Sleeping Beauty (25 page)

Neill closed the little gate behind him and started up the narrow walkway. The warm twilight air was heavy with the scent of roses, and he could hear the sluggish buzz of bees, gathering a last few bits of nectar before hurrying back to the hive for the night. Looking at the cottage, it struck him that he'd never seen such a feminine-looking house. The neat little walkway, the whimsical colors, the tiny little porch with the roses scrambling across its roof. Just looking at it made him feel large and clumsy.

It had been less than twenty-four hours since he'd seen Anne, and he was caught between an almost painful anticipation and nervous jitters worthy of a teenager approaching his first date. He could have stayed with her last night, he reminded himself. If he'd asked, she wouldn't have refused. But he hadn't asked, on the vague theory that, after the intensity of the weekend, they both needed some breathing room. So he'd spent a miserable night alone in his motel room, and he was just selfish enough to hope that Anne had been every bit as miserable.

He scowled down at the flowers in his hand. What was he doing bringing daisies to a woman who had a yard stuffed with enough roses to decorate a float? But Bill's Grocery didn't exactly stock an extensive array of floral decorations, and the yellow and white daisies had made him smile. Well, if she hated them, she could always throw them out after he left.

Or after she kicked him out, whichever came first. He was determined to tell her about his books tonight. The longer he waited, the more it made it seem like it was a big deal. And it wasn't. At least, he hoped it wasn't.

Drawing a deep breath, he rang the doorbell. Anne opened the door before the sound of the chimes had faded, and, looking at her, Neill felt something warm unfold in his chest. She was wearing jeans and a peach-colored shirt, her hair pulled back from her face but left to fall on her shoulders, and all he could think was that she was so damned pretty.

"Hi." Her greeting was breathless, her eyes shining with pleasure at seeing him again.

Without speaking, Neill stepped into the tiny entryway, wrapped one hand around the back of her neck and lowered his mouth to hers. He took his time about it, feeling her hands lift to his chest in a quick little flutter of surprise, then still against him, her fingers curling into the faded cotton of his denim shirt as her mouth opened to him. When he finally lifted his head and looked down at her, he was pleased by the dazed look in her eyes and the warm flush on her cheeks.

"Hi, yourself," he said, his voice husky. "I brought you flowers."

"Oh." Anne stared at the bouquet he was holding out. Her mind seemed to be dipping and swirling, and her knees felt like overcooked noodles. She took the flowers automatically. There was something she was supposed to say. She was nearly sure of it. "Thank you," she managed at last, dragging the appropriate response from her scrambled brain.

Grinning, pleased with himself, he reached around her to close the door. "Water's usually a good idea," he suggested, when she continued to stand there, staring blankly at the flowers. "My mom swears by putting an aspirin in the vase."

Putting his hand on her shoulder, he turned her in the direction of the kitchen. 'Something sure smells good."

"Chicken." Anne drew a shaky breath and released it slowly. "I made a chicken casserole. I wasn't sure what you'd like, but chicken's usually pretty safe."

She set the bouquet in the sink and opened a cupboard to take out a tall glass vase.

"I eat most things," Neill said, sniffing appreciatively at the cake that sat cooling on the counter. "I didn't know you cooked."

"I enjoy it." Anne used kitchen shears to snip the ends off the flower stems before slipping them in the vase. "Of course, cooking for yourself can get to be pretty boring, but so can living on frozen food, so I generally make the effort."

"Is that chocolate frosting?" he asked, leaning over her shoulder to eye the bowl on the counter.

"Yes." She was nearly sure it was chocolate frosting, but with him standing so close, it was hard to remember her own name.

"I love chocolate frosting." There was such naked longing in his voice that her breath gusted out of her on a laugh. Without thinking, she brushed back the plastic wrap and dipped her finger in the bowl. It was only as she turned to offer it to him that she realized what she'd done. Uncertain, she started to pull back, but Neill caught her hand in his and lifted her finger to his mouth.

Anne sagged back against the counter as his tongue swirled around her finger, licking it clean before drawing it into his mouth and sucking gently. He kept his eyes on her face, watching the flicker of emotions. By the time he released her hand, the only thing holding her upright was the counter at her back.

She sighed as he bent to kiss her. He tasted of chocolate, and there was something strangely erotic about the contrast between that sweetly innocent taste and the vibrating hardness of his body against hers.

"Can dinner wait?"he asked as his mouth slid down her throat.

"Yes.'' She would have said the same if it had been a souffle in the oven.

"Good," Neill said savagely. "Because I can't."

By the time they got around to dinner, the chicken was dry and the noodles were overcooked. Anne didn't care, and, since he ate two helpings, she didn't think Neill did, either.

"If you're going to keep working me like this, I've got to keep up my strength," he said as she scooped the second serving onto his plate, and he laughed when she flushed pink.

Considering the fact that she was wearing only his shirt, with not a stitch on underneath it, it was ridiculous to feel embarrassed. And she didn't, really. It was just the novelty of having someone want her the way he did. She'd never thought of herself as a sensual person, but obviously she'd been wrong.

