Private Affairs

Began the instant she looked into Palmer’s eyes.

“I really hate to ask, but do you think you can take me home?”

He searched her face, but if there was any answer to be had there, apparently he didn’t find it. “That bad?”

She nodded. “I really hate to ruin the night, but all I can think about is going home and lying down.”

And flipping through the scrapbook of her memories.

Of course, she didn’t tell him that. Would never admit that Palmer’s appearance had had such an unexpected impact on her. Not to Barnaby. Not to anyone.

So much of what had transpired between her and Palmer had been unbearably private. There had really been no one to talk to back then. Or now.

Should she take it into her head to mention the visit to her grandmother, she could just imagine the reaction. The frowns. The head-shaking. The questions.

“Would you like one to go?” Barnaby asked. She smiled. “Yes, yes. That would be nice. Thank you.”

PENELOPE STOOD ON THE FRONT PORCH, a wrapped elephant ear in her hands as she faced Barnaby.

“Would you like me to come in?” he asked.

She looked down. Well, that was a first. Usually Barnaby was comfortable allowing her to set the tone. She shook her head. “No. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good company.”

Night had fallen, day little more than a purple smear against the western sky. She’d left the porch light on and it threw Barnaby’s handsome features into soft relief.

“Thank you for taking me to the fair. And for this.” She lifted the sweet.

“You’re welcome, Penelope.”

He moved up the last step. She knew he was preparing to kiss her and she mentally scrambled for a way to avoid the awkward meeting.

“Goodnight, Barnaby,” she said and turned. “I really must take something for this upset stomach.”

“A soda always works wonders for me,” he said.

She quickly unlocked the door and went inside. “Thanks. That may be exactly what I need.”

Before he could offer to get one for her, she closed the door with a clap and then stood for long moments, listening for sounds that he was leaving. Realizing that he might be waiting to see that she was safe inside, she leaned over to switch on a lamp, and then peered through the curtains. He still stood where she’d left him.

She gave a little wave and then closed the door curtains again.

Finally, she heard the sound of his footfalls as he walked back to his car, and then the crank of his truck engine.

Penelope let out a long sigh, unaware that she’d been holding her breath.

She stepped toward the kitchen, flipping on lights as she went. It wasn’t fair, really. On paper, Barnaby Jones was the perfect man for her. Beyond being great looking and single, they’d attended the same schools, knew all the same people, and enjoyed doing the same things.

Maybe that was the problem: they were too well matched.

She put the elephant ear down on the counter, inwardly cursing her meddling grandmother and aunt.

Of course, Barnaby was worlds better than some of the other men they’d fixed her up with. There had been the divorced car mechanic who’d liked to flex his muscles for her expected enjoyment every five minutes. And the nerdy bank vice president who pushed his glasses up constantly and rarely met her gaze, and then grabbed onto her so tightly when she’d kissed him good-night that she’d been half afraid he wouldn’t let go. She’d nearly pushed him down the stairs just to get him to disconnect.

So on the date scale, Barnaby was the best match yet.

If only kissing him wasn’t like kissing her grandmother.

She made a face at the comparison and then realized that the house was too quiet. And it wasn’t just the absence of the two old biddies who had gotten her into her current mess either.

“Thor?” she called out.

No response. Which wasn’t all that unusual. If he was curled up sleepy somewhere, he’d likely stay exactly where he was.

She opened the pantry door and took out the bag of his favorite dog treats. Still no Thor.

That was odd. By now he would be panting at her feet.

She shook the bag. “Who’s been a good boy?” she called out in a lilting tone. “Who thinks they’re deserving of a goodie?” She shook the bag again.

Nothing.

Huh.

Then it dawned on her that she might have left him out back.

She unlocked the door and pulled it open. Nothing. She flicked on the back light.

“Thor?” she called into the night.

A single bark somewhere in the yard.

