Mismatch (12 page)

“Oh, Wade, I want you,” Bronwynn whispered, dragging kisses down the strong column of his throat. She inhaled his musky masculine scent, then sighed at the feel of his arousal probing gently between her legs, seeking out the aching emptiness he knew would welcome him. “I want you inside me. Deep.”

“Then take me, sweetheart,” he said, reaching between them to position himself for her. “Take all of me. Now.”

Bronwynn leaned back and eased down on him slowly, savoring their union an inch at a time, pausing when she was filled with him. Wade’s hands splayed at her waist, biting into her flesh when her hips rotated on him. He lifted her, then pulled her back down. She moved on him rhythmically, wantonly, holding nothing back, rushing toward the brilliant burst of fulfillment she knew she would find with Wade—only with Wade.

When it came, the star burst of color in her head was more vivid than that of the kaleidoscope she’d looked through earlier, and it went on and on and on.

Wade let his hands wander up Bronwynn’s body. Her skin was hot and damp from the fever of physical need. Her breasts swelled in his hands. He’d forgotten they were lying under a sheet of old kitchen wallpaper. He’d forgotten everything but Bronwynn—her beauty, his wild hunger for her, her unreserved giving, the feeling of her body tightening around his as he throbbed first with need, then with fulfillment. He wanted to tell her everything he was feeling, wanted to put a name to it, but it was so unique in his experience, words escaped him.

Bronwynn knew the word. It tasted sweet on the tip of her tongue. But she didn’t say it. She was almost certain she’d fallen in love with Wade
Grayson, but experience had left her confused, unsure
of her ability to see such things clearly. Undeniably there was something special between them, a bond that went deeper than friendship, a closeness that transcended physical intimacy. Mere attraction would never have withstood their differences of personality and philosophy.

It had to be more. Once she had resolved the questions about her past, she would know. She could sense it.

She smiled at him as he drew her down, inviting her to stretch out on top of him. Her lips hovered just above his, a hair’s breadth away from a kiss, when something caught her eye.

“Uh—Wade? We have company,” she said, biting back a chuckle as she peered out from under the tent the old wallpaper had made over them.

Wade twisted his head around to look out the screen door. Two pair of shiny black eyes stared back at him. Tan triangular ears twitched back and forth curiously. Striped tails curved like plumes against the floor of the porch. The little raccoons chattered at each other in what sounded like a comical stage whisper. One sat back on his haunches and whinnied while the other worked his nimble fingers at the new patch in the screen door.

“Apparently, they have no respect for privacy,” Wade said, pulling the sheet of wallpaper close
around Bronwynn’s shoulders.

“What’s a little privacy compared to the lure of a bag of Cajun-spice potato chips or a box of Twinkies?” Bronwynn asked, staring at Bob and Ray.

Booming strains of “Fun, Fun, Fun” sounded then, heralding the arrival of yet another guest.

“Great,” Wade said, groaning.

Bronwynn’s fair complexion blushed a shade that almost matched her hair. She and Wade were on the kitchen floor, wound up in old wallpaper like some kind of weird double mummy. It had been embarrassing enough to have the raccoons see them.

She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “This is what we get for being spontaneous.”

“There you are, you little bandits,” Wizzer said, climbing the porch steps. While they were distracted by the goings on in the kitchen, he snatched up Bob and Ray by the scruff of their necks. He ignored them as they hissed and growled at him, but held them out away from his sides as if they were a pair of buckets.

“Hi, Wizzer,” Bronwynn said with a sheepish smile.

“Wizzer,” Wade said.

Bralower’s brows wriggled like a pair of wooly caterpillars above his glittering blue eyes as he took in the scene on the kitchen floor. His mustache began to twitch. Finally, he gave a great shout of laughter.

“My ex-wife always told me wallpapering was a two-person job.” He turned away and headed down the porch steps, kilt swinging jauntily, a squirming raccoon in each hand, his broad shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “If only I had known . . .”

EIGHT

“B
LACKMAIL IS AN
ugly thing.” Wade said. “Are you sure you want to give in to this, honey?”

