Every Breath You Take

by Judith McNaught

  Raking her hair back off her forehead, she admitted the entire embarrassing truth. “I was upset at the possibility that I’d been tricked into having dinner with a gigolo, but then I realized you could be a lot worse than a gigolo.”

  “I can’t think of anything more repulsive than being a gigolo.”

  “No, but you could have been worse than ‘repulsive.’ You could have been dangerous. You could have been a murderer who picks up single women in hotels in the islands, kills them, and buries their bodies in the sand … or … something like that. …” Kate trailed off, feeling like a colossal idiot.

  “So you left a note for the authorities to find in case you disappeared?”

  Kate nodded miserably.

  “Because you wanted to be sure I wouldn’t get away with your murder?”

  Kate was so mortified and so annoyed with herself that she missed the thread of amusement in his deep voice. Unable to hold his gaze, she looked toward Max. “It didn’t seem quite so idiotic then as it does now.”

  For the second time in a few minutes, Mitchell had to fight down the impulse to haul her into his arms. To distract himself, he turned away and picked up the telephone.

  Startled by his abrupt move, Kate said, “Who are you calling?”

  “Room service,” he said mildly.

  “In that case,” Kate said contritely, “you may change my order to a large plate of humble pie.”

  Mitchell was still grinning when the room service operator answered his call.

  Chapter Eight

  LEAVING MITCHELL TO DEAL WITH ROOM SERVICE, KATE went into the suite’s luxurious bathroom/dressing room to clean up. Twisting around in front of the full-length mirrors that lined one wall, she brushed at the bits of grass and dirt stuck to the back of her pants, but there was a damp stain on one side that was very noticeable.

  Conscious of the passage of time, she walked over to the closet and considered her choices. Holly had helped her pack because the night before Kate was to leave for Anguilla, she’d gotten one of the fierce headaches that had been plaguing her since her father’s death. Holly had chosen outfits that were suitable for a romantic holiday with Evan, and none of them seemed completely appropriate for this particular occasion.

  Kate decided on a pair of cream silk lounging pants with a wide band of gold Moroccan embroidery at the hem and a delicate cream silk camisole with a straight neckline and narrow spaghetti straps that tied into bows on her shoulders. The outfit seemed a little too softly feminine to suit dining alone in a hotel room with a strange man, but it covered everything except her arms, and the neckline was perfectly modest, so it seemed like the best selection among the clothes she had with her.

  She changed quickly and slipped on a pair of gold sandals. At the mirror above the hammered brass sink, she paused just long enough to run a brush through her hair and put on fresh lipstick. She was absolutely determined to atone for everything she’d put Mitchell through by making the rest of his evening as enjoyable as she possibly could, and that meant not keeping him waiting alone any longer than necessary.

  The telephone began ringing while Kate was applying lipstick, and she reached automatically for the extension hanging on the wall beside the mirror; then she hesitated and let it continue ringing. Evan phoned every night at about this time, and this call was undoubtedly from him. If he was calling to explain that he couldn’t make it to Anguilla the next afternoon, then he’d probably be relieved to leave that message on the hotel’s voice mail for her. If he was calling to confirm that he was going to arrive as planned, she could listen to his message later. Right now, she had a rather urgent debt to repay to the man in the next room, and the only way she could repay it was by being the best hostess she could possibly be. That was one thing Kate knew how to do rather well, having grown up in the restaurant business.

  She took a last glance at herself in the mirrored wall behind her; then she turned off the lights and left the room.

  She expected to find Mitchell outside on the terrace enjoying the balmy, moonlit night, but instead he was standing beside the sleeping dog with his hands in his pockets and a bemused smile on his face. She stopped in the doorway, arrested by his expression, trying to guess what he was thinking, but then something else struck her: He looked as immaculately groomed as he had when he first arrived at the hotel that evening. His thick black hair was beautifully cut and styled—and completely unmussed; his snowy white shirt was as unwrinkled as his tan trousers, and his brown loafers were gleaming. He’d draped the navy blazer he’d been wearing earlier over a chair, and he’d folded his shirtsleeves back onto his forearms, but other than those two alterations in his appearance, he certainly didn’t look as if he’d helped load and unload a large, unconscious dog on and off a stretcher.

