Friday's Child (21 page)

He forgot his desultory search in the phone book and leaned back in his chair. The knot in his gut seemed a permanent fixture, caused by uncertainty. He needed to know what she was thinking, what she was deciding. Their future depended on her decision, and because it did, he couldn't call her. He'd promised Kate time without pressure. He hadn't realized how difficult it was going to be to live up to that promise, but he was going to do so if it killed him. Which it seemed to be doing, in torturous, bloodless increments.

His intercom sounded, and he slapped his palm against it,
turning it off. He didn't want to see anyone else at his office. There was only one person he wanted to see,
needed
to see, and that one person was denied to him, at least for now.

His office door opened then, and when he looked up, he thought for a moment that his imagination had obligingly conjured up the woman who had filled his mind.

“Kate,” he breathed. She looked every bit the vision he'd first thought her. Her hair was piled on top of her head, probably in deference to the heat outside. She was wearing a one-piece black short outfit that ended several inches above her knees, with matching sandals. He decided she could wear sackcloth and look as if she'd just stepped off a runway.

“Hello, Michael.”

She shut the door in back of her, and the motion finally snapped him out of his self-induced reverie. He rose from his chair and rounded his desk, stopping to lean against its corner. She was here, as if he'd summoned her by the fierce need inside him, and suddenly anxiety was crowding aside his pleasure at the sight of her. His mouth went dry and his palms became clammy.

“I was at the library all day, but when I called your house, no one answered. I took the chance of catching you here.” When he didn't answer, her gaze finally settled on him. “I hope that's all right.”

“Yes.” The word had to be forced from his throat, so he cleared it and tried again. “I've been wanting to see you. Talk to you.”

“You didn't call, though.”

“You asked for time.”

She nodded and fiddled with a tendril of hair that had refused to stay restrained. It framed her jaw in a soft spiral. It finally occurred to him then that she matched him for nervousness. He couldn't for the life of him decide whether or not that was a good sign.

When he spoke there was none of the gut-wrenching anxiety he felt, none of the need, only mild curiosity in his voice. “You needed time, you said, without pressure, to think about us. What did you decide, Kate?”

His question hung suspended in the air between them, an invisible challenge. Almost as soon as it left his mouth, he wanted to call it back. If she was here to tell him it was over, he was in no hurry to hear the words. But the uncertainty he'd been living with was as vicious as any ending could be, and he was not a man to endure either patiently.

She left her position at the door and moved into the room, skirting his desk to move toward the long table where they'd sat at their first meeting. Trailing her fingers over the backs of the chairs, she finally responded to his question. “I've decided that I'm a coward.”

He shook his head. “No.”

One corner of her mouth curled wryly. “Oh, yes. It's far easier to push you away than to decide what I really want.”

The air in the room was suddenly in short supply. “Are you through pushing?”

Her gaze met his for the first time since she'd entered the room. “Yes.”

He closed his eyes for a second, relief welling up inside him, so sharp that it threatened to choke him.

“I don't know if it's fair to you,” she continued in a low voice. “I'm nowhere close to accepting your proposal. I don't know what my decision will be or when it will come.”

He could look beyond her doubts and see the confusion in her eyes, and the protectiveness bubbled up inside him, demanding a release. “Take all the time you need.” He wanted to wipe that worry from her lovely face, so he let one corner of his mouth quirk up. “I promised you no pressure, remember? You're in control. You're top dog. Head honcho. Chief banana. Do with me as you will.”

Her expression lightened a fraction. “Don't be a jerk, Michael.”

With mock seriousness he replied, “I'll try very hard not to be, Kate.” He savored her sudden smile and the accompanying kick in the chest it brought him.

She walked toward him and curled her fingers around his. Settling his hips more comfortably against the desk, he drew
her slowly to him and rested his forehead against hers. “I've missed you,” he murmured.

Her eyes squeezed shut. “Me, too.”