She grimaced and stepped onto the back porch. Please don’t let him have cornered another badger. Or, worse, another skunk. She’d bathed him three times, once in tomato juice, another in lemon juice, but nothing but time had seemed capable of ridding him of the god-awful stench. They’d kept him locked outside for two miserable days with him whining the whole night through.

“Thor, come here,” she ordered, giving an experimental sniff. Nothing but the fragrant scent of her rosebushes.

Another quiet bark.

Penelope navigated the stairs and walked up the pathway. She heard his panting before she saw him. Or, rather, saw his tail wagging where he sat inside the gazebo.

“What are you doing there?” she asked, coming up behind him.

He turned and licked her outstretched hand, then sniffed animatedly at the bag she still held.

“I have half a mind not to give you a treat because I don’t think you’ve been a very good boy.”

His tail was now little more than a blur as he picked up wagging speed and began doing his crouch and bark and run in circles treat-dance.

She laughed. “Oh, all right. Maybe just one.”

A shadow moved in the gazebo. “How about this bad boy?” a familiar voice asked. “Do you think he’s entitled to any treats?”

3

PALMER HADN’T EXPECTED her to return so soon. Had even feared she might not be alone when she did. But here she was, and there was no suspicious sheriff in tow. Which made him much luckier than he’d been earlier in the evening when he’d paid his surprise visit to his father.

“Palmer!” she whispered. “What are you doing in there?”

He grimaced. What was he doing in there, indeed? “Sitting.” He went for the obvious.

There was a long silence as the summer night sounds penetrated the thin walls of the gazebo. The structure smelled of wood and flowers, the cushions on the bench soft and accommodating.

How many times had the two of them met secretly in this very place, concealed by the shadows? A dozen times? A dozen dozen?

“Have you been here since I left?”

“No.”

Although he wished differently. His father’s reaction had hit him hard. Harder than he would have imagined it might. What man turned his own blood away from the door? Especially considering that man didn’t appear to have anyone else.

To his surprise, Penelope came inside the gazebo and sat opposite him. She was little more than a warm blur and quiet breathing, the subtle scent of jasmine tempting his thoughts … elsewhere.

“That was a short date,” he commented.

He heard her soft laugh. “Yes. It was.”

“I hope I didn’t ruin things.”

She shifted, leaning back against the cushions. “Why is it that I doubt that?”

“Maybe because you always did know me better than I gave you credit for.”

He heard her swallow. “Not as well as I’d hoped, it appears.”

The words were said so quietly he nearly didn’t hear them.

While years separated tonight from the last time they’d shared the gazebo, it seemed as if it could have been yesterday. Not because of what he said, or she did. But because of the way he felt.

Palmer planted his forearms on his thighs and joined his hands between his knees. The movement put him within touching distance of Penelope. He waited to see if she’d move away or stay put. He knew a little thrill when she stayed put.

It was odd, the … need he felt for her. Even now. Time and space and maturity had made him believe that what he remembered was kid stuff. A major crush. A hormonally induced love.

But that theory no longer held water. Because right now he felt just as needy as he had back then. Perhaps even more so. All he wanted to do was reach over and haul her into his lap. Claim that mouth of hers with his. Lay his hand against her soft breast. Hear her sigh in his ear.

He cleared his throat. “I went to visit my father tonight.”

He swore he could feel her gaze probing his face in the dark.

“I know I should have gone before now … He’d heard I was back …”

He ran his hands through his hair and then returned to clutching them between his knees.

“He pretended not to know me and closed the door.”

She made a small sound he interpreted as surprise.

Palmer squinted in her direction although he couldn’t really see her. “Is it possible that he didn’t recognize his own blood?”

Penelope knew of his awkward at best, animosity-filled at worst, relationship with his father going way back. In fact, she was the only one who’d known outside his own mother. He’d told her all about it. Well, not everything.

“I knew who you were instantly,” she whispered.

Thank God for that, he thought. He didn’t know what he would have done had he faced rejection twice in one night.

Then again, if it weren’t for Penelope’s suggestion that he see his father, he might never have gone over there.