  Earlier that day, in the dim light of the restaurant, she’d been too mortified at having doused him with the Bloody Mary to do more than form an impression that he was handsome. Tonight, she’d been too busy with Max to actually study the man who’d gallantly responded to her appeal for help, but now she realized Mitchell Wyatt wasn’t merely handsome, he was absolutely gorgeous. He was about six feet three inches tall, with extremely broad shoulders, a muscular chest, and narrow hips. His face was tanned, his jaw square, his brows thick and straight above dark-lashed eyes that she already knew were a deep indigo blue.

  Normally Kate was unimpressed with exceptionally handsome men, because they were usually either vain and shallow or subtly effeminate, but this man was thoughtful and kind, and he was thoroughly male. Standing perfectly still in the living room, with his hands in his pockets, he positively emanated masculine vitality and sex appeal.

  All of those attributes, combined with his wry sense of humor and blasé sophistication, made Kate decide that he was, in every respect, the most attractive man she’d ever encountered. Glamorous, sophisticated women undoubtedly dropped into his arms when he crooked his finger at them, Kate thought with an inner smile. She, however, was neither glamorous nor very worldly, and for once she was rather glad of those shortcomings, because he wouldn’t be tempted to turn the full force of his charm and good looks on someone like her. The evening had already been nerve-racking enough without having to fend off halfhearted advances from a lethally attractive male. Belatedly realizing she’d been studying him for far too long, Kate stepped forward and announced her presence by saying the first thing that came to mind. “I’m sorry I took so long.”

  He turned at the sound of her voice; but instead of replying, he looked her over slowly from head to toe with a smile of frank masculine appreciation that was so flattering and unnerving to Kate that she had to concentrate on walking without tripping over her own feet. As his gaze traveled back up to her head, she braced for a suggestive compliment.

  “Your curls are all tamed down tonight,” he observed mildly. Kate’s nervous misgivings evaporated in a relieved laugh.

  “I tortured them into submission with a flat iron and blow dryer,” she said, stopping beside him. “How’s the patient doing?” she asked, bending down to lightly scratch behind Max’s ears. Her fingertips encountered a light dusting of a powdery substance that hadn’t been on him before, and she noticed more of it on the white carpet around where he lay. Kate glanced uncertainly over her shoulder and held up her powdery fingertips. “Do you know what this is?”

  “Flea powder. I had housekeeping bring some in while you were changing clothes.”

  “Why do you think he has fleas?”

  “Because they were dragging him toward the door while I watched,” he said drily, as he grasped her arm, urging her up. “I’d stand back until that stuff does the job or you’ll be awake all night scratching behind your own ears.”

  Surprised and touched to discover he’d gallantly taken care of yet another problem for her, Kate straightened and looked searchingly at his handsome, tanned face. She’d been uneasy about him simply because he was outrageously good-looking, and she had an impossible impulse to tell h
im that, and then to apologize for it. Instead, she said with soft sincerity, “You’re very sweet.”

  Mitchell’s reaction was sexual, not sweet; yet as he gazed into her luminous green eyes, he found himself wondering if there was actually some truth to the axiom that the eyes were a window into the soul. His attention shifted almost immediately to her full lips, but just as he started to act on his impulse to kiss them, the silence was shattered by musicians down at the beach launching into a rousing steel-drum rendition of “Jamaica Farewell.”

  Kate stepped back immediately, smiled, and tipped her head in the direction of the music coming in through the open terrace doors. “I love calypso music. Did you arrange for that, too, when you arranged for the flea powder?”

  Her recovery was so smooth that Mitchell would have actually believed she hadn’t realized what was about to happen between them a moment before, except that her skin was too fair to conceal the telltale pink tinge on her high cheekbones. Her pretense struck him as entertaining but humorously unnecessary. They were both adults, they were obviously attracted to each other; therefore, they were going to end up in that inviting king-size bed in the alcove later on. Mitchell saw no reason for either of them to pretend the situation was otherwise. “If I’d arranged for that music,” he assured her drolly, “I’d have told them I prefer a much slower tempo—at first.”

