Every Breath You Take (11 page)

After the silence between them, the sudden sound of his rich baritone voice had an electrifying effect on Kate’s senses, and her head jerked up. Trying to cover her reaction, she regarded him with what she hoped was an expression of amused hauteur. “I refuse to tell you that story until you’ve told
me
a story that makes
you
look ridiculous.”

Instead of agreeing or giving up, he leaned back in his chair, toying with the stem of his wineglass, and eyed her in prolonged, thoughtful silence.

Kate tried to return his gaze unflinchingly, and ended up laughing and surrendering. “I give up—what
on earth
are you thinking?”

“I’m trying to decide whether to resort to bribery or coercion.”

“Go for bribery,” Kate advised him outrageously, because the stake was merely a story and she was positive he was going to offer a silly enticement.

“In that case, I will bring a collar and leash with me tomorrow—”

She rolled her eyes in mock horror. “Either you’re a very sick man, or else you have absolutely no talent for accessorizing. Stick with neckties—”

“—And I’ll help you get your Max to a vet over on St. Maarten,” he continued, ignoring her gibe.

Understanding dawned and Kate’s laughter faded. She looked at him, filled with gratitude and the strangest feeling that they were destined to become the best of friends—that it was somehow preordained. He returned her gaze, his blue eyes smiling warmly into hers … no, not warmly, Kate realized. Intimately! Hastily, she tried to divert him with humor. “That’s a clever bribe. What were you going to say to coerce me?”

He quirked a thoughtful brow, a smile tugging at his lips. “‘You owe me’?” he suggested.

Kate felt like covering her face and ears to block out the sight and sound of him. Even relaxing in his chair, he exuded potent sexual vitality. When he laughed, he looked sexy. When he smiled, he looked dangerously inviting. And when he was silent and thoughtful, as he’d been just a moment before, he looked intriguing … and wonderful. He was so physically attractive, so witty and urbane, and so infuriatingly
likable
that she kept wanting to trust him and befriend him, even though he was probably the last man in the Caribbean who could be trusted or befriended in a hotel room, especially by someone like her. He was like a powerful, two-hundred-pound magnet, and she felt like a little paper clip, struggling against his pull but being tugged inexorably, inch by inch, across the table to him.

It was actually easier on her nervous system to distract and amuse him than it was to spend three silent seconds trying to resist him, she realized, and so she gave in and decided to tell the story.

He knew the instant she made the decision. “What did it?” he inquired with amused satisfaction. “The bribery or the coercion?”

“I’m completely impervious to bribery,” Kate replied smugly, and was about to add that she was also impervious to coercion, but before she could do that, he said, “Good. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at ten. Now, let’s have the story of your singing debut at the pub.”

With a sigh, Kate began the tale. “It was Saint Patrick’s Day, so by seven
PM
the place was packed and the singing and drinking were in high gear. I knew my father was on an errand, because he’d come upstairs earlier to get his wallet, so I snuck downstairs even though the rule was that if my father wasn’t on the premises, I was not allowed down there at
any
hour of the day. Our bartender
knew the rule, too, but the place was so crowded, and I was so little, that nobody noticed me. At first, I just hovered on the bottom step, singing quietly to the music; but I couldn’t see anything, so I moved a little farther into the room … and a little farther … and a little farther, until I ended up standing near the end of the bar. The piano was behind me and to my left, and on my right there was a middle-aged couple sitting at the bar. I didn’t realize they’d been watching me doing my little sing-along, until the man leaned over and smiled and asked me what my favorite song was. I told him my favorite song was ‘Danny Boy,’ because my daddy’s name was Daniel—” Kate reached for her wineglass to conceal her sharp, emotional reaction to the mention of the song she’d sung for her father for the last time, standing at his graveside with tears streaming down her face and mourners weeping into handkerchiefs.

“I’m not giving you much chance to eat,” Mitchell apologized.

Kate ate a scallop and some rice to give herself time to compose herself, but Mitchell barely touched his food. For a tall, muscular man who should have been starving by now, he wasn’t eating much, she realized.

“Any time you’re ready to go on—” he prompted after a couple of minutes.

