Hands shoved in his pockets, he turned to look at her. "Badly. I studied badly. No. that wasn’t strictly true. I studied a lot, I spoke it badly." He figured that part was self-evident by his failure to mimic the phrases she’d tried to teach him tonight. "I got through it by the skin of my teeth, and I completely mutilated the language whenever Mr. Feldman called on me for an answer."
A bad teacher could leave a devastating mark. Margo knew. She had a feeling that was why he stumbled so badly over the words tonight. "Obviously Mr. Feldman didn’t go about it the right way."
At the time, he’d hated sitting in Feldman's class, knowing he’d be ridiculed every time he opened his mouth. But that didn’t change the facts. "No. I just have a tin ear."
When she said nothing to argue the point, Bruce figured that was the end of it.
He should have known better.
Margo got up from the sofa and walked into the next room. Returning a couple of minutes later, she placed a small tape recorder and several cassettes on the coffee table. Still not saying anything. she raised her eyes toward him.
"What’s that?" he asked suspiciously.
She gave him the answer in Italian. then smiled up at his mystified face. "l figured you already knew what the answer to your rhetorical question was in English. Tapes and a tape recorder." She spread out the tapes on the table. There were five of them, all neatly labeled in her precise handwriting. "These are simple conversational tapes. Long playing." Picking up the recorder in one hand. Margo held up the first of the tapes in the other. She extended both to him as if she were entrusting him with the care of two entities about to be involved in a sacred mating ritual. "I want you to put these by your bed at night and play them. One a night. The recorder is bidirectional, so it’ll play the tape over and over again until you shut it off--in the morning," she emphasized.
"I’ll be learning in my sleep?" For a second he thought she was pulling his leg.
But Margo was very serious. "Sometimes that’s the best way. Your resistance is considerably lower while you’re sleeping."
He raised a brow. "You think I’m resisting?"
She swept the tapes into a small bag she’d brought out, then closed it.
"Well, you don’t exactly strike me as being eager about this." But she had a hunch that was just his fear of sounding foolish. It would pass soon enough once he mastered a few basic phrases. From there his confidence should grow. "You have no idea what’s awaiting you. Italy’s a beautiful country."
He hadn’t thought to ask her before. "You’ve been there?"
She recalled the experience fondly. "I spent five months in Rome. Walker Engineering sent me to teach its key personnel the fundamentals of the language. As a matter of fact--" she smiled as the particulars came back to her "-to one of the senior engineers, Dale I think his name was, yes, Dale Hanna, swore he would never get the hang of it. He had this thick Texas twang that just poured over every word he uttered."
"And you got him to speak Italian," Bruce said dubiously.
It was one of her more satisfying accomplishments. ‘Fluently. I even got him to lose some of his twang, although it seemed to charm the Italians a great deal."
Margo smiled to herself as she thought of the country. There had been one fabulous, starlit night in Palermo she especially cherished. A fabulous, starlit night with a passionate man who had fine-boned, delicate hands like a gifted pianist. Carlo. She wondered whatever happened to him and if he was happy. She hoped so.
Her mind was elsewhere. Bruce thought, looking into her eyes. He felt oddly excluded and he found himself wanting to draw her back to this room, to him. He indicated the tapes. "And you used those?"
She blinked, coming around. "I used those." she echoed. "They came in very handy for my tougher students. I guarantee you’ll be speaking like a native in four weeks. Or at least well enough for a native to understand you," she amended with a smile when he gave her a very skeptical look.
"Only if it’s a very patient, understanding native, and I use a lot of sign language," he added. When she laughed, he felt some of his unwieldy embarrassment fade. And something else stirred in its place. It was time he left.
Bruce took the bag of tapes she handed him, as well as the tape recorder. "I guess I’d better be going. This looks like a lot to absorb."
"Like I said, one tape a night." She walked him to the door. "What about tomorrow?"
His hand on the doorknob, he turned, almost bumping; into her. She stepped back, but there was still too little room between them. "Tomorrow?" he repeated. What was she asking? "Tomorrow's Saturday."
She laughed again. He made her think of a befuddled puppy. A large, lumbering puppy who was trying to coordinate all four feet at the same time. "Yes, I know. I have a calendar. I promised Melanie I’d work at the store until one, but I’m free after that."
Oh. She was asking to get together. Why was it that she always wound up taking the lead'? And why was he so mentally clumsy every time he was around her? "Where would you like to go?" he asked belatedly.
She had an idea, but she didn’t want to spring it on him until she made a call tomorrow morning. "Somewhere where we can practice your Italian."
"I don’t know any Italian." And he doubted, despite her stubborn insistence, that he ever would.
Undaunted, Margo tapped the bag of tapes with one pink-tipped forefinger.
