A Woman To Blame (18 page)

Squeezing her eyes shut, Bryn tried desperately to get control of her wandering thoughts. Until her grandfather was safely on both feet again, the rest of her life was on hold anyway. Whatever the explanation for Rick's continued silence, she was crazy to allow herself to be torn apart like this. She fought to stay in control of her thoughts as they raced ahead unchecked. These feelings for Rick existed in a world apart from the rest of her life, and because of that, she could handle them. Besides, what good would it do for her to force him to talk about his past? She'd already tried several times anyway. What they were sharing had nothing to do with the past, and who cared about the future? The answer to that brash question left her breathless.
She
cared about the future, because she was in love with Rick Parrish.

Admitting to herself what she'd been suspecting for days, had her shaking all over. Pressing the back of her hand over her lips, she pulled in a deep breath through her nostrils, then let it out slowly. This summer on Malabar Key was about more than taking care of her grandfather. For the first time in her life she was taking care of her own needs. She had happily put the rest of her life on hold, except the part of her that filled with joy each time Rick walked in the room, the same part that died a little each time he left. Now that she'd admitted to herself that she was in love with Rick, it all made sense. So why wasn't she happier about the revelation?

With the disquieting whispers going on around her, she slid onto a bar stool with a sigh and stared out at the highway. When it came to the subject of Rick's past, she spent more time excusing his silence then truly ignoring it. Sooner or later she was going to have to confront Rick about it, because the simplicity of their togetherness had begun dissolving in a sea of unanswered questions. All the lighthearted laughter, comfortable companionship, and steamy sex weren't going to be enough to keep Bryn's fear at bay much longer. Especially since the object of that fear had been named. Angie Parrish.

Bryn sensed the rest of the committee and the several volunteers behind her still reacting to the mention of Angie with murmurs punctuated by silence. This miserable situation couldn't last forever, she told herself. It didn't.

Rick walked into the room with the rolled-up tarp balanced over one of his muscular shoulders. He winked at her, and for one glorious instant the tension within her melted into a pulsing mass of pleasure. Angie who? she thought flippantly.

"You must have been talking about me, because you all look as guilty as sin," he said, letting the tarp slam onto the floor. "What's up?"

Meek little Hazel Miller astonished Bryn with her reply. "Why, Captain Parrish, I was thinking about a community fish fry to wind up the festival week." Pointing over the railing, she added, "Right down there in the palm grove. What do you think?"

"Sounds like a great idea, but I've got to run it by the other chair. Bryn?"

This was her moment to prove to all of them that she'd been unaffected by the mention of Rick's ex-wife. Besides that, she had an idea to wind up the fund-raising event. Smiling, she turned to face the group. "Hazel, that sounds like fun. I have another idea that, I think, we could combine with yours, but I want to work on it with Rick before I bring it up for a vote."

Casting a slow glance toward him, she lowered her lashes in a private invitation he had become intimately acquainted with over the last week. He puffed out his cheeks, then blew softly through his lips.

"I'll give a listen, Bryn," he said, before turning his attention to unrolling the tarp and draping it over the far end of the bar.

If she knew Rick Parrish, he was going to approve of her idea with gusto. Picturing the private presentation she planned for Rick, she leaned forward on her elbows and smiled to herself. Just a few more hours and she'd have him alone.

* * *

"Can I turn around now and have a look?" Rick asked, scratching the bridge of his nose under the blindfold. Straddling a chair in the middle of his living room, he leaned his head back. "Bryn?"

"No. You promised not to look until I tell you it's okay to remove it. And I'll be... oops!"

Something clattered to the parquet floor behind him. Running his tongue along the inside of his cheek, he lowered his chin to his stacked fists on the back of the chair. "You brought props along for your, uh, presentation?"

"A few."

"Are you sure you want to go to all this trouble to convince me that this idea, whatever it is, is better than Hazel Miller's plain old fish fry?" Lifting his chin from the back of his hands, he started to twist around. "Bryn?"

"I'm over here," she said, close to his ear.

Her sultry voice sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine. Cocking his chin, he reached for his blindfold. "Now?"

"Not yet," she said, trailing something cool and smooth across his cheek. Her cinnamony scent invaded his nostrils, stirring his libido with familiar grace. Suddenly she was on the other side of him, close to his other ear.

"I'll tell you when, Captain Parrish," she said, before nipping his ear.

"Ouch!" he managed, reaching out in a blind grab for her. Missing her, he tried again and almost fell off the chair. Perhaps surrender would be the better part of victory. And he might maintain a shred of dignity along the way. "This is getting kinky."

"To each his own fantasies," she said, dragging what he now suspected was a piece of satin, wrapped around her fingers, below the hems of his shorts.

Squirming on the chair, he said playfully, "Well, in that case, want to tie my hands?"

"Rick!"

"Okay, okay. Want me to tie your hands?"

"Why don't you just take off that blindfold?"

Loosening her Versace signature scarf with a few tugs, he pulled it down around his neck and stared. "Cripes," was all he could manage.

Standing before him, with her bare feet spread apart, she was bracing both gloved hands on a shiny lacquered cane planted squarely on the floor between her feet. She wiggled her painted red toenails as his gaze skated up her long, tan legs. Black satiny running shorts snagged his attention for a full five seconds before his gaze meandered on to her white satin vest with the pearl studs.

Rick swallowed. Her matching white satin gloves only served to accentuate her daringly exposed flesh. "Where's your blouse?" he asked after moving his gaze back down the neckline that plunged halfway to her navel.

"In your bedroom." Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she pulled her top hat low over her brow. Tracing her red bow tie with a fingertip, she asked, "Well, what do you think?"