“So why do you think he did it?” he asked.

She made another small sound, but this time not because of what he’d said, but because he’d stretched his fingers and the tips were touching her knees. The hem of her dress fell just above, leaving him free to feel her warm skin.

And she was warm … And soft … And inviting …

God help him, but he wanted her so badly he hurt.

“Palmer … please …”

His hands drifted upward as if on their own accord, tunneling under the material.

Penelope gasped and trapped them with hers.

He was close enough to kiss her. Close enough to smell her skin. Close enough to feel her breath against his face.

“When I first saw you tonight,” he whispered, his voice ragged, “I thought I’d traveled back in time. Back to when we were both kids. When the world was nothing but a big question mark outside that gate. And where nothing existed but my need to kiss you.”

He was surprised by his words. It was one thing to privately acknowledge them. Another to put them out there where she might rebuff them. Might rebuff him.

“When I agreed to come back here to see to this business venture … I’d hoped I might see you.” Her hands were still on his. “But I never expected to feel this … way for you. Again.”

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

“I understand that you may not feel the same …”

Long heartbeats passed. Palmer didn’t speak. And neither did Penelope. They merely sat there practically forehead-to-forehead, him with his eyes closed.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“That’s the problem.” She paused. “I feel exactly the same …”

AND IT WAS A PROBLEM for Penelope. A monumental dilemma. Because whereas Palmer seemed glad to be feeling the way he had way back then, she was heartbroken to find herself in a place she never expected to be again.

So much time had passed …

Yet it amounted to a little more than a drop in a bucket …

She tried to think of Barnaby. To hold desperately onto all of the reasons why she shouldn’t let Palmer kiss her. But as he leaned even closer to her, all reason fled, leaving only acute awareness in its wake.

When his lips finally met hers, a moan years in the making wound up and around her throat, exiting softly. She released his hands and snaked her arms over his shoulders. How could he taste the same? How could his hair still be thick and coarse against her fingers? How could that longing that she hadn’t experienced since he’d left emerge as if he had never disappeared?

Palmer groaned, his freed hands sliding even further up under her dress. When the back of his fingers skimmed the front of her damp panties, she nearly jumped from the seat.

“God, I’d forgotten how responsive you were.” He kissed her long and hard. “I could always count on knowing exactly how you felt about me, Penelope. That you wanted me as much as I wanted you.”

She bit her bottom lip, hating the hot tears that flooded her eyes.

That’s not true, she wanted to say. If you’d wanted me as much as I’d wanted you, you would never have left.

But before she could truly consider the weight of her words, he was shifting her weight from the other side of the gazebo to across his lap. Penelope gasped and held onto his shoulders for balance, surprised by the move. Before she could regain her balance both physically and emotionally, he cupped the side of her face, holding her still while he launched a fresh assault on her trembling mouth.

Having him this close, his heat permeating her every cell, his chest against her side, his lap under her bottom, it was impossible to think about anything beyond her growing need. As his breathing grew more ragged, hers did, too. And her hands seemed to have taken on a life of their own. They tunneled into his hair, dove down his back, exploring the long, hard length, then circled to press against the hard wall of his chest. He felt good. Solid. A far sight better than what she’d experienced in her dreams. He was there. Present. And she intended to take every advantage of that fact.

Shifting around, she straddled him, adjusting her skirt so that the only things separating them were the thin wall of her panties and his slacks.

She stilled. Not because she knew a moment of hesitancy. But because she cherished the white hot heat flashing through her.

She’d forgotten what it felt like to think nothing at all. To give herself over to sheer emotion. To surrender to something that was bigger than her.

“Christ, you’re even more beautiful now than you were then,” Palmer murmured.

Penelope pressed a finger against his lips. “Shh. Please. Don’t speak …”

At least not with words. She wanted him to communicate with his body. Wanted him to touch her. Everywhere.

And he did.

