What the Heart Wants (15 page)

Had Sarah told him about Daddy? The past three days had been a magic interlude—but was this when they would end, when he would storm out and she'd ever see him again?

Her conscience hammered her with guilt. Maybe it would have been better if she'd told Jase about Daddy's downfall the first day he came to town, or the evening he and Maxie came to dinner, or after their first wonderful night together. But the longer she'd put off saying anything, the harder it became to figure out just what to say. How could she work a topic like that into a lunchtime conversation? How could she bear to look at Jase's face when she told him Daddy had toppled off his pedestal and she was part of the peripheral damage?

Dear God, Jase had said he loved her, but was his love strong enough to hear the truth about his mentor?

She fixed a bright smile on her face as he walked in and deposited a Saran-wrapped pound cake in her hand. “For you, from the good mothers of Westside Elementary.”

Then, before she could even put the cake down, he took her in his arms and kissed her as if they'd been separated for years rather than hours.

Sarah hadn't given her away. Why not? She and her mother had shunned Kinkaid House the same as everyone else.

Laurel looked down at the cake. “I don't understand.”

“Got lassoed into a PTA bake sale, though I was able to ditch the oatmeal cookies with your friend Sarah.”

She laughed in relief. “Is that what you two were talking about? Oatmeal cookies?”

Jase's eyebrows went up. “You were watching? Peeking through the front curtains?” He gave her a teasing smile. “Are you…jealous?”

She tried to look embarrassed. “I'm sorry, Jase. I guess living here alone has made me a little paranoid.”
But not about what you think.

She ran her hand down his thigh. “You can give Sarah all the oatmeal cookies you want, as long as
I'm
the one with
benefits.
”

His eyes glittered as he seized her wrist and brought her palm up to his mouth. “Only you, Laurel. Only you.”

She took her hand back, but gave him a wicked smile. “We eat at six.”

Dinner wasn't exactly a fiasco, but it wasn't a raving success either.

The table settings—colorfully painted plates Mrs. Claypool had used for casual serving platters—may have been charming, but they didn't make up for the chicken being leathery, and, at the last minute, her having to replace the nearly raw baked potatoes with mashed potatoes made from a box. The beans turned out well, and the Jell-O was okay, thank goodness—although she later realized she'd left the marble pound cake in the refrigerator. But at least that meant she already had a dessert on hand for tomorrow night.

She might as well face it—cooking was harder than she'd thought. There was nothing to do but clear the table and retire to the den. If Jase was still hungry, he could snack on some of the fruit they'd bought at the store.

But apparently he had other things in mind. Laurel savored each golden moment as he hooked up his fax machine and installed the new ink cartridge.

Bit by bit, he was moving in. Could she keep him?

The next morning, Laurel decided to take the plunge and try on her old PE shorts.

Whaddaya know?
She could still get into them, although they fit more snugly than when she was in high school.

Somewhat self-conscious, she topped her outfit with a long, loose tee, as though obscuring more of her upper body made up for her naked legs. Pretending a confidence she didn't feel, she strode downstairs. Jase didn't seem to notice the shorts, but then, he'd seen her in a lot less. However, he did compliment the oversized shirt.

“Gives me easier access,” he said, running his hand up under it and snapping her bra, then drawing her close for a good-morning kiss.

He released her to pick up a manila folder from the table. “I'll be out most of the day looking at properties Craig Freiberg has located for me. Probably won't be in till about six, but put on your glad rags. We'll be dining with the elite tonight.”

Laurel nearly choked. The elite were exactly whom she didn't want to meet.

“No way, guy,” she said, trying for sultry. Standing tall and swaying against him, she moved her hand over a very sensitive part of his anatomy. “I have a special evening planned for you here at the house tonight, and I don't think we want an audience.”

“I'll take a preview,” he said, bending her backward over his arm and kissing her so thoroughly that she started wondering about the possibilities of the kitchen table.

He released her abruptly and stepped back. “If I didn't already have a hot date with old Mrs. Anderson…”

He winked and was out the door before her passion-addled brain could register what was happening. Weak at the knees, she sat back down at the table. Gradually her last words to him permeated her brain.

“A special evening”—where had that line come from? What was she going to do? She'd implied some sort of outrageous sexual escapade, but what could she think of that would even begin to top what had already happened on the drawing room floor? Sarah had told her about a movie she saw in which a woman painted herself with chocolate sauce for her lover to lick off, but Laurel didn't think she was up to anything like that.

And she'd never get the chocolate out of the sheets.