"But you will. Don’t forget, turn the recorder on before you go to bed." Unable to resist, she smoothed down one edge of his collar that threatened to curl up. "It’ll be painless. I promise."
Something warm was unfolding within him, something he was having trouble ignoring. He continued trying.
He shifted the tapes. Margo seemed pretty certain that she could teach him, but he was far from convinced. He wasn’t being modest when he’d told her about his Spanish class. How much more difficult would language lessons be for him now, when he really had no desire to learn?
He shrugged, his arm accidentally brushing along her breast. Heat charged up his body like Teddy Roosevelt taking San Juan Hill.
"That remains to be seen," he forced out.
"You can do it. I have faith in you." Then, surprising him, she brushed her lips against his cheek. The charge was completed. Roosevelt had taken the hill.
Bruce looked at her for a long moment, the velvet touch of her lips warm on his skin. "You would get me while my hands are full." he murmured.
Very deliberately, her eyes on his, Margo took the bag of tapes and the recorder from him. She placed them on floor beside his feet.
"They’re not anymore," she said quietly.
"So they’re not." His heart began to pound as he took her into his arms. "You do have a way of plowing through obstacles."
She turned her face up to his. "Only when they shouldn’t be obstacles in the first place."
Bruce brought his mouth down to hers, feeling more alive than he had all day. It was as if the entire day had been coming to this one instant in time, to this focal point.
He flattered himself that this time at least he was prepared for what was about to happen.
But even when you were prepared to be kicked by a mule, when the hoofs finally made contact, the jolt was still there. You still went flying.
And so it was with her kiss. She sent him flying. The only difference was, this time he knew the trip was coming. This time he was more willing to enjoy it. And maybe even
eager to enjoy it.
His hands dove into her hair, cupping the back of her head as he deepened the kiss. And managed to give her just the tiniest bit of his soul in exchange for the gift she was giving him.
Rising on her toes, Margo leaned into him, letting herself get lost in the magic his mouth wove. She began her freefall in space, confidently anchored to only one thing. The word temporary.
This was just temporary.
He was leaving. She was leaving. This was to be savored and enjoyed for what it was. A moment in time. A moment where
she was free to enjoy every nuance, every fragment of what was happening to her because there were no consequences waiting on the other side. No pain.
She moaned as she absorbed the pleasure, the excitement charging through her. Pleasure and excitement he created.
Her moan echoed in his brain, fanning the flames of his desire.
Bruce found himself in the grip of an emotion that was almost intimidating in its strength.
The kiss deepened, taking them both to the center something larger than either one of them had ever encountered before. Something infinitely sweet yet passionate and overwhelming for all that.
When Bruce drew reluctantly away, he had the comfort of seeing that she appeared as shaken as he did.
At least he wasn’t the only one who felt as if he’d just gone running barefoot through the hot springs. It took him a moment before he could talk. He found it was hard to form words when his heart was hammering loud enough to rival a pneumatic drill.
Margo drew a deep breath. That had been more exhilarating than a forty-story drop on a roller coaster. She made no attempt to hide the effect Bruce’s kiss had on her. Instead, she exaggerated it by pretending to fan herself. "Well, you kiss well enough to pass for an Italian."
Just when Bruce thought he’d turned down another corner, she amused him again. It seemed that all the corners led back to her. "They have kissing standards?"
Margo nodded solemnly. "From novice all the way up to wow-better-carry-your-own-fire-extinguisher." Drawing another breath, she let it out more slowly this time. She found it just the tiniest bit disconcerting that her pulse was will doing some very erratic things. "l suggest you stand very close to a fire hydrant when you kiss a woman over there. And then get ready to run like hell if any of her family shows up. They take kissing very seriously in Italy."
She winked.
"So do I." Bruce shook his head, his feelings still a shade jumbled as he tried to set them in order and pull them away from the direction they seemed to be going in. "I’ll be too busy working to be doing any kissing once I get there."
He didn’t mean that, she thought. Not with a mouth like that. The women would be all over him. "One should never waste a natural talent."
He cupped her cheek, fighting a silent, intense war with himself. Part of him, a very new, unfamiliar part, wanted to remain here. To explore the sensations that this woman seemed to generate within him, with her laughing eyes and her soft mouth.
But the practical side, the part of him that had been in charge of his survival for all these years, won the tug-of-war.
Dropping his hand to his side, Bruce bent down to pick up the tapes and recorder from the floor. "I’ll stop by the shop at one."
"I'll be there," she promised.
Margo had to admit that she was surprised he was leaving. She tasted raw desire on his lips. And his body, hard and lean, had certainly given her every indication that he was willing to remain a while longer. Apparently, when it came to him, she was not as good at reading signs as she usually was. And as she closed the door behind Bruce, it bothered her a little that her knees felt curiously weak.