Penelope gasped when he fanned his hands against her bottom and then budged them ever so slowly downward until his fingers were under the hem of her bunched up dress. Skin met skin, sending shivers down her back, causing her to arch her body, seeking a more intimate meeting.

And he gave it to her …

His fingers burrowed under the elastic of her panties and cupped her bottom. Then his fingertips followed the shallow crevice inward until they pressed against her swollen folds.

Penelope tugged her mouth away from his, breathing heavily against his cheek as his fingers found their target.

Yes …

She heard Palmer mumble something then curse.

“I don’t have protection,” he said into her ear.

Penelope’s throat refused the swallow she tried to force down it, his words too familiar.

She went still for long moments, trying to gather her scattered emotions into some sort of order. Then she slowly drew away from him, forcing him to release his hold on her both literally and figuratively. Moments later, she sat with her legs tightly closed, her dress back in place, next to him.

“I wasn’t expecting … this,” he said quietly.

Neither had she. Not that she usually traveled with condoms anyway. But it was somewhat reassuring that he hadn’t whipped a ready one out of his back pocket.

Reassuring and disquieting.

He skimmed the back of his knuckles along her jaw and kissed her again, long and hard, stretching open the gulf of sensation that she was trying desperately to close.

He cursed once more.

She smiled.

“Tell me we’ll be here again, Penelope.” He stared into her eyes.

She looked away and bit hard on her bottom lip, unable to answer.

“I didn’t expect to be here now,” she whispered.

He drew away and sat back against the cushions. “That sounds a little too much like a no to me.”

“No,” she said. “It sounds like a maybe.”

4

“SHH, YOU’LL WAKE HER.”

“Shush, yourself. You’re the one making all the noise.”

Penelope easily identified the two voices coming from her open bedroom door even as she fought to hold onto sleep. She’d gotten so little of it. Hadn’t she just finally dropped off? She pried open one eye and read the clock. After eight a.m. The last time she’d looked, it had been after four. And her mind had still been racing with images from the night before. Her ears still filled with the sounds. Her body still reeling from the shock of emotions.

“Can you tell whether or not he was in there with her?” Her grandmother’s stage whisper was louder than her regular speaking voice. It was a well-known fact, but no one seemed to have the heart to tell her.

“How would I know?” her great-aunt asked, just slightly quieter.

“Come on, let’s go before she wakes up.”

Penelope rolled over and eyed the two busybodies who were also her roommates. “Too late.”

Her grandmother made a face even as she sharply elbowed Irene. “I told you you’d wake her.”

Her aunt gave her a long look and then entered the room fully. “That’s all right. Now that she’s up, we can ask her.”

Penelope’s right arm was still curled around the guest pillow on the double bed. Her great-aunt tugged it from her grip and gave it a thorough inspection.

“What are you looking for?” Penelope rose up on her elbows.

Irene plucked at something and then held up what appeared to be a single hair. She frowned. “What color is his hair?”

“Blond.”

“This is dark.”

Penelope gave an exasperated eye roll. “Probably it’s Thor’s.”

Her aunt sighed and then dropped the hair, brushing her hands together.

“Well, whose did you expect it to be?” Penelope asked with a raised brow.

Her grandmother came up the other side of the bed. “Don’t play coy with me, little girl. You know perfectly well who. I changed the sheets yesterday special for the occasion.” She considered Penelope through narrow eyes. “The question is, did you make good use of them?”

Penelope swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. It was far too early for this. “Of course, I made good use of them. I slept on them.”

She dragged her robe from where it lay over the wicker chair in the corner and put it on, weaving her way around the two old women planted in her room. Unsurprisingly, they gave chase, following her to the kitchen where she took a cup out of the cabinet and poured a hefty dose of coffee from the maker.

“So we went to Seattle for nothing, then,” her aunt said with a deep sigh.

Penelope remembered what had transpired in the gazebo and silently told them they hadn’t wasted a minute. She took a deep sip of coffee, only to nearly spit it out.