Let the sex take care of itself, she decided. Everything had worked out fine in that department so far. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

More to the point, what could she feed him? Judging from last night, there was more to cooking than literacy. She stared around the kitchen, hoping inspiration would strike, but none obliged. Only one recourse: She grabbed her keys and headed off to Piggly Wiggly to throw herself on the mercy of the precooked foods aisle again.

Various menus ran through her head as she drove down the street. She'd already served beef, and she was obviously no good with chicken. Barbecue was too messy, and fish scared her. Pork? Didn't seem sexy enough. Maybe a vegetarian feast—but somehow she didn't think Jase was the type of man who'd appreciate a meatless meal.

She raced into the store at full throttle, not caring who might see Reverend Ed's daughter in shorts. The important thing was to get in and out in enough time to make preparations for the erotic evening she'd promised. She'd open up the dining room again and set out candles. The Limoges wouldn't work, though—the Haviland pattern was too old-fashioned. Nor would Mrs. Claypool's brightly painted crockery. How about glass plates? They were cheap enough, and sort of sexy, especially dressed up with a white tablecloth, white napkins, the heavy silver, and good crystal.

What did it matter? She'd probably screw it up. The only thing she could handle was frozen dinners.

Frozen dinners…
Gourmet
frozen dinners!

She trundled her cart out of the precooked food area and over to the refrigerated displays.

Shrimp! She bet he'd like shrimp—and she could get three of the dinners to be sure there was enough food for him.

With a sigh of relief, she tossed the dinners in her cart, picking up a set of four glass plates as she headed toward the checkouts. Right in front of her stood an artistic display of wines. She couldn't tell one vintage from another—that wasn't something one learned in the household of a small-town central Texas Bible Belt preacher—but that deep red was a pretty color.

Why not? Without even looking around to see who might be watching, she seized a bottle and stuck it in her cart.

I
stink like hell,” Jase said, wiping the sweat off his forehead as he came through the back door. “Been checking out available land from here to Waco and back.” He slapped his hat down on the table and glanced around the kitchen, then at the table, innocent of all but a napkin holder. “What about dinner?”

Laurel never would have guessed she'd be so turned on by the stench of honest labor. Her first impulse was to yell “catch me, catch me,” then take off up the stairs with Jase in hot pursuit. Instead, she pulled the cloth belt of her terry cloth robe tighter and frowned at him.

“Go take a shower in the bedroom across the hall, then give me twenty minutes. We're eating in the dining room tonight.”

He paused, looking her terry cloth robe up and down. His voice lowered to a growl. “I hope you don't have anything on under that.”

She smiled like a woman with a secret. “You'll never find out.”

He wrapped her in his arms. “Until later, then.”

She lifted her face for a his kiss.

“Yee-ha!” He reached down, grabbed one end of her belt, and jerked it off so her robe fell open.

“Jase!” She quickly clutched the edges of the robe together, more embarrassed that she was wearing plain white cotton panties, a leftover from her pre-Dave days, than if she hadn't been wearing anything at all.

He shook his head in disappointment. “We'll have to get rid of those undies after we eat.”

Before she could react, he was on his way up the stairs.

That was her cue. Now to retrieve the gourmet dinners from the freezer and stick them into the preheated oven. And she'd better check to be sure the dining room was cool enough that she could turn off the noisy air conditioner. With the oven timer set and her clothes laid out, she could take her time getting ready, although it was vital to make it down to the dining room before Jase did.

The eyes of the four Kinkaid sisters sparkled with interest as she ascended the stairs. Laurel grinned back at them. She must find out more about her great-aunts sometime. Pen Swaim would probably have the lowdown on them—he knew everything about the families of everybody else in Bosque Bend. His parents, Baylor professors, had retired to the castle on the corner when Laurel was a child, and after they died, Pendleton inherited the house and the copious research his father had compiled on the town's history.

Sitting down at her dressing table, she opened the wide center drawer and selected her makeup—a light base, smoky eye shadow, mascara, and blush. Her lipstick would be a vibrant red to match her gown. Next came the gold earrings—heirlooms, like almost everything else she owned. She checked out the Spanish-style dress. A winning combination.

She draped her robe over the back of the chair and picked up the jumble of scarlet and black spread out on the bed. Off the hanger, the dress looked shapeless and bulky, but it was actually the sexiest thing she'd ever owned. Also one of the most uncomfortable. The first time she'd worn it to a formal tie event with Dave, she thought she was going to die. Every breath was a Herculean labor against the ever-tightening black bustier—but, with any luck, she wouldn't have it on for very long.

