The Daddy Deal

She waved her hand toward the exit through which Clarke had so recently slipped. “Well, as you can see, I have no date—”

“And no one waiting at home, wondering where you are?”

She shook her head. “The only male at my house is two years old, and he’d better not be wondering anything. He’d better be sound asleep.” She raised her chin slightly. “Justin is my son.”

This, too, seemed like something she needed to make clear from the outset. A lot of men remembered they had urgent appointments elsewhere the minute they learned she had a child. She watched Taylor’s handsome face carefully, looking for the familiar signs of shock, disappointment or disapproval. A son, but no husband...

His expression was hard to read. He didn’t look threatened, and he certainly didn’t exhibit any moral indignation. But he did look intensely interested, thoughtful, somehow, as if he were trying to assemble a picture that wouldn’t quite come together for him. That was all right, she decided. A little mystery did more to enhance a woman’s appeal than a boatload of diamonds. And she did want to appeal to him. She wanted it with a raw intensity that was growing stronger by the minute.

“Tell me,” he said finally, his green eyes quizzical, “when you said you were glad you hadn’t married Westover, was that just an academic observation? Or had you really considered it?”

“Considered it?” She shook her head again, as if she could hardly believe the truth herself. “I was his fiancée for almost two years.” Looking down at her now-unadorned left hand, she sighed. “Of course, I was out of the country for one of those years, so it’s only half as stupid as it sounds.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, really. I’ve asked myself that a hundred times.” She gazed toward the door, where she had last seen Clarke. “I guess it’s because, though you’d never know it from tonight’s performance, he can charm the petals off a rose when he wants to. And because I was lonely—”

She stopped, something in his expression suddenly warning her that she was answering the wrong question. She flushed. “Oh...you mean why was I out of the country for a year?”

He nodded. “You have to admit it’s...different. Your average, hot-blooded American woman, upon becoming engaged, doesn’t just grab her passport and emigrate.”

“Well, I was already committed to going overseas before Clarke asked me to marry him,” she explained rather heatedly, as if he had accused her of possessing a tepid nature. Of being passionless. “People were counting on me. I’m a nurse, and I was part of a volunteer medical team our hospital sponsored. The country we were sent to was being torn apart by civil war.”

She leaned forward, squeezing her hands together, trying to make him feel the urgency of her obligation. It wasn’t fair for him to judge her. She wasn’t a cold woman, though Clarke had used that argument against her frequently. She wasn’t. “People were dying.”

“Well, then, of course you had to go,” he said, running his fingers lightly over her whitened knuckles, his smile reassuring. “And if Clarke Westover had been half a man, he would have packed up his fax machine and gone with you.”

She tried to smile back, but foolish tears were pooling along her bottom lids, and she had to look away, afraid that he would see them. She wasn’t sure why she suddenly felt like crying. Perhaps the memories of that desperate, blood-soaked year were too close. Or perhaps it was because no one had looked at her like that in a long time, with sympathy and understanding and... amazingly, there was admiration, too.... No, not in a very long time.

Or maybe it was just the champagne. Get a grip, she told herself. If you turn into one of those dismal, weepy drunks, this white knight of yours will disappear faster than you can say spifflicated.

“What’s wrong?” Taylor’s hand settled over hers, cupping her tense fingers in his cool, soothing palm. “Is it about Clarke?”

“No. No, I’m glad he’s gone.” Without looking at him, she shook her head. She didn’t trust herself to try to explain. She had forgotten how drinking lowered her defenses—or perhaps she had just forgotten how completely she had begun to rely on those defenses to get her through.

“Then what is it?” His voice was low and warm. She could just barely hear it over the sound of violins as the conductor waved the orchestra into a plaintive version of “For All We Know”. “Tell me.”

Again she shook her head, appalled at how tempting it was to think about giving in, breaking down, handing her too-heavy heart to this man who seemed so strong, so thoroughly capable of taking care of it. She felt him stroking the back of her hand, his fingers sensitive and sure, and she had to bite her lips together, for fear the words would come tumbling out—private, mortifying little words that could only shame her. Words like lonely. Empty. Frightened.

“Nothing,” she said tightly. “It’s nothing.”