“What is this?” she asked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Her grandmother smiled. “Gourmet stuff we picked up last night. Double chocolate mocha almond amaretto something or other. What, don’t you like it?”

Penelope poured the cup’s contents down the drain.

“Hey, that cost four times what our regular stuff does,” her aunt complained.

“Yes, well, then you got ripped off.”

To Penelope, coffee was coffee, straight, no special flavorings or additions or fancy names. Good ole Juan Valdez beans freshly brewed was all she desired and needed.

Funny that emotionally she went for the complicated stuff.

She grimaced and put a cup of water in the microwave and nuked it so she could have some green tea instead. Plain. No lemon or honey. Just simple green tea.

She sat at the table, dipping the bag into the steamy water.

“Who drinks hot tea in the summer?” her great-aunt asked, putting a plate of muffins on the table.

“How is it different than drinking hot coffee?” her grandmother wanted to know, sitting down.

Penelope ignored them as she squeezed the liquid from the bag and put it on the table. She took a long sip. That was more like it.

Finally, she looked up to find Agatha and Irene staring at her.

“What?” she asked, and then groaned. “Not that again.”

“And again and again and again,” her grandmother promised. “Penny, girl, you need to get laid.”

Her aunt nodded her head several times, barely disturbing her tight gray curls. “Yes, you do.”

“But how are you going to do that if you keep your thighs glued together?”

Penelope gasped and quickly raised her hand to ward them off. “Please, don’t. It’s much too early in the morning for me to contemplate talking about sex with my grandmother and great-aunt.”

“Well, you should have thought about that last night. If you had done what you were supposed to, we wouldn’t have to talk about it at all.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes. “Hmm. Somehow I doubt that.” She put her cup down on the table. “I get the feeling that you two would want detailed descriptions.”

“God, girl, why would we want those?”

Her aunt put a muffin on a napkin and pushed it toward her. “We have sex lives. You don’t.” She waggled a brow. “Now if you should want details …”

“Oh, God, please. Spare me.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” her grandmother said. “Maybe it will remind her what she’s missing.”

“And maybe the images you burn into my brain will scar me for life, and leave me unable to ever have sex again.”

Both their mouths closed with a snap.

That was better. Much better.

Penelope ignored the muffin and enjoyed her tea.

It was hard to imagine a time when she didn’t have these two feisty, witty women in her life. In fact, very little had changed since she was five and her own mother had taken off for parts unknown with her latest boyfriend, an occasional visit or phone call to let them know she was still alive Penelope’s only contact with the woman who had birthed her.

Agatha and Irene had raised her, although at times it had been difficult to tell who was the child and who the adults. While there had always been freshly baked and cooked food in the house, so had there been parties and a seemingly never-ending trail of paramours, the reputation of the two sisters in their younger years following them well into the autumn of their lives. More often than not it had been Penelope who had picked up beer bottles from the floor and cigarette butts from the plants after a particularly rowdy night.

She had hoped that one day they would settle down. That her grandmother and great-aunt would finally mature. But it appeared that might not ever happen.

“So how was Seattle?” she asked, idly pulling apart the muffin and popping a piece into her mouth.

The two sisters grinned at each other. And Penelope sat back, readying herself for another example of exactly why neither of them would ever qualify for a spot in a Norman Rockwell painting …

PALMER STOOD AT THE FRONT DESK at Foss’s B and B and stared at the bell after looking at his watch. The scent of fresh coffee and something baking came from the direction of the kitchen, but seeing as he was the only guest in the seven-room inn, he didn’t feel comfortable just walking around the place as if he owned it. Especially since from the moment he’d checked in, he’d gotten the impression he wasn’t exactly welcome. The second afternoon of his stay, he’d returned to find his suitcase on the front porch, his room locked up.

“I didn’t realize you were staying for more than one night,” Debra Foss had said when he’d finally tracked her down in the back garden.

He knew differently. He’d told her when he’d checked in to what basically amounted to the only temporary accommodations in town, that he would be staying indefinitely.