Hero at Large (9 page)

A college degree. That was something Chris hadn't suspected. “A carpenter with a college degree?”

“After college, I got fired from fourteen jobs. I was not your ideal employee. I couldn't stand sitting indoors at a desk. And I felt strangled in a tie. Finally, I said the hell with it all and started working as a carpenter. And here I am. I don't do much carpentry work, anymore, but I'm still in construction.” He took the freshly brewed coffee and put it on a tray. “I used to think that all these years I'd been too busy to fall in love. Now I think that the right person just never came along.” He playfully tugged at an orange curl. “I'm busier than I've ever been, and I'm hopelessly in love with you.”

“You thought you were hopelessly in love with Mary Ann Malinowski.”

“True. But you don't have the…attributes…she had,” he chuckled. “This time it must really be love.”

Chris sniffed indignantly. “There's nothing wrong with my…attributes.”

He looked at her longingly. “You have beautiful
attributes, but if I'm going to stick to my plan I'd rather not think about them.”

“Maybe your plan isn't so bad.” Chris added two ceramic mugs to the coffee tray. She looked into his clear blue eyes and felt a warm rush of pleasure at the affection she saw there. She hated to admit it, but it was nice having Ken around. And it was nice having a man look at her like that. “I'd like to know you better.”

He leaned forward and kissed her very softly. He drew away with no attempt to deepen the kiss. His eyes prolonged the moment with a silent, visual caress that lingered on her lips.

Chris thought about the second part of his plan. The part about jumping into his bed, and she wondered how she would ever last until Saturday.

Ken sighed. “I'm not even going to attempt a guess at what that smile means.”

“Maybe we should take our coffee downstairs.”

Ken leaned forward in concentration, his right hand hovering over his queen. Finally, solemnly, he moved the antique ivory carving. “Check. Checkmate,” he concluded.

Chris pressed her lips together in irritation. For the last two nights he'd beaten her consistently at chess, cribbage, Scrabble, two-handed pinochle, hangman, and Monopoly. Monopoly was the worst. He'd immediately landed on Boardwalk and Park Place, built hotels on all his property, and bankrupted her with such enthusiasm that it sent chills down her spine at the thought of him turned loose on corporate America. At least he wasn't patronizing, she concluded morosely, trying to find something positive in her latest defeat.

Ken moved the chess board from the couch to the coffee table. He glanced at his watch. “It's ten-thirty. You must be tired.”

“A little, but it's Friday and I can sleep later tomorrow.”

“Do you teach on Saturday?”

“I have a few lessons during the public skating session. And then there are freestyle sessions from four to seven.”

“About this freestyle…”

“Umm?”

“What is it?”

“That's when the competitive skaters practice.”

Ken stretched his long legs in front of him as he sank back into a corner of the couch. “I figured, but I'm not sure why it's called freestyle.”

“Freestyle refers to the type of skating. It's a time when jumps, spins, and routines are practiced. When the ice dancers train, they have their own time called a dance session.”

“Ice skating is a strange sport.”

“I always thought football was a strange sport.”

“Point taken.”

Chris curled her legs under her and watched Ken. His eyes were turned toward the fire flickering in the fireplace. His lean, hard-muscled body reclined along the contours of the couch, reminding her of a powerful jungle cat enjoying the warmth of the sun. His glossy black hair curled over his ears and joined the close-cropped beard.
His chest rose and fell slowly under a soft red plaid flannel shirt. He had learned to cook eggs, roast chicken, and bake brownies—just for her. He had kept the house neat, thoughtfully turned the porch light on to welcome her home each evening, and kept her mind occupied with games played in front of a roaring fire every night after dinner. He had followed the plan and allowed her some space to get to know him without sexual involvement. But the sexual involvement was always there. The extraordinary attraction they felt for each other constantly simmered below the surface. There were unguarded moments when raw hunger flared across Ken's face and her own skin burned with the desire to mold itself against his hard body—and he would ease the tension with gentle teasing. “Think you can make it to Saturday?” he'd taunt. Chris would assume a haughty look and tip her nose into the air. “I don't know what you mean.” And then they would both relax into smiles and chuckles.

Chris bit her lip as she studied Ken. Saturday was an hour and a half away. Her stomach churned at the thought. Nothing had changed in the past two days. If anything, it had gotten worse. She was falling in love. Hopelessly, deeply in love. Every instinct she possessed told her it was a terrible mistake, but she felt powerless to control the direction
of her emotions. Just when she needed to be level-headed and logical, she found herself once again blinded by love.