He reached out with his free hand, skimming the back of his knuckles along her delicate jawline. He found the exquisitely soft skin below her ear and traced a fingertip there. “We'll take it as slow as you want,” he murmured, and meant it. “You'll get all the time you need, but not distance.” His arms closed around her then, and he was grateful when she leaned into them willingly. “I can't stand one more hour wondering when I'm going to see you again.”

Her head tilted up so that she could meet his eyes. He fancied that he could read a slight lessening of doubt in them. “I can't give you any guarantees.”

His answer was spoken against her lips. “Life's a series of risks.” And then his mouth sank onto hers. Relief, hope and need tangled inside him. He let himself drown in the pleasure of touching her, letting her taste, her smell, the incredible softness of her skin combine into an explosion of sensations that stripped his mind clean. The need for her was instant, and their time apart had it honed as sharp as a knife.

When she tore her mouth from his, his lips followed demandingly. But her words stopped him. “There's one more thing.”

He took a deep breath and consciously loosened his hold. “More conditions, Kate?”

“You might think so.”

Because he didn't trust his hands not to fist, he released her to grasp the edge of the desk in back of him. “Okay, let's have them.”

She fumbled with her purse, and he took great satisfaction in noting that her hands were inclined to tremble. But that small measure of satisfaction was wiped away when he saw what she was taking out and handing him.

A check. He read the amount but didn't reach for it. His gaze met hers, and he observed the determination there.

“Take it. There will be one every month until I've paid you back for those improvements you made at my condo.”

Temper threatened to shred the earlier vows he'd made about patience. “Why would you pay for security measures you never wanted in the first place?”

Her eyes were clear and her gaze steady. “My house, Michael. My responsibility.”

Responsibility. He'd learned the hard way how she felt about it, how she felt about maintaining control over her own life. The thought of her having to strain her budget to pay him back for his stupid blunder made his jaw tighten. She would insist that he accept it because she wouldn't be obligated to anyone. Another thought occurred to him then, and he flicked the check with one finger. “Maybe this won't be necessary.”

“It's very necessary…” she started tartly, and he laid his fingers against her lips.

“What I'm thinking is that we can sort of trade services.”

Her eyes above his hand narrowed suspiciously. He smiled at her, slow and engaging. God, she was lovely. “I kind of got myself in a bind today, and I could use some help.”

She pushed his hand away. “I'm not much good at corporate takeovers.”

“But you're great at decorating.” Quickly he told her about the upcoming open house.

“Michael, that's only three weeks away. How are you ever going to find a firm that can get things ready that…oh, no.” She put a hand up to ward off his wheedling smile. “You can't possibly expect me to—I don't know anything about decorating a house!”

“There really wouldn't be that much to do,” he said, trying to convince her. “The rooms are painted, the floors are ready, I mainly just need furniture. We'd concentrate on the downstairs rooms that the people would see.”

“But these things take time. Ordering furniture, having things upholstered…”

“I've found that if you wave enough money, vendors are willing to do the impossible.” He leaned forward to place a kiss on her lips, stemming her next protest. “Do you know how much money I was prepared to flush for a designer?
Knowing that I'd probably hate what he or she came up with? This is a chance for you to wipe out your ridiculous notion of owing me and help me make my house into a real home while you're at it.”

The thought appealed to her, he could tell as he watched the emotions flit across her expressive face. Pressing his advantage, he murmured, “I already know that I like what you've done to your condo, and it would give us some time to spend together. You could take me to see the pieces you're considering.” His arms slid around her waist, drawing her to stand between his legs. His lips went to her neck.

“I suppose we could get a few rooms done in time,” she mused. “But it's going to be time-consuming. And you'll have to tell me what you like.”

“Okay.” His lips cruised up to her ear, and he whispered several colorful suggestions.

“Michael!” The hue in her cheeks deepened and she brought her palms up to press against his chest. “I meant your taste in furniture, not your lurid fantasies.”

“You should be more specific.”

