Sleeping Beauty (11 page)

"I think he's coming this way." Marge sounded surprised and curious. She straightened away from Anne's desk, sliding her feet back into her shoes as Neill stopped at the low wooden railing that separated the bank offices from the main lobby. "Can I help you?"

"I was hoping to talk to Anne Moore." There was a questioning note in his voice, and Anne realized that, between the computer monitor and Marge's somewhat substantial figure, he couldn't see her. For a split second, sheer nerves had her thinking about ducking under her desk, but, considering the way her day had been going, she probably wouldn't fit.

"Of course. She's right here." Marge turned, her eyes bright with questions Anne pretended not to see. Since Marge was perfectly capable of asking them out loud, it seemed like divine providence when Marge's phone began to ring and she went— reluctantly—to answer it, leaving Anne more or less alone with Neill, unless you wanted to count the three tellers and half a dozen customers standing in plain sight behind him, which Anne didn't, because she'd forgotten their existence.

Neill stood on the other side of the railing, smiling at her, and if a tuba-playing brontosaurus had marched through the bank, she wouldn't have noticed. He was wearing jeans again—probably all he had with him, she thought. But when a man looked as wickedly good in faded denim as Neill Devlin did, he didn't need anything else. Another T-shirt—this one sky blue—clung to the muscled width of his chest Looking at him, Anne couldn't help but remember the feel of those muscles under her hands, and the memory made her knees feel a little weak.

She would have been horrified to know how clearly Neill read her thoughts, gratified to know that he had to slide his hands in his pockets as protection against the urge to step over the railing and drag her out from behind her desk and kiss her senseless. Slowly, he reminded himself. He'd made up his mind to take this slowly. He didn't know what they had beyond a physical attraction like nothing he'd ever experienced, but whatever it was, he'd made up his mind that he wasn't going to rush things.

So he smiled and tried not to groan when she flicked her tongue nervously over her lower lip.

"How do you feel about picnics?"

"Picnics?" Anne repeated blankly. She'd spent more time than she cared to admit imagining what their next encounter might be like, picturing herself acting with a sophistication she felt had been sorely lacking in their previous encounters, but none of the scenarios she'd imagined had involved him asking her opinion of picnics. "I...I like them just fine."

"Are you busy for lunch?"

Anne felt her uncertainties dissolving beneath the warmth of his smile. She suddenly felt foolish for spending so much time analyzing something that another woman would have taken in stride. Last night he'd kissed her. Today he was asking her to have lunch with him. It was a perfectly normal progression of events. It was only her own inexperience that had turned it into something else.

''No plans," she said, smiling up at him. "I was just sitting here thinking how much I'd like to go on a picnic."

"And they say there's no such thing as coincidence.'' He flicked a glance at the big round clock that hung on the back wall of the bank. "How soon can you blow this joint?''

Anne resisted the urge to get up and walk out the door with him. No one would object if she took her lunch hour early, but there would be questions, explanations. Not that there wouldn't be anyway. Already she could feel Marge's eyes boring a hole in her back.

"Half an hour?"

"Perfect." Smiling, Neill straightened away from the railing. "I'll go see what I can do about putting together something to eat"

"Dorothy seemed to approve of the picnic idea," Neill said as he spread a blanket on the grass beneath the shade of an ancient maple. "She said Humphrey Bogart took Greta Garbo on a picnic in Mogambo.'' He frowned and shook his head as he sat down. "Or maybe it was Clarke Gable and Ginger Rogers in Duck Soup.''

"I think you've got your movies and actors mixed up. A lot." Anne sank down on the blanket, curling her legs beneath her, grateful that she was wearing a full skirt. "Wasn't Duck Soup a Marx Brothers movie?''

"Then maybe Gable was taking Groucho on a picnic!" Neill said, unconcerned. He glanced at her, his eyes gleaming with laughter. "Wasn't that an advertisement campaign—Gable's back and Groucho's got him?"

"I think that was Garson's got him."

"Garson. Groucho." Neill shrugged. "Who can tell the difference?"

"I'm pretty sure Groucho was the one with the mustache."

There was a small bronze plaque near the park's entrance that said it had been created to honor those who had died in World War II, followed by a list of names—husbands, sons and fathers who hadn't come home. The peaceful sweep of sun-warmed grass and spreading shade trees was worlds away from the sights and sounds of battle, which was probably the point, Neill thought idly.

In the middle of the week, they had the park almost to themselves. A few children played in the sand near the swings, and, though he couldn't see the players, Neill could hear the ragged rhythm of a basketball hitting concrete. There was a peace-fulness here that seeped bone deep. This was what he'd been looking for when he left Seattle, Neill thought. This sense of time not just standing still, but ceasing to exist.

They'd eaten sandwiches and potato salad, talking as easily as if they'd know each other for years rather than a handful of days. He'd learned that she liked old movies, mystery novels and yellow roses. She hated doing laundry, had nearly failed math in high school and considered the pocket calculator one of man's greatest inventions, rivaled only by the CD player ''because, sooner or later, tapes are bound to be eaten by a tape player." They shared a fondness for old rock and roll but divided sharply on the question of country music, with Neill claiming that, other than opera, it was the only musical medium that encouraged great storytelling and Anne wrinkling her nose at the thought of twanging guitars and nasal laments about cheating wives and love gone sour.

"You obviously haven't listened to country music in the last twenty years," Neill told her sternly and she conceded that it had been a while. From music, the talk shifted to authors they both admired. By the time they'd agreed that Hemingway was vastly overrated and that neither of them liked horror novels, the sandwiches were gone and the crumpled containers had been disposed of.

Pleasantly fall and vaguely somnolent, Neill was relieved that she didn't feel the need to break the comfortable silence that fell between them. Most people viewed silence as either a threat or a challenge.