Everything about Ken seemed perfect. Even his mistakes. She cringed as she admitted to herself that she'd actually thought it was adorable when he somehow lost a pot holder in a caldron of spaghetti sauce and didn't discover it until it had been cooked into oblivion. How could she possibly trust herself to assess his character when she could think of nothing but his dark, unfathomable eyes and terrific tush? Shame on me, she laughed.

Ken opened his eyes and focused them on Chris. “Honey, that was such a naughty laugh.”

“It sort of slipped out by mistake.”

He looked at his watch. “Practicing for Saturday? You only have an hour and a half left.”

The churning in her stomach increased. Dessert rose to the middle of her throat and sat waiting for further instructions. She felt beads of cold sweat break out on her upper lip. “I'm going to be sick.”

Ken sat up. “Are you serious?”

She nodded, covering her mouth with a shaky hand, hoping to ward off nausea.

“That's impossible. You looked so healthy just a minute ago.”

“I have spent the better part of my life throwing
up.” Her voice was shaky. “I have thrown up in every ice rink in the country…and some in Europe and Canada. I have even thrown up in Japan. Take my word for it…I'm going to throw up.”

“Dammit! It was the spaghetti sauce. I knew we shouldn't have eaten it.” He leaned forward and touched her cheek. “Chris, I'm really sorry. Honestly, I don't know how that pot holder got into it.”

“It's not food poisoning—it's nerves. I always throw up when I get nervous. That's why I was so relieved to quit skating; I could never get used to performing.”

“Nerves?” His face showed a mixture of concern and amazement.

“You! Saturday,” she choked, running toward his bathroom. She slammed the door behind her and locked it. She sat on the cold tile floor and rested her forehead against the porcelain tub.

Ken knocked at the door. “Chris?”

“Go away.”

“Open the door!”

“I'd sooner die.”

“Open the door.”

“I look awful when I throw up. My nose runs and my eyes get all red and watery.”

“I don't care how you look, you idiot. Just open the damn door.”

Chris crawled over to the bowl and opened the lid. “I can't,” she croaked. “I'm going to be sick!”

 

The wet towel felt good against her flushed face. She'd seen the last of dessert and the last of the spaghetti, and she felt a little better. Ken supported her back with his cast-clad arm. He handed her a fresh washcloth. “Are you okay?” he asked gently.

She nodded. “This is so embarrassing.”

“It's a little embarrassing for me, too. This is the first time anyone's ever thrown up over the prospect of going to bed with me.”

Chris raised her eyes to his. “I'd like to make some witty retort, but I'm too sick.”

He pushed the hair from her sweat-slicked forehead. “Do you always run a fever when you get nervous?”

Chris tried to stand. She held onto the sink and swayed dizzily. “Oh boy.”

He scooped her into his arms, cursed the awkwardness of the cast, and sidled through the bathroom door with her. “I think we should get you into bed.”

She rested her head against his broad shoulder. “Jump back, Jack. I still have another hour.”

His voice rumbled against her as he carried her
up the stairs. “I'll add that to my list of your many  attractive features. Attractive feature number thirty-two: can ward off lecherous men while nauseous.” He squeezed her a little and kissed the top of her head. “It will come in handy when you're pregnant, again.”

“Pregnant again?” She thought her voice sounded small and very far away, and she was glad she was too sick to get jittery over his implication.

He flicked the light switch, bathing her bedroom in warm shades of pink and apricot. “Pregnant, again,” he repeated as he lay her down on the bed. “Don't you want to have a larger family? I had the distinct impression you enjoyed motherhood.”

She looked at him through hazy, feverish eyes. “Are you going to make me pregnant?”

He sat at the edge of the bed and removed her shoes. “Only if you want me to,” he told her softly. “When we're happily married, and you're sure it's the right thing.”

“Happily married. The very idea gives me a headache.” Chris touched her temple with her fingertips. “I feel awful.”

“My official diagnosis is flu.” He rummaged through her drawers and returned to the bed with a football jersey–style nightgown emblazoned with the Redskins emblem. “This looks like it would be
comfortable to throw up in.” He unbuttoned the shirt she was wearing and eased it over her shoulders, groaning when he saw she wasn't wearing a bra. “I'm making a monumental effort to keep my eyes above your neck,” he told her as he tugged the nightshirt over her head. “I hope you appreciate my gentlemanly effort.”

“I appreciate your gentlemanly effort.”

He reached for the snap on her jeans.

“I can do that myself!”

“Darn.”

“What about gentlemanly efforts?”

