That Summer Place (22 page)

And God, he liked touching her. She was so damned soft and giving.

When the shoulders-and-hips sequence started up again, he turned the tables, putting the moves on her this time.

She watched him incredulously but went along with him, her lush body swaying even as she surrendered the lead to him.

Surrender.
Damn, he wanted her to.

When he heard the song winding down to its finish, he kept hold of her, backing her up against a bookcase, his hands still obeying the fading lyrics—shoulders, shoulders, hips, hips…

And by the time the raucous dance ended and the next song had not yet begun, they were still touching, crushed together, breathing hard in the silent space between numbers. Mitch felt a trickle of sweat inch down his back, and he noticed her face was flushed and moist from exertion, her full lips so damned close he could almost taste the berry sweetness of them.

The next song on the album was a love ballad in Spanish. The yearning notes spun out and played along Mitch’s nerves, tingling and taunting until he leaned closer to her ripe mouth and caught her scent of bubble bath and shampoo. He was close, almost there, almost tasting, and—

“Hey, Mitch,” she said with a bright laugh. “I think you’ve finally figured it out.”

Before he could stop her, she ducked under his arm and hurried over to the stereo, quickly turning it off.

He turned to her, frustrated by her quick nervous rebuff even as he understood why and knew it was the right thing to do.

He echoed a phrase from the song. “What does that mean?”

She backed up even farther. “I will worship your body in the fond light of dawn,” she translated. “It’s a big hit in Mexico.”

His gaze roved over her, over that incredible body that had just been so close to his.

“I can see why.”

“Yes. Well, thanks for helping out with my financial records, Mitch. It’s getting late.” She hurriedly popped out the CD and put all her stuff in the boxes.

He watched her go up the steps, unapologetic as his gaze clung to the hem of her short red dress where it brushed the backs of her thighs.

“Good night, Rosie,” he said.

R
osie looked out the window the next morning and experienced a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Rain. Long cold sheets of rain.

She’d been counting on getting away from the house today, far away. From Mitch Rutherford. After last night, she needed space, far from him. Time to think.

Not that it took a rocket scientist to figure out what was happening. She was falling for him. She, who had declared herself free of men, bachelorette number one, was doing it all over again. Falling for the wrong man.

She rifled through her small supply of clothes and found an appropriately frumpy set of sweats. Standard-issue gray, with the nauseating purple-and-gold UW husky logo. Perfect for the suddenly nasty weather. She brushed her hair into a ponytail, put on a pair of sneakers and went downstairs, determined to be strong when it came to Mitch Rutherford.

So what if he knew how to hold her when she cried? So what if he didn’t mind if she laughed at him? So what if he was the most adorably klutzy man she’d ever danced with? So what if the mere thought of his mouth on hers made her IQ drop fifty points?

She was going to be his associate, not his girlfriend. His employee, not his lover. They both knew that was best.

In the library she discovered that he’d made two lattes and a fire in the huge central grate.

All the resolutions she’d made up in her room started to melt like hot fudge. “This is so cozy,” she said, hoping her vaporizing resolution wasn’t obvious. “Perfect for the weather today.”

“That’s what I thought. So much for snorkeling.” He sat at the table, his horn-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose and the
Wall Street Journal
spread out in front of him. “Sleep well?” he asked as she slid into the chair across from him.

“Fine,” she lied. Truthfully she’d lain awake for hours reliving the moment when the love song had started to play. “Hey, isn’t today the day you were supposed to meet with the bulkhead contractor?”

“Yep.”

“Well?”

Mitch glanced up. “Island time,” he explained.

“He’s not coming?”

“No. He called from Eastsound this morning and said the weather’s too squally to risk coming over.”

She sipped her latte. It was perfect—the foam consistent, the coffee warm and nutty. “I think you’re getting used to this,” she said.

“I can’t beat them. I don’t have much choice but to join them.”

She was almost convinced until he picked up the newspaper and she saw three broken pencils on the table in front of him. “Oh, Mitch. I’m sorry. This must be such a headache for you.”

“I’ll live, Dr. Galvez.”

She smiled and helped herself to a banana and yogurt for breakfast. Her misgivings about the marina nudged at her. “I suppose I could go over the surveys one more time.”

“What else is there to do?” he asked.

She cradled her chin in her hand and looked at the book-lined walls of the massive library. The bay window with its leaded and beveled fancy panes framed a day that was growing gloomier by the moment. The dock wasn’t even visible; the rain and the fog were that thick. The case clock struck nine, and the fire snapped in the grate.

“I know what I’d like to do.”

“What’s that?” he asked, toying with one of the broken pencil pieces.

“I’d like to explore this old house.”

“What’s that got to do with the project?”