Stopping just long enough to deposit the tapes and recorder on his bed, Bruce stripped off his clothes and went a into the shower stall. Turning up the cold water, he stood under its hard, needlelike spray until the throbbing yearning abated.
He stood there a long time.
Finally, knowing that if he remained any longer he would single-handedly start another water shortage, Bruce shut off the shower. He rubbed the towel hard against his skin, silently lecturing that he had no business letting himself feel this way.
But it wasn’t a question of "letting" himself feel. He wasn’t in charge here. There was no denying the fact that whether he liked it or not, Margo McCloud was encroaching on his territory, slipping in through cracks he hadn’t, until she came into his life, been aware were there. Now she lingered on his mind like a fragment of a song that refused to fade away no matter how many thoughts he attempted to crowd in to oust it.
His torso wrapped in a towel precariously anchored at his hip, he padded into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of Chablis. The wine was meant to help him unwind, but it fell painfully short of the mark. It did nothing to mute the haunting refrain that was Margo.
lf anything, it enhanced it.
Giving up, he decided to go to bed. It wouldn’t hurt to get a good night’s sleep for a change.
Dutifully, just before he climbed into the bed that always felt far too big to him, Bruce placed the recorder on the nightstand beside the telephone. He popped the cassette labeled Number One into the machine.
Bruce frowned. He had his doubts just how successful this method was going to be. There’d been nights when he fell asleep over his work with the television set on. Yet he’d never woken up with an overwhelming urge to crack wry political jokes like the late-night talk show host he’d been listening to when he fell asleep.
Still, Margo earned her living at this, so she had to know what she was talking about. He owed it to her to give this a chance before rejecting the exercise.
Getting into bed, he leaned over the recorder and pressed the Play button.
"Buon giorno. Good morning."
Bruce sat up, hitting the Stop button. He’d expected to hear the disembodied, artificially cheerful voice of some anonymous male or female going over the basics of the language. He had in no way been prepared to hear Margo’s voice in his bedroom. From the very first syllable, Margo’s whisky-dipped voice had filled the room, nestling in the corners and totally blanketing him with its throaty sensuality.
How the hell was he supposed to fall asleep listening to that?
It wasn’t the kind of voice that lulled you to sleep. If anything, it was the kind of voice that crept into your dreams and roused you awake.
Any good the shower had done was completely negated.
Bruce stared accusingly at the machine. If he didn’t know any better, he would have said it was daring him to turn it on again.
He had to be losing his mind. A forty-seven-year-old man, and he was imagining a game of chicken pitted against a tape recorder.
The absurdity of that aside, what was he going to say to Margo tomorrow when she asked if he’d followed her instructions? That he’d balked at hearing her voice in his bedroom? This time, he knew he wouldn’t appreciate hearing the sound of her laughter, because it would be at his expense.
He couldn’t tell her that, and he refused to lie and say he'd played the tape. not when he didn’t know what was on the rest of it. Bruce supposed he could get up tomorrow and just play it then, but that wasn’t the point of it, was it? The point was to get the sound of the words into his subconscious.
Just as she had gotten into his subconscious. With little to no effort at all.
Steeling himself, he pressed the Play button again, then reached over to shut off the light.
As he lay back on his pillow, staring at the ceiling, he decided it wasn’t humanly possible to steel himself as much as he’d need to.
Her voice came to him in the dark like a gentle lover, drifting over his body and seeping into his mind. Taking him prisoner.
Melanie stole a look in her mother’s direction. Dreams of Yesterday was enjoying an unusual spate of business this morning. So much so that she hadn’t found three minutes to string together to talk to her. It wasn’t even the number of customers, it was just that they seemed to insist on coming into the store single file, one on the heels of the other. Without Joyce, who’d gone on vacation, to assist, one or both of them were required to remain on their toes and busy.
She’d never thought she’d live to see the day that business got in her way. But it did today. She had questions she wanted to ask, questions she couldn’t ask with strangers hovering around.
Finally, just before one o’clock, the ongoing traffic within the shop experienced a lull.
Taking advantage of it, Melanie approached her mother. She attempte
d not to sound as if she was eager to hear a report.
But she was. "So, tell me. How did the language lesson go last night?"
Margo had just been thinking about that, wondering if Bruce was going to show up or find a handy, last-minute excuse to cancel. He’d looked so adorably uncomfortable, trying to mimic her accent as he repeated the words she told him.
He was a man who did "adorable" well.
"He doesn’t think he has a knack for it. But [ think he’s too hard on himself." Out of habit, she glanced at her watch, though she’d just done that a couple of minutes ago.
"He’s coming by at one and we’re going to get started for real this time. He doesn’t know it yet, but we’re going to take in a matinee of Tosca." She’d just called the Performing Art Center and was told by a beleaguered clerk that the box office still had tickets available for the 3:00 performance.
Never Too Late For Love Page 10