Bronwynn looked over her shoulder at him from her perch three steps up on the ladder. “I don’t think I have a choice. It’s a lot easier for me to give in to their demands than fight them. They won’t leave me alone.” She stuck three nails between her lips and talked around them. “I’d rather give them a regular supply of cat food than have them raiding my kitchen every night. Wizzer’s getting sick of carting them back to the woods. They obviously aren’t going to stay out there. Building this little
chalet for them will at least keep them out of the carriage house and out of my car. I hope.”

Wade leaned back against Bronwynn’s pickup, his elbows resting behind him on the hood. He studied the design of her coon chalet with the critical eye of someone who had been forced to take woodshop in high school and had ended up liking it. Her basic plan was a good one. A platform jutted from the side of the carriage house. There would be a ladder leading up to it and a small A-frame shelter on top. Bronwynn was working on the shelter as they chatted.

He was not going to get involved, he told himself resolutely. Bronwynn’s little projects, not to mention Bronwynn herself, had distracted him from his own duties too often. In another two weeks he had to be back in Indiana, and he had to be caught up by then. He was going to leave her to her crazy scheme right away and go see to those figures on child care for middle-income families.

His feet didn’t move. Wade glanced down at them. The sneakers that had looked so foreign on him the first day he’d worn them were now comfortably broken in, a little battered, a little dirty. His jeans hugged him, the denim bearing the kind of creases that came from frequent wear, lines of
light and dark color behind the knees and where thigh met groin.

He wasn’t moving, he realized, wasn’t rushing back to his house to dig into a pile of paperwork. He was relaxed, truly relaxed. The very thing he had dreaded, the very thing he had been sent up there for had happened. His nerves had unwound—not sprung as he had feared. He actually felt good. He couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d popped an antacid tablet. He even had a tan.

And he had Bronwynn to thank.

A little frisson of nerves cracked his calm. Was it acceptable for him to feel so relaxed? Was it going to take away from his job performance if he had a vacation, or was it going to enhance it? What was going to happen if he didn’t memorize that massive Pentagon report? he wondered.

Nothing. He was good at his job, knowledgeable about the issues. And he had a staff that was eager to help lighten his load of memorizing facts and figures. He never had been expected to shoulder the burden alone by anyone—except himself.

He focused his attention on Bronwynn who was
getting ready to nail on one side of her raccoon retreat.
Her flame-red hair was caught up in a haphazard
ponytail. She wore indecently short cutoffs that displayed her long legs to perfection. An old royal blue bowling-team shirt completed the outfit.

What was he going to do about her? The thought of leaving her behind didn’t exactly overjoy him. His mouth tilted at one corner in a wry smile. He’d certainly made an about-face for someone who had sworn up and down he didn’t want to get involved with a squirrelly redhead, even if she did have the greatest legs this side of Hollywood. He was involved now. He was in deep.

But how deep was Bronwynn in? Was it fair of him to expect any kind of commitment from her so soon after her catastrophe with Ross Hilliard? And what about Foxfire? She loved the place, needed it for a sense of stability and a sense of purpose. Would she leave it if he asked her? If they pursued their relationship, would it survive outside Vermont, or would their differences ultimately pull them apart?

He didn’t have the answers to those questions. What he did know was she was sweet and caring. She was close to being certifiable, which made her exasperating but infinitely interesting to be with. She was fresh and innocent and just looking at her made him hard and hungry.

Wade tore his gaze from the backs of her knees
and focused on her hands in an attempt to head off the rush of desire that was shooting from the pit of his belly to his brain.

“You’ve got too much angle,” he said. “You’ll have an A with a left-handed slant if you leave it that way.”

Automatically Bronwynn moved the piece of particleboard and glanced over her shoulder at Wade for his approval. She narrowed her eyes as she watched him light a cigarette, turning back to her project as he raised his head. Wade watched her carelessly plant a nail. Singing along with the radio, she swung the hammer with gusto, narrowly missing her thumb and the nail.

“Let me do it,” he grumbled, grinding his cigarette out on a rust spot on the Blue Bomb. “We’d both be better off if I never let you get your hand on a tool.”

Bronwynn hopped down from the ladder and gave him a sexy smile. “That’s not what you said last night.”