But Anne sat across from him, leaning back on her hands, her legs stretched out in front of her, head tilted back and eyes closed. The innocent sensuality of the pose tied Neill's stomach in knots. He wanted to reach out and bury his hand in the honey-colored hair that spilled down her back, wanted to nibble his way down the delicate arch of her throat. He didn't know what it was about her that made him want her like this. It wasn't as if she dressed to drive a man wild. The sunshine-colored short-sleeved dress, with its frill skirt and V-neckline, was hardly designed with seduction in mind, but his fingers itched with the urge to unfasten the prim little row of buttons that marched from neckline to hem.

If he leaned over and kissed her now, would she respond the way she had last night, all trembling arousal and uncertain response? And what was she wearing under that prim little dress? Silk and lace, or plain cotton?

He wasn't aware of moving until he felt his hand slide into that thick fall of hair, cupping the back of her head. Anne didn't start but only opened her eyes slowly, as if she'd been expecting him, waiting for him.

"I just have to see if I imagined it," he whispered.

"Imagined what?"

"The way you taste." The last word was murmured against her mouth.

It was different this time, Anne thought. Last night she'd been startled, a little frightened and completely unprepared for the wave of heat that rolled through her when he touched her. Since then, she'd spent a lot of time remembering, imagining, hoping. And now, here it was happening again, only better. So much better.

With a sigh, she opened her mouth to him, her tongue coming up to fence with his. He tasted of root beer and smelled of soap and aftershave. When she felt his arm come around her back, lifting her closer, she brought her arms up to circle his neck, indulging the urge to slide her fingers into his hair. It felt like warm black silk, she thought, and then whimpered softly as his teeth scraped along her bottom lip.

It was like the first time, Neill thought, dazed by the power and speed of it. One touch, one kiss, and he wanted so much more. And he could have it, he knew. He could have her. K they were alone, he could slide all those tantalizing buttons loose and take what she was so sweetly offering.

But they weren't alone, and it was too soon, even if it felt like he'd been wanting her forever. She would have regrets. He didn't question that knowledge but accepted it, just as he'd accepted the need to see her again, to touch her again. He had time, he reminded himself. He wasn't going anywhere until he'd figured out this...whatever it was between them.

Reluctantly, he eased back until he was looking down at her. She opened her eyes so slowly that they might have been weighted and stared at him with a look of staggered arousal that tested his already shaky control to the limits.

"I'd better get you back," he said, indulging the need to taste the delicate arch of her throat

"Back where?" she whispered, her senses swimming with the feel of him, the taste of him.

"To work." He touched the tip of his tongue to the pulse that beat at the base of her throat and felt it jump.

"Work." Anne struggled with the concept. She was nearly sure that the word meant something to her, but, at the moment, she couldn't seem to recall what.

"The bank." He pressed a quick, hard kiss on her mouth before easing away. "Your job, remember?"

"Yes." It seemed the appropriate answer, but the truth was that she could barely remember her own name. Anne lifted an unsteady hand to smooth her hair as she tried to grab hold of her spinning thoughts. She was grateful when Neill stood and, picking up the bag that held the remnants of their meal, carried it to the nearest trash can. It was impossible to think with him so close, barely possible to think when he wasn't.

A kiss, she reminded herself. Still just a kiss. This sort of thing happened every day, all over the world. People kissed each other and their brains continued to function. It seemed incredible, but she was nearly sure it could be done.

When Neill returned, Anne was upright, standing on legs that were almost steady. She smoothed her hand over her skirt as he bent to pick up the blanket. He gave it a quick shake before folding it roughly. Still without speaking, they turned toward the park entrance. The silence that had been so comfortable a few minutes ago now seemed fraught with tension, and she wracked her brain for something innocuous to say.

"So where were you going when your motorcycle broke down?" Anne asked and then nearly winced at the brightness of her tone. She just didn't have any experience with making conversation with a man who'd just melted her bones with a kiss.

"Ft. Lauderdale, more or less." Neill seized gratefully on the distraction and expanded on it. "My parents retired there a couple of years ago."

"Where did they live before?" she asked.

"Wisconsin. Before that it was Denver, and before that, Texas, Los Angeles and Michigan. I was born in South Dakota."

"You moved around a lot."

"More than most families, I guess. Not as much as we would have if Dad had been in the military."

A teenager on a skateboard zoomed toward them and Neill took Anne's arm to pull her out of the way. He didn't release her when the boy passed but simply slid his hand down to link with hers.

"What did your father do?" Anne was pleased with the steadiness of her voice. No one would ever have guessed that her heart was bumping up against her breastbone.

"A little of everything. Managed restaurants, owned a dry cleaners, worked construction now and again. He had a butcher shop in Denver and even did a brief stint as a disc jockey in L.A."

"I know it's difficult to get a small business off the ground," Anne said diplomatically, thinking that his father sounded less than stable.

Neill shook his head with a smile. "Dad didn't have any problem getting a business off the ground. He just got bored once he had it in the air. It was the challenge of it that he loved. As soon as things were on an even keel, he'd sell it and start over again somewhere else."

"Wasn't it very difficult for you—always moving like that?"

"Not that I recall. We'd have a family meeting and discuss where to go next. We all got input. We moved to Denver because my older brother was thirteen and desperately wanted to be a cowboy."

"Did he manage it?"

"Not so's you'd notice. He learned to ride pretty well, but he wasn't so good at getting off. He kept getting thrown. The third time he broke a bone, my mother put her foot down and Tony had to turn in his spurs. I think he was getting a little sick of spending time in a cast, anyway."

"That's understandable." Distracted by the conversation, she forgot to feel self-conscious about holding hands with him."Do you have just the one brother?"