“And you should be caged.”

“That sounds fun, too,” he said agreeably. He nibbled at her neck until the shudders started in her. Then he brought her closer and swept one hand up inside the loose pant leg of her shorts. His fingers explored, and then he touched silk encasing firm, rounded flesh, and he wanted.

He'd spent his life wanting. As a child his wants had been simpler—a better place to live, enough food on the table and more money for his mother. As he'd matured, they'd changed, as well. A home, money, a family and the ability to protect those he cared about.

He was used to the wanting, but the craving was new. It clawed a deep, ragged furrow through him, twisting aside any attempt to harness it. It was the craving for one woman, this woman, and he knew nothing could ever tame it, and no one but she could slake it. It should have been frightening, but instead, bursts of exhilaration dragged in its wake.

He heeded the last semblance of sanity still swirling in his
head and tore away from her, striding across the room to lock the door before returning to Kate.

“Nosy secretary,” he said by way of explanation, and crowded her against the desk.

Her hands went around his neck without urging, one hand sliding to tangle in his hair. He debated searching for the pins that held the mass of curls on top of her head, but instead he lost himself in the smooth white curve of luscious neck the hairstyle bared.

The need reared up in him, raging and fierce. He went still in her embrace, struggling to control it. There had been too much at stake here today, too many emotions racing beneath the surface, colliding and careening inside him. Control was necessary, because without it his emotions would consume him, consume them both.

Kate's mouth found his and made a mockery of his struggle. Her mouth was avid and heated, and his tongue stabbed its satiny warmth. The kiss was long, deep and wet, and long before it was over he'd forgotten the need for control.

Impatient hands tugged the shirt from his jeans, and his body jolted as they skated up his sides, a long, sensuous glide. He pulled the shirt over his head, and the feel of her hands on his chest triggered the urgency he'd tried, and failed, to suppress. Every clutch of her hand, every gliding caress stripped away layers of manners and carefully cultivated civility, leaving exposed someone he didn't even recognize.

With his hands beneath her hips, he lifted Kate to the edge of his desk, then pressed her knees apart and stepped between them. There was something raging inside him, the craving, the need for her. If he'd seen even the tiniest bit of hesitation on her face, perhaps he could have slowed, could have pulled away. But her expression was fierce, her hold on him more so.

Her fingers found every curve and hollow on his chest and shoulders, and her mouth followed in their wake. He heard her moan, a low, urgent demand of need, and the sound snapped whatever slight hold he had on the civilized. He
found her mouth with his and devoured it, even as one hand found a silky thigh and followed it to heat.

He swallowed her gasp of pleasure and let the weight of his body absorb some of her shudders. With the tips of his fingers he flirted with the lace-edged panties, knuckles rubbing against the dampened silk. Her body twisted under his touch, straining upward. Deliberately he stilled, lifting his mouth from hers, waiting for her eyes to flutter open. Then his fingers delved further, burying themselves in the fire he'd ignited, and he watched her eyes unfocus.

He caught her cry in his mouth, pressed closer to her as her hips bucked frantically against his probing hand. His vision grayed, and he shook his head to clear it. He wanted to watch Kate, see her lose herself in pleasure, watch her face as the sensations carried her up to the precipice. With one deft, sure motion, he sent her hurtling over the edge and greedily drank her cry of release. Then he drove her up again.

With shaking, clumsy hands, he unbuttoned her clothes, baring the scraps of lace she wore beneath. He pushed the fabric down her creamy shoulders, following its path with his mouth. With more urgency than finesse he removed the garment from her, and it pooled, forgotten, at their feet.

The filmy undergarments were meant to entice, but he was past teasing. Her bra was released and pushed away, and his mouth closed urgently on her breast. He lingered there, drowning in the taste and smell and softness of her. The flavor of her skin was hotly exotic, and he could dimly hear the dazed whimpers that caught in the back of her throat, while her heart rocketed beneath his lips.