Wade snaked an arm around her waist as she brushed against him on her way past. “Vixen.” The word came on a hoarse chuckle from low in his throat as he nipped at the side of her neck.

Bronwynn hugged herself on her way to sit on the hood of the truck. She loved the tingles that raced over her whenever Wade touched her. For that matter, he didn’t have to touch her to set them off. It took nothing more than a smoldering look from his whiskey-colored eyes, or a word in his smoke-edged voice. He made her feel things she had never felt with any other man.

The question was, what was she going to do about it? She knew perfectly well Wade’s presence in the house down the road was only temporary. He would be going back to Indiana soon, then back to his high-pressure position in the nation’s capital. What would become of the relationship they’d begun? She couldn’t think of it as a short-term affair. Wade meant much more to her than a great sex partner and irascible yet pleasant company. She wanted to believe she was in love with him, but uncertainty held her back. Even if she had been able to say for certain, it didn’t guarantee Wade would feel the same way.

How many times had he pointed out their differences? He was intense, staid, and career oriented. She had always coasted, letting life take care of itself, and, while she hadn’t precisely flaunted convention, she certainly didn’t follow it rigidly. Could she fit into Wade’s ultraconservative world? More importantly, would he feel comfortable with her there?

Of great interest to her was the fact that she had never really worried about how she would have fit in with Ross’s colleagues. She hadn’t wondered, not because Ross had given her any assurances, but because it hadn’t been important to her—just as Ross hadn’t been important to her in the way he should have been.

Oh, Lord, she’d tricked herself into thinking she had loved Ross when she hadn’t. Now she wanted to believe she was in love with Wade. What if she wasn’t? What if she was? How was she supposed to know for sure?

She pulled a granola bar out of her hip pocket, tore open the wrapper, and bit into it. Chewing thoughtfully, she wondered if it was possible that she wanted to be in love, needed to be in love to fill the void her parents had left when they’d died. Wade had pointed out that Ross had been safe, that she had used him as an emotional anchor at a turbulent time in her life. Was Wade serving the same purpose? Was she going to make a habit of using men as toeholds to get her up the rocky slopes life placed in front of her?

No, she thought. What she felt for Wade was too
strong, too unexpected. She had come to Vermont wanting nothing to do with any man. Wade had come right out and said he wanted nothing to do with her. They had become involved almost in spite of themselves. That fact alone was a testimony to how real their feelings for each other were. Wasn’t it?

“Have you decided what you’re going to do with the house yet?” Wade asked, hoping he sounded more nonchalant than he felt. He glanced over his shoulder. Bronwynn’s expression was unusually somber.

“Not precisely. There’s still so much work to be done, I figure I have plenty of time to make up my mind.” She looked at the house. Next week she had a crew coming to install new windows. Soon the sagging porch would be repaired and the rotting gingerbread trim replaced. Then the exterior would be painted while she continued work inside.

Pete Lewandowski, a local handyman, was, at the moment, on a scaffold on the far end of the house, using a small torch to strip the layers of alligatored paint off the ornate wide-board trim. Bronwynn had watched him for part of the morning, as he patiently heated the thick crust of paint
then scraped it off.

“You think you’ll stay here awhile, then?” Wade asked.

Unless you ask me to leave with you.
“Yes. You know I love it here.”

“Yes, I know.”
But would you leave if I asked you to?

He laid the hammer down and turned to look at her. If he hadn’t believed it at first, he believed it now: Bronwynn belonged here. Her privileged birth didn’t matter, her high life as an international model didn’t matter. She belonged here, just outside Shirley, Vermont, in a house that was part fairy tale, part relic.

Uncomfortable with his intense scrutiny, Bronwynn shrugged, summoning up an impish smile. “It would make a wonderful bed and breakfast inn. Or a home for unwed mothers, or an artists’ commune. Or maybe I’ll stay here and raise sheep and become an eccentric old maid.”

“I can’t argue with the eccentric part,” Wade said, stepping off the ladder and sauntering toward her. She offered no resistance when he reached up, placed his hands on her waist, and slid her down from the hood of the truck. He pinned her between the Blue Bomb and himself, molding her body to his. “But that old maid business would definitely be a waste.”