After dinner, Neill let her shoo him out of the kitchen while she tidied up and frosted the cake. He almost suggested that he could think of more interesting things to do with the frosting than putting it on a cake but decided she might not be ready for that. She was such a delightful mixture of shyness and sensuality. He'd had other lovers— women he liked, a few he'd simply wanted—but he'd never met anyone who stirred him the way Anne did.

Reluctantly, he went into the living room. There was a cozy domesticity to the scene. All he needed was a pipe and slippers and a shirt, he thought, rubbing his hand over his bare chest. And maybe an apron for Anne. He wondered how she would feel about wearing an apron with nothing on undeneath it—maybe something black with ruffles. Aware that he was becoming aroused, Neill turned his attention determinedly in another direction.

There was a set of bookshelves flanking one of the windows, and he wandered over to them, curious to see what her taste in reading was like. There were a few novels—some romances, a handful of mysteries—half a dozen books on growing roses, and the rest were travel guides. Europe, the Pacific Northwest, South America, Australia. Skimming the titles, Neill felt something like anger rise in his chest. She had a bookshelf full of travel guides, but this past weekend had been her first visit to Chicago, which was driving distance away. How long had she been reading about places she was never going to go, dreaming about things she would never see? Choosing a book at random, he flipped it open and saw that she'd used a red pen to mark sights that interested her— the Louvre, the Champs Elysees, a bakery that claimed to have the best croissants in Paris.

Hearing Anne come into the room, Neill turned with the book still in his hand. "Planning a trip?" he asked casually.

She flushed lightly as she set down the coffee cups she'd brought in. "Not particularly. I like to read about different places."

''Why not go yourself?"

"Oh, well, I don't really...I mean, I've never traveled." She fiddled with the collar of his shirt. There was something about the way he was looking at her that made her nervous. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but he seemed almost angry.

"Nothing stopping you, is there?" he commented, turning to slide the book back onto the shelf.

"I suppose not. I'm just not sure how well I'd do away from here," she admitted.

"You seemed to do just fine this weekend."

"Yes, but you were there." She lowered her eyes to the coffee, reaching down to shift the cups so that the handles were in perfect alignment with each other. "I suppose it seems stupid to you but I...after what happened to Brooke, I've always been a little leery of travel, and, of course, it upsets my mother so much. I almost went away to college, after high school, but she was afraid something would happen to me." She shifted the cups a fraction of an inch, keeping her eyes down, so missed seeing the quick flash of anger in Neill's gaze. "It's understandable. After what happened to Brooke, I mean. You can't blame her for worrying.

"Brooke was killed right here in Loving," Neill said softly. "If she was going to be afraid for your safety, wouldn't she be afraid for you to stay here?"

Startled, Anne lifted her eyes to his face. "I'd never thought of it quite like that. I guess that's logical, isn't it?" She fiddled with the collar some more. "But emotions aren't always logical, and I'm not afraid here. Not most of the time, anyway." She shrugged. "Anyway, I may surprise myself and suddenly take off on an around the world trip one of these days. So, are you ready for cake?" she asked, giving him a smile that didn't quite chase the shadows from her eyes.

''Sounds great," he said, willing to accept the change of topic. If they talked about it much longer, he might end up saying things about her mother that she wasn't ready to hear.

When she went back into the kitchen, Neill turned to look at the bookshelf again. Paris for their honeymoon, he thought Or maybe they would spend a month or two and see the whole damned country. But before they could have a honeymoon, there were things that had to be said. Things like I love you and will you marry me, and, by the way, I lied to you about what I do for a living.

"I've never made this recipe before," Anne said as she carried dessert plates in from the kitchen. "The cookbook called it classic dinette cake. I figured any recipe that's been around for forty years or so ought to be pretty good."

She set the plates down and looked at him, her heart stuttering a little at his expression. He looked so serious.

"We need to talk," he said.

"You know, I've noticed that, whenever anyone says that, they're almost always about to say something that you really don't want to hear," she said almost conversationally. "Are you about to tell me that you're married and have ten children?"

His mouth twisted in a half smile. 'I'm not married."

"Well, that's a relief. I'd hate to think that I waited all these years to have my first affair, only to start out with a married man!" She knew she was chattering to cover the nerves jangling in her stomach.

"Anne—"

"I really don't feel like having a serious discussion tonight." She walked over to him and set her hand on his chest, sliding her fingers through the dark mat of curls as she looked up at him from under her lashes, fear making her bold. She wanted tonight, she thought. If he was about to tell her that he was leaving, she wanted to have just one more night before she had to deal with it. ''Couldn't we just pretend that this was a nice, long holiday weekend, lasting all the way through Monday?" she asked. "You can't possibly have a serious discussion on a holiday weekend."

"Is that a rule?" he asked, half amused, half irritated. But the irritation was self-directed. He'd blown this whole confession out of proportion in his own mind, and now he'd made it seem like what he had to tell her must be something dreadful. Besides, it was damned hard to think about anything when he knew she was naked under the thin covering of his shirt. He reached up to toy with the top button.