Mine 'Til Monday (8 page)

Dorothy licked her lips; suddenly her mouth was dry. He hadn’t worn a whole lot more than this on the tennis court, it was true, but her annoyance with him had allowed her to focus single-mindedly on beating him.

Several times, in fact.

“I’m fine,” she said tersely, averting her eyes and focusing on a tile pattern on the opposite side of the Jacuzzi. “I’ll be out of here soon.”

“Aw, come on. There’s plenty of room. Only, promise not to draw blood, okay? The way you were kicking my butt on the court, I’m kind of scared of you.”

Dorothy sighed heavily. Then watched in amazement as a swath of navy nylon fell to the deck in a small heap. Before she could stop herself she looked up, in time to see Mud in all his glory for a split second before he slid into the steaming water.

Mud’s eyes crinkled in amusement.

“Come on, Dot, you’ve seen it before. In fact, I don’t know why you bothered with that suit. I think we’re on our own back here—no one can see.”

Dorothy self-consciously fingered the strap of her black tank suit.

“It’s called decorum,” she said frostily. “A word to which you really ought to be introduced one of these days.”

“Aw, what are you saying, Dot?” Mud leaned back, arms wide along the edge of the Jacuzzi, fingertips of one hand grazing her shoulder. He closed his eyes and sighed, clearly enjoying the water. He enjoyed everything, Dorothy reflected, a little enviously; life was so uncomplicated for him.

Well, wouldn’t it be nice. But some people had to take responsibility in life.

“I’m saying you might have tried just a little harder this morning. I’m saying you might have thought first before you spoke. I’m saying that Miranda thinks I’m marrying a good-timer to whom family tradition means nothing. When it means everything in the world to her. When it might very well have been the key to this job.”

Dorothy could feel her voice catching. No tears, she willed fiercely. Don’t let him get to you.

But it was so hard. She’d worked so hard, too hard to fail now.

Mud allowed his eyelids to drift briefly open. “You’re getting worked up over nothing. Miranda and I were getting along great.”

“Yes, until she asked you about your family. Didn’t I explain how important it is that I marry someone who will live and breathe Finesse along with me? Miranda wants to pass the company along to a family, a family who will put their heart into the company, nurture it and make it grow. And here you are like some—some black sheep whose idea of a career is one tacky little storefront.”

As soon as the words were out, Dorothy wished she could take them back. But Mud’s gaze was unbroken; unreadable. He continued to regard her with just the slightest arch of his brow.

“I’m sorry,” Dorothy said hastily. “I’m really sorry. I’ve never seen your shop but I had no right to call it...that.”

“Call it whatever you want,” Mud said, shrugging. “Makes no difference to me.”

“I didn’t mean to insult—”

“The thing is, I’m not a family man,” Mud interjected, as though he hadn’t heard her. “And there’s no way I’ll convince anyone otherwise. I come from a long line of men who weren’t family men. Dad was a good father, in his way, but two guys and a procession of housekeepers don’t make much of a family, do they?”

Dorothy had no answer for that. Mud’s lids lowered a bit; he was no longer looking at her but into the clouds of steam. Suddenly his face looked weary. The lines that bracketed the corners of his mouth, lines earned with a million hearty laughs, now etched some other emotion on his face. Disillusionment, perhaps. Or longing.

“And my mother, well, I don’t know that she had any idea what the word family meant. She had me when Dad was off in Vietnam, and when he got back, she handed me back like an overdue book. There was a new guy in her life, see, and he didn’t have any interest in raising some other guy’s baby.”

“Oh, Mud.” The words escaped, barely more than a whisper, full of the ache that Dorothy suddenly felt for him. She had never known what happened to Mud’s mother. It wasn’t ever discussed, and with a child’s intuition Dorothy had come to understand early on that the topic was taboo.

“Can’t say as I blame him,” Mud said, his voice hardening. “He was young, I’m sure, like my mother. She just wanted a second chance. Well, she got it. And Dad got stuck with me. It’s all for the best, though. It never would have worked out. If my mother hadn’t walked out on Dad, I’m sure he would have walked out on her.”

The cynicism in Mud’s voice cut to Dorothy’s heart. Somehow she knew it was covering up hurts, deep hurts suffered by a little boy and carried into adulthood as secrets he’d never allow anyone to touch.