  Kate’s eyes widened at the double meaning she read into that remark. Earlier, she’d accused him of being a “fast worker,” but even if he was, he surely couldn’t intend to make flying leaps from a discussion of fleas to an aborted kiss to a blatant sexual innuendo, without pausing in between.

  Or could he?

  Kate decided her imagination was running wild and reminded herself that her goal tonight was to be a good hostess. “Let me fix you something to drink,” she said with a quick smile as she turned toward the suite’s well-stocked bar. “What would you like?”

  “Vodka and tonic if you have ice. Otherwise, plain vodka.”

  “I’m sure we have ice,” she said, and confirmed it when she lifted the top off the ice bucket. “The staff here looks after everything. They even give you chilled towels while you’re at the beach.” From the refrigerator, she removed a miniature bottle of vodka, some tonic, and a fresh lime.

  “You had a phone call while you were changing clothes,” he said.

  Kate glanced at the red message light flashing accusingly on the desk phone and opened the bottle of vodka. “I know. I’ll listen to the message later.”

  “When are you expecting him to arrive?”

  His casual, conversational tone was as startling to Kate as his astute conclusion that she was expecting a man, but somehow she managed to glance over her shoulder, smile, and answer his question as casually as he’d asked it. “Tomorrow evening, probably.” As she added ice to his glass, she waited for Mitchell to comment, and when he didn’t, she felt compelled to fill the awkward silence with added information about a boyfriend she didn’t really want to discuss with him in the first place. “He’s trying an important case in court during the day and working to negotiate a settlement between the parties at night. He flew down here with me four days ago, but the judge decided not to continue the case again, and so he had to turn around and fly right back home. He thought the case would be over quickly, but it’s been dragging on and on.”

  As Kate finished speaking, she realized the additional remarks about Evan were probably a good idea. She’d not only confirmed to Mitchell that she had a boyfriend, she’d provided enough additional facts about him to bring him into sharp focus right there in the room, where he would now be a barrier between Mitchell and her. If Mitchell’s earlier comment about the “tempo” he preferred had actually been a sexual reference, Kate knew there would be no more of those to deal with now. He wouldn’t try to kiss her again, either, and so she wouldn’t be foolishly tempted to let him. No matter how likeable he seemed or how attractive he was, the fact remained that Mitchell was a total stranger and they were alone together in a hotel room. “We’ve been going together for years,” she threw in for good measure, to further eliminate any lingering chances of overtures and temptations.

  Kate poured the vodka over the ice in Mitchell’s glass, serenely certain that everything she’d said about Evan would ensure that the lovely evening ahead would be completely free of any more unnerving sensual undercurrents.

  Mitchell watched her, completely satisfied that the lawyer boyfriend was no obstacle whatsoever to their going to bed together tonight. It was apparent to him that Kate didn’t imagine she was in love with the lawyer; women who believed they were in love gave off unmistakable signals, particularly when they spoke of their lovers, and Kate Donovan wasn’t giving off any of those signals.

  The boyfriend wasn’t even likely to be an annoying inconvenience if Kate and he also decided they wanted to enjoy each other for an additional day or two. In Mitchell’s experience, lawyers who predicted that they could successfully conclude “an important case” in a few days were either deluding themselves or trying to delude someone else—in this instance, Kate.

  In his mind, Mitchell envisioned a prosperous, middle-aged lawyer who’d managed to dazzle Kate years before, not long after she was out of college. He could have confirmed his suspicions with a few questions, but it was disadvantageous to the mood of the evening to further discuss another lover with her. Besides that, Mitchell felt it would be in bad taste for him to pry into the absent man’s personal life at a time like this. Under Mitchell’s personal code of European sexual ethics, sleeping with another man’s lover was perfectly allowable if the lady was willing. However, discussing the absent man with her was a needless and tasteless invasion of the man’s privacy. It was ungentlemanly. And Mitchell abhorred ungentlemanly behavior.