He started to rise from the chair. "Think? I think all the blood has left my brain and gone south."

"Down, darling. I mean, what do you think about my compromise?"

"Compromise," he murmured, totally mesmerized by her sexy costume. "I can be compromised."

"Rick, this is my idea of semiformal ball attire. I thought about a banquet or maybe a formal dinner dance." She took a step closer to his chair. "But I want a memorable affair, something different to make this fund-raiser stand out from all the rest. Past or future."

When she cupped his chin with one gloved hand, Rick recognized the smooth cool feel of the satin she'd teased him with when he was blindfolded. Now that he could see her doing it, the resulting physical response was the same—he was squirming again.

"I thought a combination of ideas might catch your interest. You see? From the waist up, everyone has to wear formal attire, but everything below the waist, in keeping with the sports theme, has to be dressed in sports clothing of some sort." Tapping her cane on the leg of his chair, she asked, "What do you think? Could people have fun with this?"

"I'll have to see," he said, standing up and tugging off his T-shirt. "Are you naked under that?"

Glancing down at her breasts, she said, "Well, of course I'm naked under this. Everyone's naked under their clothes." Exchanging her next sentence for a scream, she made a run for it when he began chasing her around the coffee table. "What are you doing?" she asked, her cane clattering to the floor again as she sprinted for the dining room.

"Practicing for the 10K obstacle course." Once he had her trapped against the dining room credenza, he lifted her up in his arms, announcing, "I win!" Nuzzling her cleavage, he set her on the edge of the credenza and unbuttoned her vest. "And now I claim my prize," he said, covering the tip of one breast with his mouth. Her tightly beaded nipple fit against the curve of his tongue like a pink pearl inside an oyster. After a moment he tasted the other one, giving it the same delicious attention before lifting his head to see her reaction.

Leaning back on one hand, she lifted her gaze to his as she skimmed her fingertips between her breasts. "What do you think of my hybrid concept now that you've explored it?"

Raising his eyebrows, he continued his meticulous perusal. "Pretty pizzazzy."

"But are you thoroughly convinced that this is the best idea?" she asked with a teasing wink.

"Not quite yet," he said, taking off her hat and tossing it over his shoulder.

"What can I do to convince you, Captain Parrish?"

"Hold on a second and I'll let you know," he said, trailing kisses down her throat and onto her breast again. He felt her hand, encased in white satin, sliding over his shoulder, pulling him closer as she dropped her head back.

"Don't wait too long," she said in a husky whisper.

"For starters, I'm convinced I like the taste of your formal half," he said, pushing her vest back to press kisses across the tops of her breasts. When she began shrugging her shoulders to slip out of her vest, he helped her pull it off. Reaching for her bow tie, he studied it a moment, then decided to leave it, and
not
explore the reason why. All he knew was that she'd put it on for him and, combined with the rest of the outfit she was half wearing, it excited the hell out of him. Running his fingers down her front, he captured her breasts, thumbing her nipples with exquisite care. He loved the way they stiffened with only a look from him, but the way they felt against his fingers and mouth was magical. Pretending seriousness, he asked, "So you're convinced that this formal half combined with this informal half will work together well?"

"Perhaps we should experiment and see," she said, inserting a gloved finger between his lips. When he caught a piece of satin between his teeth, she began working her hand out of the glove. In an agonizingly slow minute she managed to peel the white satin down her arm and withdraw her hand while he kept the glove in his mouth. Lifting her off the credenza, he turned toward the bedroom.

"Not the bed. This is starting to feel like more of a floor experiment," she said, taking the glove from his mouth and motioning toward the rug nearby. They were both out of their shorts and kneeling face to face in a matter of seconds.

"Your experiment or mine?" he asked, after a long hot look from the nest of auburn curls at the apex of her thighs to the bright red lipstick still coloring her lips.

"Mine," she said, pushing him back on the rug. Picking up the glove she'd dropped, she dragged it down his naked body until she produced the effect she wanted.

Tossing it aside, she drew her other fingers, still gloved, over him, stroking him boldly. When she heard the hiss of air being sucked between his teeth, she changed hands, gentling her touch as her skin met his. "I think this combination is having a satisfactory effect," she said in a breathy whisper.

"Uh, I think this is moving out of the realm of satisfactory and into something spectacular."

"You appear to have the evidence to support that theory, Captain." When he didn't have a quick retort, she continued. "Isn't compromise wonderful? A little something from me, a little something from you, and before you know it," she said, bending low to run her lips across his flat, hard stomach, "everyone's having a wonderful time. What do you think, Rick?"

Pushing up on one elbow, he rolled her onto her back, covering her mouth with a long, slow kiss. He raised his head enough to speak. "I think I can better answer that question once I find out what the informal half of you tastes like," he said as he lowered his mouth to her navel and then below.

* * *

He watched her from his deck a week later as she transplanted petunias into the planter near the bottom of the stairs. Over the past few days she'd become quieter. At first he thought it was the relaxed feeling between them that didn't demand a constant stream of conversation, but her reflective mood had begun to worry him. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was withdrawing from him. But he did know better. Every night they became closer in their profound physical intimacy.

Walking down the stairs, he sat on the second step from the bottom. "I thought Rita was going to leave the meeting the other night to run home and start putting together her outfit for the ball."

Scratching the soil with the three-prong gardening tool, Bryn nodded. "Everyone thought the idea sounded like fun. By the way, Liza called to ask if you'd get in touch with Wigglin' Willie to add the ball to his announcements."

"I already took care of that."

An anxious silence hung between them, at least he felt anxious with it. Leaning back on his elbows, he rested an ankle on his knee. "That planter hasn't had flowers in it in years," he said.