about the food I had in South America when I was covering the conflict down there a few years back? I went deep into the Amazon with some soldiers and we camped with a primitive tribe in the jungle. We had snake and lizard and some kind of toasted bugs. "
"Excuse me," Andy gasped, leaping to his feet with a napkin held tightly over his mouth. He ran toward the bathroom and slammed the door.
"McCabe!" Wynn burst out, banging the table with her hand.
He sipped his coffee. "If he can't stand to hear about your work, what will you talk about when you're married?" he asked politely. "Or do you plan to stick to conversation about textiles from now on?"
"You don't understand "
"I understand very well." He held her eyes and frowned.
"What's wrong?"
He leaned forward and turned her face toward his. "You've got a smudge, just here." His big warm hand pressed against her cheek while his thumb ran roughly back and forth across her lips. It was the most sensuous thing she'd ever experienced in her life, more sensuous than Andy's most ardent kiss. Her lips parted helplessly as she looked into his darkening eyes, and his thumb crushed her upper lip and then her lower one. She felt her eyes narrowing helplessly, her breath coming wild and fast, her mouth parting, trembling, at the blatant seduction of his touch.
"Like it?" he breathed huskily, watching her mouth.
She caught his hand and started to pull it away, but he brought her palm up to his mouth and caressed it softly, tenderly, while his eyes held hers. Oh, don't, she pleaded silently. But she was going under, and her eyes went helplessly to his mouth and she wanted it with a shocking hunger.
"Come on," he whispered, tantalizing her. "Come on, Wynn."
She was actually leaning toward him across the scant inches that separated them when the sudden sharp click of the bath room door opening sent her jerking back into her own chair.
Andy came back into the room looking pale and furious. He sat back down in his chair and took a long sip of his ice water.
"Feeling better?" McCabe asked pleasantly.
Andy glowered at him. "No thanks to you."
"Reporters do bring the job home
, Andy," the taller man commented. "It's pretty hard not to, in this business. You'll find that there are going to be times when Wynn will need to tell you about things she's seen, to save her sanity."
Andy looked at him uncomprehendingly.
"Wynn and I understand each other very well, thanks," he said curtly. "She knows I'll listen if she needs to talk."
"Of course I do," Wynn began placatingly, stilling her trembling hands in her lap.