She picked up the boned corset, which boosted her breasts to heights previously unknown. It attached to a black underskirt of starched tulle. Over the black went the scarlet, which clung on top and swelled out below.

She wished she didn't have to wear the bustier, but otherwise…

Otherwise?

Otherwise the scarlet plunged into free fall between her breasts and dipped four inches below her waist in back. She held the sleek, soft dress fabric her cheek.
Mmmm.
It was heaven to touch. Maybe…did she dare?

Slipping the scarlet over her head, she slithered across to the standing mirror—what else could one do in a dress like this but slither? The fabric clung to her like a second skin, the skirt draping and redraping against her each time she moved. Her mother's voice protested dimly in the background, but the image in the cheval mirror drowned her out.

She looked hot. Not only hot, but indecent.

Good.
She struck a pose and ran her hand down her hip and discovered a panty line.
She'd have to change to hose.

Or…

She slid off her panties and studied herself in the mirror again. No panty line, but her breasts were peaking from the friction of the fabric across them.

So much the better.

Before she could censor herself, she slipped into black stilettos to compensate for the length the dress had gained from the loss of the stiff tulle, rechecked the clock on her dressing table, and headed out the door. Now she was ready for their “special evening.”

Jase wasn't downstairs yet, which meant she could set out the dinner without him being any the wiser about her nonexistent cooking skills. The situation was ridiculous, but Lolly had established expectations, and she was just too proud to admit that she was thirty-one years old and didn't know how to cook.

She removed the dinners from the oven and distributed the food to the two glass plates, giving Jase the lion's share of the shrimp. The scarlet fabric shifted wickedly against her bare skin as she carried the plates into the dining room. Would Jase be able to tell she didn't have anything on under it?

She hoped so.

Hearing him on the stairs, she posed beside the table with her shoulders back, one hand reaching down to rest on the top of a chair.

He stopped just inside the room, his mouth dropping open as he focused in on the dip between her breasts. Raising his gaze to her face, he cocked a wicked eyebrow and gave her The Smile.

“Special, huh?” His coal-black eyes burned with a hunger that went beyond food.

Her earrings swayed, and she felt a warm blush creeping up her face. Dressed in dark slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt open at the throat, Jase looked like nothing so much as an eighteenth-century buccaneer. All he needed was a sash, a sword, and a parrot.

“Light the candles and pour the wine, will you?” she said, edging sideways so he couldn't see her rear exposure yet. “I'll switch off the overhead.”

She took her chair quickly, to avoid his playing the gentleman and seating her. Her half-bare bottom was the dessert, not the appetizer.

The candlelight flickered between them, blurring her vision, and she had a split-second fantasy of him sweeping everything off onto the floor, candles and all, then lunging across the table for her. But her saner brain hoped he wouldn't. The house would catch on fire, they'd end up huddling naked under blankets on the lawn with the volunteer fire department gawking at them, and she wouldn't be able to collect insurance on the house because the policy probably had a sexual frenzy exclusion.

She picked up her fork to indicate Jase could begin eating. He was quite punctilious about manners, she'd noticed. Some woman must have schooled him along the way. He'd certainly never learned table etiquette from Growler Red.

Laurel sampled each item on her plate, but was too keyed up to finish anything. The rice was a little sticky but the broccoli was good, and the sauced shrimp had turned out surprisingly well. If she could work a few gourmet dinners into her budget, she'd buy this brand again. Not that the food mattered. This dinner was more about seduction than sustenance. The real meal would be when they went upstairs—or maybe into the den or the drawing room.

She took a sip of the wine to clear her palate and couldn't help making a face. She didn't know how wine was supposed to taste, but this Merlot thing made her want to scrub her tongue.

She let her neckline fall to one shoulder, then the other, so he got a different view with every breath she took—but never more than a glimpse. Her nipples tightened with every pass of the scarlet fabric across her breasts.

Neither of them spoke, but Jase's eyes followed her every move. Did he realize she was testing his endurance, daring him to action?

Jase speared his last shrimp and lifted it toward his mouth. Upping the ante, Laurel slipped off a shoe and nudged his ankle under the table.

The fork slipped from his hand, and she made a moue of distress, as if apologizing, and withdrew her foot.

He crossed his fork on his plate and stared at her.

A heady thrill shot through her. She licked her lips in excitement, but the look she gave him was pure, wide-eyed innocence.

He poured himself a second glass of wine, lounged back, and sipped at it slowly, never taking his eyes off her.