For a moment he was silent. And then she sensed him rising.

“Come with me,” he said, holding out his hand.

She finally looked up slowly, from the lean, ridged pads of his palm up to where the golden-tanned skin of his wrist disappeared into the snowy cuff of his dress shirt. “Where?”

“We’re going to dance,” he said, curving his fingers to beckon her toward him. “I think they’re playing our song.”

At first, she didn’t move. She looked up the long creases of the black tuxedo sleeve, up to where he towered over her. And she realized, with a sudden shivering heat at the base of her spine, that she found Taylor so attractive it terrified her. She hadn’t thought about men that way in a long, long time. Not even Clarke—although she had certainly tried to. When Clarke had kissed her, she’d found it difficult to keep her mind off other things, like the laundry or how she was going to pay the electricity bill next month. Ironic, wasn’t it? Her fiancé’s kisses had left her completely unmoved, yet the thought of dancing with this stranger made her knees go hopelessly warm and mushy.

She couldn’t stop studying him, though she wondered if she was taking too long to answer. She suspected that, in her muzzy mental state, time had begun to lose its firm contours like an overused rubber band.

What was it about him that melted her from the inside out? Oh, he was gorgeous. No question about that, even though she supposed that, strictly speaking, his nose was too strong, rinsing too arrogantly from high between his brows. But the strong lines of those dark brows were so perfectly aligned with his dramatic cheekbones and sculpted jaw that the effect was both beautiful and noble, as if he were an illustration in some elegant magazine.

But she had known plenty of handsome men. Perhaps, she thought, her gaze drifting down, it was that strange sense of familiarity in his green-flecked eyes. That haunting sense of déjà vu...

“You know,” Taylor said mildly, glancing pointedly at his still-outstretched hand, “I’m beginning to look like a fool.”

Blushing, Brooke rose quickly. Too quickly. Her blood swooped to her feet, leaving her head empty and dizzy. She swayed toward him, and he caught her in one strong arm.

“That’s better,” he said, his lips close to her ear. Putting his arm around her shoulder, he tucked her up against him and led her to the stage, where dozens of couples were already jammed together. There didn’t seem to be a free inch, but somehow Taylor found a niche near the edge of the proscenium arch, where a statue of Neptune, backlit with an eerie violet glow, stared at them through blind white eyes.

Taylor slid his arm around her waist, pulling her in to face him, and for several minutes they shifted slowly to the music, each holding away from the other a bit stiffly, as if neither wanted to be the first to make a move toward a deeper intimacy. But the poignant song was wrapping itself around them, and before she knew it her hand was nestled between his fingers and his heart, and her head had dropped against the cool black lapel of his tuxedo.

The song ended, but they didn’t move, waiting until the violinists’ bows began the dip and thrust of another love song. As the wistful strains of “Lara’s Theme” from Dr. Zhivago filled the air, Taylor’s hand tightened on the small of her back, massaging softly, nudging her into motion.

After that, Brooke didn’t even try to fight the slow fusion that brought their bodies ever closer together—her cheek rubbing against his shoulder, her breast brushing his chest, and their thighs braiding rhythmically, together, then apart. Shutting her eyes, she breathed deeply, learning the crisp, lime-fresh scent of him that rose subtly under her nostrils, stirred by her touch—a scent that was both reassuringly wholesome and surprisingly sexual.

He was far more intoxicating than champagne, Brooke thought dreamily, and she felt something flickering to life inside her, like a small, buried flame suddenly brought into the air. She turned her focus inward, visualizing the Name—once a pale and helplessly guttering flutter—as it grew into a steady, red-hot tongue of fire. It was almost painful to feel so alive, so awake to her emotions, and yet she wanted more. She inhaled jaggedly as the fire crept along her veins, into her lungs, stealing her breath, as well.

She wasn’t sure how long they danced. As suited the occasion, the orchestra was playing only movie themes, and the conductor, apparently aware that the late hour imparted a haze of sensuality to the room, offered one love song after another. Harps rippled; saxophones moaned; violins wept and sang. It was, Brooke thought as Taylor’s chin drifted across her temple, almost too beautiful to bear.