And yet he was telling her. Why?

They’d made love, the answer came to her. They’d held each other, shared the greatest of intimacy. The irritation she’d harbored melted away as she considered Mud’s secrets.

“Just because your parents did a poor job with their relationship, doesn’t mean you have to repeat their mistakes,” Dorothy offered quietly.

“Hah.” Mud laughed mirthlessly. “Nice try, Dot. You have a lot of faith in me. But I’m afraid any chance I had for being a good guy went up in smoke somewhere along the line. After I met the tenth one of Dad’s new ‘friends’ at breakfast, wearing one of his robes and last night’s makeup under her eyes. Or the twentieth, or the fiftieth. That’s love, isn’t it? It’s what qualified for love at the Taylor place, anyway. See, I learned that lesson well. I’m not a nice guy. Haven’t you heard?”

At last he looked her full on again, his eyes blazing defiantly.

“You’ve had a lot of relationships,” Dorothy said quietly. “You’ve made mistakes.”

“Hell yes, I’ve made mistakes, but not like you think. I don’t hurt anyone. I learned that from Dad: which women to pick. You look for the ones with a party in their eyes. Make it clear at the outset that you’re a free agent; make sure she feels the same way. Then you treat ‘em well, drive ‘em home in the morning. Nice and clean, and if you see her at a bar or something later, there’s no hard feelings.”

No hard feelings. That was exactly the conclusion the two of them had reached, wasn’t it? At least, that’s what Dorothy had tried to tell him during the ill-fated phone call. So why did it hurt so much when he voiced the same sentiment back to her?

Because...because she couldn’t bear to be just another in a string of his conquests. Because she was certain that he hadn’t read a party in her eyes, that night in the tiny bathroom, when he’d closed his lips on hers.

If she had to guess, she supposed he’d read everything there as her lids slowly closed on the deep passion of the kiss. That she wanted him, yes.

But also that she loved him. That he held her heart in his hands. And still he’d taken her, even with that knowledge.

Which made him the coldest, most heartless man she’d ever known.

Or...was there some other possibility? Had he felt something too, some glint of emotion that made him reach for her, hungry for more than just the taste of her skin?

The possibility refused to go away, even as she tried to reject it. After all, he’d just told her in very plain terms what women were to him. And he hadn’t excluded her from the list.

“I think I’ve been in here long enough,” she said, nauseous with the emotions battling inside her. But somehow her limbs wouldn’t move to lift her out of the water.

“Wait.” Mud stopped her with a word, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. “Don’t go. I’m sorry. You didn’t ask for my life story and I had no right to go on that way.”

“It’s okay, Mud. I’ve known you forever, remember? It’s not like you were telling me something I didn’t know.”

“Dorothy...”

Dorothy realized with a shock that he’d used her name. Her real name. Tentatively, haltingly.

“I’m not the man for you, obviously. We both know that. But I am here for you. Let’s make this thing work. Give me another chance and I won’t let you down.”

Dorothy nodded slowly. Her gestures felt wooden. Mud wanted another chance, to impress Miranda, of course, another chance to help her achieve her dearest goal of landing her dream job.

And yet she couldn’t help wistfully thinking of another kind of second chance. A second chance for both of them to draw together, to light their bodies with the flame that simmered between them, to mend the damage their hearts had suffered. To love.

But that wasn’t what Mud meant. Not at all. Dorothy reached for the side of the tub, closing her fingers on the tile, and pulled herself out of the water.

The shock of the cool air on her skin jolted her back to her senses. Without a backward glance she reached for her towel and padded back into the cottage.

Mud seized the chrome handles, squeezed his eyes shut and twisted with an almost savage yank. Needles of icy spray pelted his face, his shoulders, his torso as he let the full blast from the shower rain down on him.

The Jacuzzi was way too empty without her. Mud stayed in the water only a few more minutes after she left, letting the gentle motion of the water rock his limbs. She’d beaten the tar out of him on the tennis court, and he’d pay dearly for it tomorrow when his muscles had a chance to contract overnight. She played a hell of a game. Consistent, unwavering, she gave every ball the same focused attention, never letting her concentration falter.