“Not a thing,
jefe,
” she said, miffed. “Forget I mentioned it.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Since the weather is going to keep us in today, you might as well take some time off. Spend it however you like.”

“Thank you. I think I will,” she said, walking toward the kitchen.

“So what are you going to explore? It’s been a summer place for years. I doubt you’ll find anything of value.”

“That depends on how you define valuable.” She took her cup to the sink and threw away the banana peel. “Didn’t I see a flashlight somewhere?”

“Under the sink,” he said. “Take your pick.”

She selected a large one. “So what are you going to do?”

He tapped the cover of his computer. “It’s the information age. I can stay busy all day.”

She sent him a wry smile. “Congratulations.” Switching on the flashlight, she went down a narrow hallway and headed for the stairs. As she opened the door that led down to the dark pit of the basement, she let out a sigh of relief. Breakfast had gone well. Exceedingly well. They had both been perfectly cordial, emotionally neutral. Exactly as they should be.

Despite the recent renovations to the house, the owners had not gotten around to the basement yet. She trod carefully on the steps, wincing as they creaked and ducking her head well away from the cobwebs that draped the passageway. The dank smell of old concrete permeated the air. The basement consisted of four rooms divided by stout timbers. The first room was empty save for an abundance of spiders. Shuddering, she backed out and peeked into the next, finding a jumble of ancient yard furniture. The third room contained tools even older than the lawn chairs. The last room was empty. But just as she was backing out, the flashlight beam touched off a dull glitter low in the far corner.

Curious, she crept forward. She had no idea why she was being quiet, but it seemed the thing to do. She found an old wine rack, hung with cobwebs. A half-dozen bottles lay on their sides. Gingerly, with her thumb and forefinger, she pulled one out and held it to the flashlight beam. To her dismay, she saw that the liquid had separated into something that resembled water and sludge. All but one of the other bottles was in the same condition. She took the one that seemed promising upstairs with her.

Mitch sat frowning at the screen of his computer. He glanced up when she emerged. “Find anything interesting?” he asked.

“Maybe.” She grabbed a paper towel and dusted off the old bottle. “What do you suppose this is?”

He got up and looked over her shoulder. “It’s hand-labeled. Bootleg reserve from the twenties. I’ll bet it was produced illegally during prohibition.”

“I wonder if it’s still good.”

“We’ll find out tonight.”

“You mean you want to drink it?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“It’s not ours.”

“Finders keepers, isn’t that what they say?”

“It’s probably gone bad.”

“If it’s bad, we’ll have a great big salad tonight.”

She laughed. “Whatever you say.” She flicked off the flashlight. “There was nothing else down there. Hardly anything. I thought I’d check the attic.”

“Be my guest. I found a hurricane lantern. It gives off better light than the flashlight.” He struck a match and lit it for her, creating a soft golden flame.

“Thanks, Mitch.”

He sat back down at the table and she left the kitchen.

This was getting easier and easier, she realized. They’d both gone a little crazy last night, probably because she’d stupidly broken down and cried in his arms and then she’d been euphoric because he’d saved her from financial disaster. Today everything was evened out, flat as the foggy light outside the window.

She put a small stepladder under the opening in the third-story hall ceiling. She pulled the rope, and a ladder unfolded from the hatch covering in the ceiling. Climbing into the attic, she surveyed her surroundings. Each gable end of the roof had a fan-shaped window. Gray daylight slanted down over the cobwebby interior. In the center of the attic rose the chimney, made of fieldstone. Thanks to Mitch’s fire, the chimney gave off a kindly warmth that mingled with the glow from the lamp and created a cozy atmosphere.

The contents of the attic were much more interesting than those in the basement. She felt as if she were in an antique shop or a jumble sale. Ancient furniture, wicker baskets, intriguing round paperboard boxes and old toys lay in heaps everywhere. In a stack of musty books from the twenties, she recognized only one title,
The Sheik.
She picked over the stuff, trying to imagine where it had come from, who had used it. What shy young couple had made the four-poster their marriage bed? Who had rocked her baby to sleep in the old chair? Who had pinned up the fading Notre Dame pennant? What child had spun the rusty metal top? Had some woman read
The Sheik
and fantasized about an exotic lover?

Hours passed as she happily explored, letting the old mementos sweep her away to another place and time. Her two favorite discoveries were an ancient steamer trunk with creaking hinges and a big Victrola phonograph with a stash of 78s in the storage compartment under it. She blew the dust off the disks, reading the song titles. “Stars in My Eyes.” “Picture Me Now.” “Harvest Moon Waltz.” They all sounded funny and quaint to her. She picked out “Dancing in My Dreams” and cleaned it off on the knee of her sweatpants, then set it on the turntable. She cranked the side handle and put the needle down on the spinning disk. To her delight, the trumpet-shaped horn crackled, then let forth a corny but oddly charming song. “I see you dancing in my dreams….”