“In the last forty-eight hours I've used up my lifetime allotment of gentlemanly efforts. That was the last one I had left.” He gave a distraught glance at the shape of her breasts against the maroon-and-yellow jersey. “The least you could do is be less…voluptuous.”

Chris looked down at herself. “I can't help it. I'm cold.” As if on cue, her teeth began to chatter and goose bumps erupted on her arms.

“You need to get into bed.” In one swift movement he had her jeans unsnapped and down to her knees. He pulled one cuff and then the other and expertly rolled her under the covers.

“You're awfully good at removing ladies' pants. You must have had tons of practice.”

“I practice every chance I get.”

Chris let herself sink back into the pillow. She closed her eyes and allowed Ken to tuck the feather quilt under her chin. It was awful being sick, but it was very nice to be on the receiving end of such loving care. If Edna had been home she would have trundled her off to bed with a stern lecture about “taking care of oneself.” And when Edna wasn't looking Lucy would have brought her freshly made crayon drawings and smuggled her treats from the kitchen. A sudden wave of loneliness for the little girl washed over Chris. She felt her eyes fill with tears.

Ken perched on the edge of the bed, studying her with a concerned face. “Tears? What's the matter?”

“I—I miss Lucy!” she sniffled. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. “Goodness, just look at me—I'm pathetic…lying here, crying for my daughter. I feel like such a boob.”

Ken smiled and stroked her hair from her forehead. “You're not a boob. You're just sick, and you miss your family. Why don't we do something to take your mind off it.” He reached out and took a paperback book from the night table. “When my little sisters were sick I used to read to them. Would you like me to read to you?”

Chris looked at the book he held in his hand. It was a romance. An engraved leather bookmark innocently rested between the pages of a torrid love scene. Ordinarily, she would never have been able to put the book down at such a spot, but an especially exhausting weekend had caused her to drop off to sleep even as the hero's hand crept up the heroine's thigh.

Aching bones and throbbing head were not sufficient to extinguish the humor of the situation. Chris could barely control the impulse to laugh out loud at the idea of Ken reading her love scenes while she had the plague. It was the ultimate practical joke.
I'm an awful person
, she thought.
His offer to read to me is such a sweet gesture…and here I am snickering over the inevitable outcome.
She slid deeper under the covers, hoping to hide the horrible smile that kept creeping across her mouth. “Mmmm,” she mumbled, “I'd like you to read to me.”

He opened the book to the bookmark and scanned the page. Chris watched him closely, but his face remained impassive. He flipped back a few pages. “Would you mind if I started at the beginning of the chapter? I've never been any good at walking into the middle of a movie…or, in this case, starting in the middle of a chapter.”

Chris gave silent assent. She closed her eyes in
deference to the pounding headache and lay perfectly still, hoping to diminish the nausea. Ken read in a low, velvety voice that drifted soothingly through the fog of fever. The story was already familiar to her and required little concentration. She heard only a few disconnected sentences before falling into a restless sleep.

 

Chris opened her eyes to find sunlight splashing across her comforter. There was a moment of panic until she realized it was Saturday and she could oversleep legally. A memory of the preceding night sifted through the sluggish drowse. “Oh no. Oh darn.” She groaned softly, attempting to rise to a sitting position. She propped herself up against the headboard and broke out into a cold sweat from the effort.

“Are you okay?”

Chris turned toward the familiar rumble of Ken's bedroom voice to find him slouched casually in the overstuffed club chair in the corner of her room. He half reclined in the chair with one sock-clad foot on the floor and one resting on the ottoman that matched the chair. His red plaid flannel shirt hung unbuttoned and untucked, giving silent testimony that he'd slept in his clothes; and, from the dark smudges under his eyes, Chris
guessed that he'd slept very badly. He stood and stretched, unconsciously displaying an intriguing patch of dark hair under his shirt and a tantalizingly masculine bulge behind his zipper. Chris managed a weak smile and decided she must be feeling better. Really sick people didn't get that much plea sure just from ogling a bulge.

Ken sat at the edge of her bed and lay his hand against her cheek. “Glad to see you feeling better. You had me scared for a while there last night. You were really sick until about two-thirty, and then your fever broke.”

“I don't remember.”

“You kept calling for Bruce. Who the hell is Bruce?”

“Bruce was my dog when I was a little girl. We were inseparable. He was a huge, shaggy sheepdog that loped after me wherever I went. He died from old age when I was nine years old.”

Ken looked disgusted. “You mean I spent the better part of the night being jealous of a dog?”

“Were you really jealous?”

“Um-hmmm.” He covered her hand with his.

“I think I fell asleep while you were reading to me.”