“You think so?” Her voice sounded as smoky as his.

Wade kneed her thighs apart and stepped between. His hands sliding down her back to her slim hips, he pulled them tight against his own, letting her know how quickly and how intensely she could arouse him. His mouth took hers in a kiss that was hot and demanding. His tongue slid against its feminine mate, boldly staking claim.

“I want you, Bronwynn,” he said, his voice dropping to a guttural growl as he dragged his mouth from hers. Their future together may have been uncertain, but they had here and now.

His fingers speared into her hair, loosing the fine strands from their ponytall. His gaze locked on hers, her eyes so exotic with their almond-shaped tilt. They glittered like jewels—an emerald and a sapphire—glazed with sudden passion. Damn, but she made his blood burn. No other woman had inspired such a reckless sexuality in him. She did it with a look. “I want to take you right now, right
here.”

“Oh, Wade.” A whisper was all she could manage. She suddenly felt about as strong as an overcooked noodle. If Wade hadn’t had her locked against him, she probably would have slithered down the side of the truck into a boneless heap on the lawn. She couldn’t resist him, and she didn’t want to. It didn’t matter that a loose piece of chrome was jabbing her in the back.

A wicked chuckle rumbled low in Wade’s chest. He ran a hand over her hip and teased the top of her bare thigh with the tips of his fingers. “You’ve been driving me crazy running around in these cutoffs. Do you have any idea what it does to me to look at your legs?”

“What?” she asked on a breathless whimper.

“It makes me ache to be inside you,” he murmured in her ear.

“What’s with you two?” a booming voice fairly shouted across the lawn. Wade’s head snapped up. Wizzer strode toward them from the woods, his kilt, striped socks, and cotton shirt with billowing sleeves a blaze of red against the green of the forest. His blue eyes twinkled merrily. “Every time I come here I catch you two in a clinch.”

“Maybe you ought to call ahead,” Wade suggested through gritted teeth. He eased away from
Bronwynn to lean his elbows on the hood of the truck. Bronwynn tried to scrub the blush from her cheeks with the heels of her hands.

Wizzer laughed heartily, as if Wade’s suggestion was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard. “Where do you suggest I call from?”

Wade flashed his even white teeth. “I hear Rangoon is nice this time of year.”

“You want me to go there and miss all this fun?” Wizzer grinned unrepentantly and thumped a hand on the side of the pickup. “Grin and bear it, College Boy. You’re young. A little frustration is good for you, keeps you hungry.”

Wade’s muttered opinion of that bit of wisdom brought another chuckle from the hermit. Mimicking Wade’s stance on the other side of the truck, he plunked a plastic container down on the hood and shoved it across. “Hey, Red, did you pick up those batteries for me? I haven’t been able to listen to my Beach Boys tapes for two weeks. I’ve forgotten the words to ‘Surfer Girl.’”

Wade peeled back the lid on the container and made a face. “Uck! What is this? It looks like something the cat coughed up.”

“Marinated fern fronds,” Bronwynn answered. “Wizzer says they’ll be good for your stomach.”

“As long as I don’t eat them,” Wade added under his breath as he stared with distaste at the green balls swimming in vinegar.

Bronwynn pinched his bottom. “Don’t be such a baby. Did you pick up those batteries?”

“They’re in my car.”

The three of them strolled to the front of the house where Wade’s Lincoln was parked. The driver’s door stood open. Tucker sat behind the wheel, panting happily until he saw his master. Immediately he slunk out of the car and crawled under it. Muffin stood on the hood, methodically shredding a carton of cigarettes. She looked up and bleated a greeting with a cigarette dangling from her lip.

Staring into the car at the demolished brown paper bag and the animal footprints all over the beige leather interior, Wade felt his blood pressure skyrocket. He muttered an awe-inspiring string of expletives that rose in a crescendo and concluded with “Four-legged fuzzball!”

Like an overprotective mother, Bronwynn
rushed forward to place herself between Wade and her pet. Turning around and backing toward the Lincoln, she said, “You must have left the door unlatched.”