She'd never realized how loud silence could be, how fraught. The very air seemed electrified. She shivered, but not from the cold. Instead, a wild heat spiraled along her nerves, and moisture pooled exactly where it needed to. Maybe she should have worn panties after all. It was going to be hard to explain to the nice Vietnamese woman at the dry cleaners in Waco exactly what sort of stain she'd gotten on her scarlet dress.

Now for the coup de grace.
She stood up and turned her back to him so he could see her back was bare halfway down her butt. “I'll go get dessert.”

Jase shoved his chair back so hard it crashed to the floor. “You—you minx!”

Before she knew what was happening, he'd crossed the room, his eyes dark with desire, and pressed her against her until she felt the wall at her bare back.

A
minx
? She, Laurel Elizabeth Harlow, the preacher's daughter, the nicest girl in Bosque Bend High School, the class salutatorian, was being called a
minx
?

It was the sexiest thing anyone had ever said to her, and there was only one way to respond—she clung to his shoulders and ground her mouth into his. She wanted his arms around her, wanted his hard chest pressed against her, his erection teasing her thighs. She wanted him inside her as deep as he could go.

He pushed the slippery scarlet fabric away from her hips, opened his fly, and entered her. She buried her head in his neck and met him, thrust for thrust, then screamed in ecstasy and went limp.

Jase guided her with one hand as she slid down the wall, while his other hand hitched his trousers together. “If that didn't bring the cops down on us, nothing will,” he muttered, swinging her up in his arms.

Laurel waved her arm weakly toward the table. “My shoes…”

“Get 'em tomorrow.”

Then, just like Rhett Butler, he carried her up the wide stairs to her room, and the night was all she could have ever dreamed of. Afterward, she slept with her head on his heart.

Jase put his arm around Laurel, who was curled up against his side. For once, she'd fallen asleep before he did, but he'd pretty well worn her out. And he'd fulfilled his ambition—the whole town must have heard her come.

He'd half wondered if her insistence on a “special” evening was just a put-off, another example of her strange reclusiveness, but excuse or not, it worked for him. The food was passable—although he'd suspected she'd ordered in—the atmosphere was sexy as hell, and Laurel was a goddess of sensuality.

That dress—he couldn't believe Reverend Ed's daughter had something as hot as that in her closet. The color was like a flame against her ivory skin, and every time she moved, it clung to her in a different way, now outlining a breast, now the thrust of her hip. She'd really gotten him going with her peek-a-boo performance during dinner, but when she'd turned her back to him…

He ran his hand absently down the groove of her spine, and she shifted against him.

It was amazing how quickly he'd gotten accustomed to sleeping in the same bed with her—all night, not just for an hour after sex.

He liked sleeping with her. He liked waking up with her. He liked walking through the Shallows with her and having meals with her, even when they were as bad as that chicken, and having her sit in the den with him while he worked out business details. He wanted to put off returning to Dallas forever.

But he had responsibilities—the business, his employees, his family. If only he could take Laurel with him.

He rolled over on his back and folded an arm under his head.

Well, why not? Apparently she didn't want to stay in Bosque Bend any longer. Why not ask her if she'd come back to Dallas with him? Permanently, like in marriage. The idea had been playing around in his mind ever since he'd talked with Rafe McAllister, but he'd been afraid to voice it, even to himself.

Lolly had voiced it, of course. Just this afternoon, in fact. “If you marry her, Dad, she really would be my mother.”

Marriage.

He pictured Laurel seeing his house for the first time. All her life, she'd lived in a century-old mansion on the busy main street of a small town in which everyone knew everyone else. What would she think of the sprawling contemporary retreat Rafe McAllister had designed for his eight wooded acres just on the fringes of North Plano? He wasn't even sure he'd recognize his neighbors on sight.

Maybe she'd be ready for a change of scene, but would she want to live with
him
? She liked him as a sex partner, but would she be willing to formally unite her august heritage with the son of the Meanest Man in Texas?

He supported his head on a bent arm as he studied her face.

He was moving too fast. Five days did not a courtship make. He knew he was good in bed—Marguerite had made damn sure of that—but good sex didn't necessarily make for a good marriage. Laurel had said she loved him, but that just might be a leftover teenage fantasy speaking. She might not be ready for another legal commitment so soon after whatever had gone wrong with her first marriage. And when he thought of it, their lives were vastly different: She was a schoolteacher—a music teacher no less, the gentlest profession of all—and he was a real estate speculator—a shark who ate other sharks.

Yep, a marriage proposal this soon would probably scare the pants off her. He smiled and caressed her hip. Maybe he'd better reword that—the pants were long gone.