  Unaware that her discussion of Evan had accomplished exactly the opposite of what she thought, Kate added a slice of fresh lime to the vodka and tonic, and took Mitchell the finished drink. When she held the glass out, he made a silent joke about the Bloody Mary she’d spilled on him earlier by stepping back and eyeing her warily before he cautiously took the glass from her outstretched hand. Of all his attractive qualities, Kate decided she liked his disarming sense of humor best—undoubtedly because it was easier to forget his good looks and relax when they were joking with each other. Smiling good-naturedly at his gibe about the Bloody Mary, she asked the first question that came to mind. “Where did you learn to speak Dutch?”

  “In Holland,” he replied, and took a sip of his drink.

  “When were you there?”

  “When I was eleven or twelve.”

  He seemed a little unforthcoming on the subject, but Kate stuck with it anyway, because it seemed like a good conversational starting place. “Why were you in Holland at that age?”

  “I went to school with a boy whose family lived in Amsterdam, and he invited me to spend a couple of summers there with his family.”

  “I’ve never been to Europe,” Kate said as she turned away and headed back toward the liquor cabinet, “but Amsterdam is one of the places I’d especially love to see. Do you know what I think of whenever someone mentions Amsterdam?”

  “No,” Mitchell replied, studying the easy, unself-conscious grace of her walk and the way her dark red hair tumbled in a gleaming waterfall of waves and curls halfway down her back. “What do you think of when someone mentions Amsterdam?”

  She shot him a rueful laughing look over her shoulder as she crouched down in front of the refrigerator. “The same two things you do, I’m sure.”

  “Marijuana and prostitutes?” Mitchell speculated with certainty.

  She stood up with a bottle of Perrier in her hand, but instead of saying he was correct, she fumbled with the top on the bottle for several seconds, trying to get it off. Intending to offer to help her, Mitchell started forward; then he realized her shoulders were shaking with laughter and he stopped in surprise. “Whenever anyone thinks of Amsterdam,” he stated with
certainty, “the first two things that come to mind are restaurants with marijuana on the menus and prostitutes standing in storefront windows.”

  She laughed harder and she shook her head vigorously from side to side, causing her hair to shift across her ivory shoulders like a wavy crimson curtain. “That is not what most people think of,” she managed unsteadily after she finally got the top off the Perrier and poured some of the sparkling liquid into her glass.

  “What else is there to think of?” he asked.

  She turned fully toward him then, her face alight with laughter. “Tulips!” she informed him, picking up her glass and crossing the room to him. “And canals. Everyone thinks of tulips and canals when they think of Amsterdam.”

  “Not everyone, obviously,” Mitchell pointed out.

  “Apparently not,” she agreed, but she refused to concede the issue based solely on his opinion. “However, I would like to point out that when you see pictures of Amsterdam on calendars, you see fields of bright tulips and beautiful canals. You do not see photographs of menus with marijuana as an appetizer, nor prostitutes standing in store windows.”

  “The marijuana choices are listed on a separate menu,” Mitchell corrected, deriving the almost-forgotten, boyish pleasure of an innocent, lively debate over meaningless trivialities with an impertinent girl who attracted, amused, and opposed him. “They aren’t listed under Appetizers.”

  “They should be,” Kate informed him, automatically thinking like a restaurant owner. “Marijuana is an appetite stimulant.”

  “Are you speaking from personal experience?” Mitchell inquired with a knowing grin.

  “I have a college degree,” she told him breezily, and informatively, he noted.

  To stop him from pressing her further, Kate held up her hand and laughingly put an end to the subject. “Do not say another word about Amsterdam, or you’ll spoil my entire image of the place before I get a chance to see it. You’ve already replaced my blissful thoughts of red and yellow tulip fields with images of restaurants reeking of pot, and my visions of lovely canals are now visions of sleazy alleys with prostitutes for sale. Besides,” she added as someone knocked on the door, “our dinner is here.”