His grin was so uplifting that Kate smiled back at him and continued her story without the choking grief she’d felt moments before. “The man at the bar got up and apparently gave whoever was playing the piano some money, because the very next song was ‘Danny Boy.’ As soon as it started, he whisked me off the floor onto his chair and shouted to everyone to quiet down because
I
wanted to sing ‘Danny Boy.’” Kate stopped again, but this time it was because she was trying not to giggle at the memory. “So there it was: my big moment. I was so nervous that I had to clasp my hands behind my back to
keep my arms from shaking out of their sockets, and when I tried to sing, my voice came out a squeaky whisper.”

“And that was the end of it?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Unfortunately, no.”

Eager to know what happened, Mitchell tried to guess. “You finally managed to sing louder and you were bad at it?” His smile faded as he realized how cruel a room full of drunks might have been to a child in those circumstances, but Kate shook her head no, and said with mock affront, “I like
my
ending to the story better than yours.”

“Then what’s your ending?”

“Actually, once I finally found my voice, I was okay. Good enough, anyway, that everyone got quiet while I sang, and they stayed quiet for a few moments after I finished, and then the clapping started.”

“A lot of clapping?”

“
Lots
of clapping. I naturally took that to be encouragement, so I sang another song for them—something more uplifting that I felt would also demonstrate my mastery of the Irish brogue. While I sang that one, someone gave me a green leprechaun’s hat and a fake shillelagh. And that,” she finished as she started to laugh helplessly, “is when my father walked in. Oh, my God …”

“He was upset,” Mitchell speculated, thinking her father shouldn’t have been all that upset, since she was obviously giving quite an excellent performance.

“He was a little upset,” she confirmed, laughing harder. “You see, by the time he arrived, I was no longer standing on a chair, I was standing on the bar—so everyone could see me. I was wearing my green hat, strutting with my fake shillelagh, and singing a rousing rendition of ‘Come All Ye Tramps and Hawkers’ at the top of my lungs. In case you haven’t guessed, a few of the lyrics are a little bawdy, and I was right in the middle
of that part when my father’s face appeared in front of mine.”

“What happened?”

“My voice dried up in mid-word.”

“What did your father do?”

“He whisked me off the bar, and the next day he asked my uncle to use his influence to get me into St. Michael’s immediately so the nuns there could … um … have a hand in my upbringing. Until then I’d been going to the public school because it was much closer, and taking catechism classes at St. Mike’s on Saturdays.”

Lifting his wineglass to his lips, Mitchell said, “And that ended your singing career?”

“Pretty much. From then on, my singing was limited to the church choir.”

At the word
choir
, Mitchell choked on his wine. “Thank God the nuns didn’t lure you into their convent and turn you into one of them,” he said aloud, without actually meaning to express the thought.

She chuckled.
“Lure
me into their convent? They wouldn’t have
let
me in if I begged them to! There wasn’t a rule that I didn’t try to bend or twist, and I always, always got caught, just like I got caught singing on the bar by my father. I spent the next years staying after school for one offense or another, and I practically wore out the school’s chalkboards writing things like ‘I will obey the school rules’ and ‘I will not be disrespectful’ one hundred times each. The nuns would have despaired of me completely if I hadn’t sounded so ‘angelic’ when I sang in the choir.”

Mitchell was still struggling to associate the image of an angelic choir girl with the alluring redhead sitting across from him when she added lightly, “Actually, it was probably my uncle’s influence and not my singing ability that kept me from being expelled from the fourth grade.”

“Your uncle contributed a lot of money to the church?”

“No, he contributed a lot of his time. My uncle was the parish priest.”

Mitchell stared at her in comic horror.

Tipping her head to the side, Kate studied his expression. “You look dismayed about that.”

“I’m less dismayed than I’d be if you told me you’re a nun.”

“Why would you be dismayed if I were a nun?”

The answer should have been obvious. Since it wasn’t, Mitchell decided it needed to be. He let his gaze drift purposefully to her inviting full lips, her breasts, then back up to her eyes. “Why do you suppose, Kate?”