While it played, she pried open the steamer trunk and picked over the contents. A brittle fan with yellowed ivory ribs. A pair of lacy gloves. A slip or camisole. A hilarious-looking striped tank top and shorts that had probably been worn as a bathing suit. Hats, shoes—everything a lady from a bygone era might need for a summer at the seaside. When Rosie found the gold silk dress, she couldn’t resist. She had to try it on.

Quickly stripping off her sweats, she donned the camisole first, feeling the warm whisper of old chambray against her skin. The sensation was sweetly sensual in a way she couldn’t explain. Then, careful not to strain any of the seams, she put on the old silk dress. It fit well enough for her to feel it smooth against her sides. Rows of tiny amber beads ornamented the bodice. The drop waist gave the skirt a natural swing that pleased her.

Feeling like a little girl playing dress-up, Rosie quit pretending any sort of scholarly interest and dived in. She discarded the tie holding her ponytail and donned a fabulous hat with a spray of yellow feathers across the brow, the lace-up boots, the dainty gloves. Holding out a pockmarked shaving mirror, she inspected her image. She didn’t look anything like herself, but resembled a girl from another time, bathed in yellow from the lamplight, clad in delicate moth-light silk and lace, a shimmer of beads to catch the light, the brim of her hat framing her face.

She gave the Victrola another turn and started the song again. Closing her eyes, she swayed to the music. Her imagination ran wild, and she thought of the way Mitch had danced with her last night, the way he’d almost kissed her. She imagined a time and place where she would have been free to let him, where she wouldn’t have been afraid of the consequences. After a few minutes she just thought of Mitch and pretended he was her partner. She heard the sweetness of the song through the roughness the years had scratched into the record. She heard the rain drumming on the roof, heard the hiss of the wind under the eaves.

And then she heard Mitch Rutherford’s voice. “Who are you dancing for, Rosie? You look like you’re a million miles away.”

“Oh!” Her eyes flew open and she froze. “Darn.” Feeling her cheeks flame, she blushed to the roots of her hair. “I guess I must look pretty silly to you.”

He crossed the room, stepping into the golden radiance of the hurricane lamp and looking amused and sympathetic all at once. “Maybe you just look pretty.”

She blinked in surprise, then blushed even deeper at his compliment. “I thought all these things were so charming, I couldn’t help trying—”

“Rosie.” With incredible gentleness, his fingers came up and touched her lips, stunning her into silence. The song on the Victrola came to an end, and the needle bumped against the label. “You don’t have to explain.” Then his touch left her mouth and his hand traveled down her arm, tracing its inner length, fingers coming to rest at the pulse of her wrist. A pulse that had begun to race.

“I don’t?” she whispered, nervously reaching back to lift the needle from the record.

“No.” He chuckled, the sound silky in the new silence. “After the Macarena last night, nothing could seem silly to me.”

“Oh.” She gave a small nervous laugh. Yes, she was nervous, because as he stood there looking as relaxed and neatly groomed as a golf-resort poster, she wanted him with a fervor that bordered on madness. “I guess I’m the cause of that.”

“Uh-huh.” He took a step closer, and she could feel the brush of warmth from him, and the tips of her breasts began to tingle. She remembered that she wasn’t wearing anything under the dress and camisole. “So what else did you find?” He picked up the stack of old 78s and flipped through them. “Let’s try this one.”

She swallowed. “Are you sure?”

“Sure of what?”

“Sure you want to take time out of your schedule to listen to old records?”

“Tsk, tsk, Rosie. You told me I was being a dull boy. I’m trying to loosen up.”

As he turned and cranked the Victrola, she watched the sinuous fluid motion of his arm and whispered, “It’s working.”

“What?”

“Um, nothing.”

The music turned out to be a waltz. Mitch turned to her, holding out both hands. “Shall we?”

“I don’t know how to waltz.”

“Neither do I, so we’re even.”

She laughed, suddenly getting past the nervousness and starting to enjoy herself. “Since we’re pretending, let’s pretend we know this dance.”

He took her by the hand, and his other arm slid around behind her. They lurched along clumsily for a few steps. “You forgot to feel the rhythm,” Rosie pointed out. “We can learn this if you’ll just feel the rhythm.
One,
two, three,
one,
two, three…”

And within a few moments, it began to work. Perhaps it wasn’t a perfect waltz—they wouldn’t win any prizes—but they moved together in time with the music, which, after all, was the whole point. Round and round the attic they went, with the rain drumming down and the trumpet of the Victrola spilling out a song no one had heard in decades. For Rosie it was magical, like something out of a dream or a fairy tale.