Gradually, though, the dance floor began to clear, the other couples slipping away like sand emptying through an hourglass. Brooke shut her eyes again, turning her head into Taylor’s jacket and tightening her arm on his shoulder, as if she could close the two of them inside a magic circle and make the evening last forever. She didn’t want to go home, back to reality, back to all the problems that were waiting for her. She didn’t think she could face being alone tonight.

With a sigh, she tucked their clasped hands under her cheek, letting her lips graze the back of his knuckles. His fingers tightened in response, and she felt oddly secure, here with his heart beating against her cheek. Strange, she mused. She’d been alone for years, but now, after spending less than an hour in this man’s arms, she felt as if she had completely lost the knack.

He kissed the top of her head softly, and the flame inside her spread like a blossoming bud of heat. No, she didn’t want to be alone. Not tonight.

“I think the orchestra is winding down,” Taylor said, lifting his head and scanning the nearly empty stage. “It’s getting late.”

Without taking her cheek from his chest, she made a small, dismayed sound. But she didn’t speak, afraid that her intense disappointment might sound fretful, as childish as Justin when he fussed about being sent to bed.

“You probably don’t have a car here—do you want a taxi?” He feathered her hair back from her face and ducked his head lower, as if he were trying to get a glimpse of her expression. “Or would you like me to take you home?”

“Oh,” she said, relief bringing a wide smile to her face as she lifted it toward him. “Oh, yes. Thank you.”

He smiled, then, too, as if amused by her breathless eagerness, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. What did it really matter if he could see how happy she was? What harm if he guessed how his embrace had made her feel?

Besides, even if she had wanted to, she wasn’t sure she could have hidden her emotions. From the minute he’d put his arms around her, she had felt as if she’d been plugged into some vibrant life source.Illogically—especially considering that her problems were still unsolved,and Clarke, to whom she had looked for help, was long gone—she felt great. Better than great. She felt deliciously young and alive. Hot-blooded. And rapturously female.

So why not smile? If she was dwelling in a fool’s paradise, then at least she would make the most of every minute. She’d been cautious every day of her life for the past ten years—and she’d have to be equally circumspect every day for the next ten.

Starting tomorrow.

She straightened, tugging lightly, eagerly, on his hand. “Yes,” she said again, swiveling as she spoke. “Let’s go home.” After the warm cocoon of his arms, the cool air seemed to go straight to her head, and she felt the room tip slightly.

He chuckled, a low rumble that was more vibration than noise, and, pulling her safely back against his chest, kissed the tip of her nose. “Slowly,” he said, steering her gently toward the stairs. “There’s no need to rush.”

But there was. There was. Couldn’t he feel it, too? He kept his hands on her shoulders to steady her, and she tried to walk calmly, but a sense of urgency had suddenly overtaken her, like Cinderella as the clock began to strike midnight. If they didn’t hurry, something could go wrong. The magic could run out. He could change his mind—or, even worse, she could change hers.

A crowd of late leavers clustered around the valet stand, and Brooke could hardly contain a sound of frustration. But Taylor’s hands were still on her shoulders, pressing her back against the wall of his hard-muscled torso, and she leaned against him gratefully, glad that he was so strong, glad that he stood between her and the pushing, chattering crowd. She shut her eyes again, and she let herself imagine what it would be like to have such an ally in life, a partner whose strength and loyalty would be a seawall against the crashing waves of misfortune.

Time blipped erratically, and suddenly the car was there in front of them. It was a sleek steel gray model that she couldn’t put a name to, though she could have made a pretty good guess at the price, which probably was approximately what she was asking for her bungalow. The irony of that struck her as rather funny, and she patted the hood of the car with a smile before letting Taylor guide her into the front seat.

Her cinnamon brown silk skirt made a sound like a sigh as it slid across the leather. Brooke sighed, too, as the air-conditioning blew sweet, cool air onto her cheeks, and when Taylor got in, she smiled at him. He smiled back, but his expression seemed strangely questioning.