She saw only the ball, the net, the arc of her racket as she returned every one of his shots. Mud, meanwhile, could barely keep his eyes off his opponent. Not that he’d stand a chance with her even if she hadn’t been wearing that little white thing, but he might have played slightly better...

White cotton against that tanned skin. Mud groaned, then seized the bar of soap and began scrubbing his arms. Her shoulders were a deep bronze where the sun had kissed them; her legs an even copper, even where they disappeared under that tiny little excuse for a skirt. A white visor shielded her eyes from view, but he’d watched her mouth, parted slightly, her tongue now and then darting out to moisten her lips as she wound up for a serve.

And the way she moved. Waiting for his return, she rested lightly on the balls of her feet, the muscles of her calves and thighs tensed and ready. And then she sprang into action, her arms gracefully arcing to prepare her shot, her compact body moving with such ease on the court that she seemed born to the game.

She’d been like that the other night. As though she’d been born to make love with him. When she’d met his urgent need with her own, moving below him with her soft cries and splendid, arching rhythm, it had been as though every need he’d ever had was met. Every desire was satisfied, his emptiness filled. His heart, so long shielded, was warmed in the glow of their loving.

He wanted that again. Wanted it now, and tonight, and tomorrow.

But even as he scrubbed his skin raw he knew he couldn’t have her.

Taylor men weren’t made to love women, not that way.

Mud suddenly remembered a conversation he’d had with his father when he was sixteen years old. It wasn’t the birds and the bees—Simon Taylor had dispatched a wealth of information on that subject with perfect ease years earlier.

This subject made Simon far more nervous, however. He’d summoned his son to join him after dinner one summer night. Mud had waited with uneasy curiosity as his father paced back and forth in the screen porch, smoking, hemming and hawing. Finally he dropped to one of the wicker chairs, bent forward with his elbows on his knees, and looked Mud in the eye.

“Women are trouble,” he’d declared without preamble. “They have this way of knowing things. They can sense weakness. They— if you let them get to you, see, they’ll take you for a fool and then leave you standing there not knowing what hit you.”

Though his father was speaking in general terms, Mud had an uncomfortable feeling he knew who his father was talking about.

He certainly wasn’t describing any of the women who came around Galeworth House. And he only knew of one woman who’d left his father before his father could leave first.

“I didn’t want to let her go, you know.” His father’s voice was deep and husky when he spoke again. Maybe it was the tobacco—maybe not. “I thought of her every day of that damn war. Wrote her letters. All kinds of crap, any thought I had during the day, I wrote it down and sent it off to her. You know, when I got back she told me she’d quit reading ‘em. Said they depressed her.

“Course that was the least of what she had to say to me. I’d never met my boy. Never met you. Took one look at you, and...” Simon’s voice trailed off, but Mud knew enough to know that a declaration of love rested in the words Earl didn’t finish speaking, and it warmed him, even as he waited in uncomfortable anticipation for his father to finish the story.

“Anyway she had everything all ready to go. Wouldn’t look at me, just showed me these boxes full up of your stuff, your diapers and bottles and whatever. Then she gave me my ring back and it was only then I saw she was wearing a different one. She was wearing another man’s ring when she gave me the heave-ho, and me having dreamed of this moment for months and months like some stupid jerk.”

It pained Mud to hear his father tell this story, but it also fascinated him, because it revealed a side of the man he’d never seen before and, as it turned out, he would never see again. A man who took chances with love, a man who gave his whole heart.

In a strange way it comforted Mud. Women, he’d come to understand, were not to be trusted. Not even his own mother had loved him enough to stay. But his father, at least, had once loved. And that meant something.

But what?

Simon had done okay. He’d been burned only once before he’d resolved never to let a woman get to him.

Well, Mud would go him one better. He wouldn’t let it happen even once.

What he’d started with Dorothy was dangerous. Their attraction was powerful, made even more so by their history, begun in innocence so long ago. He’d let the flames get out of control, until they threatened to burn down his resolve. But he’d take care of that.

There was tonight, tomorrow, and he’d do his part. He owed her as much. But it was going to be a new man who escorted her, who pretended to be her fiancé. A man who knew how to keep his distance.