His meaning was inescapable, and Kate felt a sensual jolt that was centralized in the pit of her stomach, then streaked like hot lightning down her legs to the tips of her toes. Her body’s reaction was so strong and so unexpected that she choked back a nervous laugh and stood up. Trying to look composed and amused, she said sternly, “Are you always so blunt?”

“I want to be sure we’re on the same page.”

“I’m not sure we’re even in the same
library,”
Kate said, nervously raking her hair back off her forehead. His gaze shifted from her face to her hand and then drifted admiringly over her hair in a way that was so flattering and so seductive that her hand stilled and she felt a flush heat her cheeks.

He noticed that, too, and smiled. “I think we are.”

Trying to dodge the issue entirely, Kate gave him a look of tolerant amusement. “You’re certainly sure of yourself.”

“Not necessarily,” he replied imperturbably. “I may simply have deluded myself into thinking you’re almost as attracted to me as I am to you. If so, I’m guilty of wishful thinking, not overconfidence.”

As if he hadn’t already wreaked enough havoc on her, he lifted his brows and said, “Those are the possibilities. Take your choice.”

You’re on the wrong page … we’re not even in the same library … you’re deluding yourself
. That’s all she needed to say, Kate realized, but with his piercing blue eyes and his knowing smile leveled on her, she wasn’t certain she could be convincing, not when she wasn’t completely sure herself anymore. Trying to wriggle out of a perilous position, she ignored his instruction to make a choice and laughingly said, “I hate multiple-choice questions. They’re so … limiting.” Before he could say another word or lure her into another trap—or onto his lap—Kate said hastily, “I want to check on Max and get some more ice for us. Please go on with your meal.” With that, she turned and fled into the suite.

Instead of stopping at the ice bucket, Kate walked straight into the bathroom, flipped on the lights, and closed the door. Bracing her palms on the vanity’s intricate tiles, she let her head fall forward and drew a long, steadying breath, trying to recover her equilibrium. But what she thought about was how it would feel to be kissed by Mitchell and held in his arms.

Frustrated with the direction of her thoughts, Kate lifted her head and scowled at herself in the mirror. How could she even contemplate a brief, meaningless sexual liaison with a perfect stranger tonight when she’d never done anything like that before? The answer was obvious: The stranger waiting for her on the terrace was like a fantasy … he was witty, charming, urbane, thoughtful, kind, and—oh, yes—breathtakingly handsome and too sexy. Even the setting was idyllic—they were on a tropical island, dining in the moonlight, surrounded with the heady fragrance of frangipani blossoms and the stirring beat of steel drums playing calypso music on the beach.
The timing was flawless, too, Kate realized, because she was about to end her long relationship with Evan.

All those things were nudging her straight into Mitchell Wyatt’s arms, tempting her to make what would probably be a bad decision she’d regret afterward. She’d never had a casual, one-night fling, not even in college with boys she knew. If she had one now, if she didn’t get a tight rein on herself, her pride and self-respect would be in tatters tomorrow.

Straightening, Kate reconsidered. She was a grown woman, and she might not feel that way tomorrow. She did know that if she decided
not
to go to bed with him, she’d probably end up wondering for months what it would have been like.

Helplessly, Kate decided not to decide. She reached for the light switch on the wall beside the telephone. The red message light flashed imperatively, insistently, and whether from guilt or caution, she suddenly felt as if she needed to find out what Evan had called to tell her. She lifted the receiver and pressed the Message button on the phone.

“You have one unheard voice mail message,”
the recording said, and a moment later, she heard Evan’s familiar, cultured voice. “Kate, it’s me. You’re probably out to dinner.” He sounded frustrated and harassed, so Kate knew what was coming next before she heard him say, “I’m so sorry, but I’m not going to make it down there tomorrow. I’m doing my best to wrap this case up, but I know you know that. There’s no way this case can drag on beyond tomorrow, so I’ll be there the day after. Count on it.”

Kate had been “counting on it” for three days already. She hung up the phone.

I
N THE LIVING ROOM, SHE PAUSED TO CHECK ON THE
sleeping dog. Bending down, she touched Max’s nose. It felt moist and cooler than earlier, and his breathing was even. Petting his head, she said softly, “How are you feeling, Max?”