“Oh,” she said, suddenly realizing what he needed. “Sorry. I live at 909 Parker Lane.” She peered through the window, trying to get her bearings. She knew downtown Tampa as well as she knew her own reflection in the mirror, but tonight things looked strangely unfamiliar. “Do you know where it is, by any chance?” She knew she sounded dubious, but where exactly were they? She didn’t recognize that huge building. “I can navigate, I suppose, as long as you don’t drive too fast—”

“You rest,” he said, touching her face. He wasn’t smiling anymore, but it sounded somehow as if the smile was tucked inside his voice. He sounded sexy, affectionate... and kind. “I’m sure I can find it.”

“That’s good,” she murmured, shutting her eyes against the bright blur of streetlights as they swept down the nearly deserted boulevard. “I’m a little tired. Look for roses. I have a lot of roses in the front....”

He put his arm across the back of the seat and, closing his palm over her shoulder, nudged her gently.

“Rest,” he said again, and she felt no urge to protest as he eased her toward him. She let herself drift downward slowly, her head seeming to seek the crook of his arm as if it were her own special spot, her assigned place in the universe. She put her hand on his thigh, registering the lean, solid strength of it somewhere in the back of her mind before she closed her eyes again and kept drifting, but this time father and farther, until she was so far away—

“Taylor,” she said suddenly, though she didn’t open her eyes, “we’ve never met before, have we?”

His voice was right next to her ear. Strange, when she’d thought she had floated so very far away. “No,” he said huskily, “we’ve never met before.”

“Are you sure? You feel so... familiar.”

He didn’t answer for a long moment, and when he did she heard a smile in his voice. “I have a rather nutty friend who would say that means our auras are in harmony. Maybe he’s right.”

She smiled, too, still without opening her eyes. “That’s silly.”

He stroked her arm gently. “I always used to think so.”

“Very silly.” She shook her head—or at least she thought she did. Her voice sounded thick, half-asleep. “Still, you’re not really a stranger, Taylor. I know you’re not a stranger.”

CHAPTER THREE

SHE came to consciousness achingly aware of him, of his hand stroking along her temple, into her hair, all the way behind her ear. They were home—she could smell the thick scent of roses in her own, beloved front garden. She had been asleep, but the short reprieve into unconsciousness hadn’t helped to clear her head. She was still racked with a shivering desire for this man who sat beside her.

His hand kept moving, and her skin prickled with tiny bumps, from the ear he traced, down her neck and deep into the core of her. Heat was shifting inside her, pulsing and coiling and demanding things she had forgotten were possible.

“Taylor.” She turned her face into his jacket, nuzzling for a deeper connection, and moved her hand on his thigh, letting her fingers tell him what she didn’t know how to say. She wanted him. Oh, God help her, how she wanted him!

The long muscle in his leg tensed, and his fingers tunneled into her hair. “Hi, sleepyhead.” His voice was husky, as if he had been sitting out here in the night air a long time. “Ready to go in?”

She nodded, her pulse beating so hard against her throat that she wasn’t sure she could speak.

He lifted his arm, giving her the freedom to rise, but she didn’t move away, reluctant to surrender the warmth of him. She tilted her face toward his, searching his rugged, elegant features, gilded now by the soft light of her front pillar lanterns. He had angled his head to face her, and his eyes shimmered, bottomless green-and-gold depths rimmed in thick, dusky black fringe. Their gazes held silently for a long moment, during which her lips parted, and even his breathing took on a subtly rougher cant.

“Brooke,” he said slowly, letting his arm drop across her again. His fingers massaged the sensitive skin above her collarbone. “Do you know how beautiful you are right now?”

“Am I?” Though she knew it wasn’t true, for tonight—for him—she wanted to be. She wanted to possess the kind of beauty that could hypnotize a man, could throw a silken net around him and hold him captive. “Am I?”

For answer, his hand tightened, his thumb rubbing against her neck. His eyes were heavy with sensuality, but she could still see the gold flecks that sparked like tiny fires beneath his lowered lids. “Yes, you are,” he murmured. “Dangerously beautiful.”

She watched his full lips form the words, and without conscious thought she lifted her mouth, which tingled with anticipation. But, to her disappointment, he simply dragged in a deep breath, and moving with a stiffness that spoke of rigid determination, he moved away, got out of the car and held open the door for her.

She slid out with a sudden numbness, wondering what his abrupt withdrawal could mean. She couldn’t think how to ask, so she busied herself digging out the key from her evening bag as they made their way up to the house. He seemed to sense that her balance was still rocky—he walked close, close enough to reassure her as they climbed the four steep steps to her front porch.

Once there, her mind raced in circles. If she didn’t think of something quickly, it was going to be too late. Helplessly, she twisted the key in the lock, and then she turned to him.

“Taylor—” she put her hand on his arm “—don’t you want to come in? Just for a little while?” What was the polite euphemism? She didn’t do this kind of thing, didn’t know what the rules were. “For a cup of coffee?”

The muscle in his forearm shifted and grew brick hard under her fingers. She looked up at him, confused. The look in his green eyes was equally hard. “If I come in, Brooke,” he said with a flat monotone, “it won’t be for coffee. We both know that.”

“I...” She licked her dry lips and tried to think of the right answer. But her mind wasn’t working. He was going to leave her here with this empty loneliness that had suddenly become unbearable—that was all she knew clearly. “I just don’t want to be alone,” she said, her voice cracking on the last word stupidly, pitifully. She felt a flare of embarrassment at the sound. What must he think? If he didn’t want to come in, then she was making herself ridiculous.

But suddenly, in spite of her efforts, her eyes were full of tears, and he was just a blurred outline in the lantern light. Mortified, she pulled her hand from his arm and pressed her fingers on either side of her nose, trying to hold the tears back. Oh, what a fool she was! What had she thought? That just because he had been kind to her, because she had absurdly imagined some sense of inexplicable familiarity, because she found him, his body, his face, his touch, somehow deeply moving... Had she really believed that he felt the same way?

“I’m sorry,” she said, turning away. She fumbled for the living-room light, but everything was wet and glimmering, and she gave up quickly. “Thank you for all your help—”

“Damn it—Brooke...” He grabbed her arm, his voice a harsh, urgent whisper. With two rough steps he was beside her in the darkness, pulling her against him, his hands hard on her back. The door swung shut behind them, and everything went black. “Brooke,” he said again, more gently, and he kissed the edge of her lips. She felt herself softening, sinking into him, like rain disappearing into the earth. His mouth slanted over hers, poised and warm, grazing her as he whispered, “Brooke, why are you crying? Don’t you know how much I want you?”

She shook her head once, a half movement that barely stirred the darkness. But he must have seen, because suddenly, with a low groan, he dragged her up against him and kissed her again, but deeply this time, as if he could pour into her his proof, as if she could drink understanding from his lips.

And she did. She did. With a half-smothered cry of joy, she lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck. Though the room was dark, she shut her eyes so that nothing was real except his kiss. It was sweet, but with a burning, like an exotic liqueur. It spread through her limbs, hot and potent, washing her, melting her, until she was limp and clinging, liquid in his arms.

Finally, Taylor drew back, but only an inch. His breath was still sweet and warm on her cheeks. “Where is your son?”

The question was clear, and she didn’t pretend she didn’t understand. “He sleeps upstairs, next to his nurse.” She swallowed. “My room is downstairs. I’m not usually...not usually home at night.”

He didn’t answer. Suddenly, the darkness spun, shadows moving on shadows, as he scooped her up and carried her through the living room, deeper into the house. It was a small home, with few options for privacy. He paused at the only shut door, the door to her bedroom, and somehow she knew this silent hesitation would be his last question. Her heart pounding in her throat, she minutely nodded her head, trying not to think of the implications of that tiny movement. She felt his pectoral muscles shift under her cheek as he shouldered the door open with the smooth assurance of a man who didn’t give a damn for implications.

The room smelled of roses as it always did—she kept cut blooms in a vase by her bed. But never before had the fragrance seemed so heavy, red and sensual. Still without speaking, he laid her on the cool satin tufts of her quilted bedspread, and she could feel herself sinking, sinking endlessly into its perfumed softness. Opening her eyes, she focused on the dark, featureless silhouette of his head, clutching the edges of his jacket in trembling fingers, afraid that she might lose him in this slow, bottomless descent.