“Fif—hey, wait!”
But it was too late. The line had gone dead. She flew back to the bathroom, stubbed her toe on the corner of the vanity, cursed volubly, and flung a towel over her hair. Frantically rubbing, she wondered which to do, hair or makeup? There wasn’t time for both. Oh God, he was going to walk in here and she would look like she had just had a Baptist baptism! She flung the towel aside just as the phone rang again.
“Yes, what is it?” she demanded impatiently.
It was him again. “Have you had breakfast?”
“No.”
“Well, don’t!” The line went dead in her hand again, and she stared at it a moment, smiled, then flew back to the bathroom. When the doorbell rang less than twelve minutes later, she was sure it was him.
“Oh, no-o-o!” she wailed at her reflection in the mirror, her face sans lip gloss, blush, mascara, or even dry hair. Only one eye had pale mauve shadow above it. Like a half made-up clown she opened the door to find Rick standing on her landing hugging a grocery sack in both arms.
“Hi,” he said quietly, a slow smile spreading over his face.
“Hi.” A beguiling fluttering began just beneath her left breast as they stood in the cold morning air, measuring each other while the draft swirled into the apartment.
“Can I buy you breakfast?”
She couldn’t seem to take in enough of him at once as her eyes wandered over his face, freshly shaved and shining, while he let his gaze roam over her half made-up face.
She nodded mutely, forgetting to step back and let him in. Still holding the brown paper bag, he reached one gloved hand out and captured her neck, pulling her half outside while he leaned down to kiss her, the zigzagged edge of the crackly bag cutting into her chin. His lips were warm and impatient as his tongue slipped out to touch her surprised lips. Then he straightened, released her, and smiled sheepishly.
“Oops, I’m sorry. Here I am letting all the warm air out while your hair turns to icicles.” He moved inside and glanced down her legs. She had whipped on a pair of faded jeans and a plaid cotton shirt but hadn’t had a chance to put her shoes on. Self-consciously she tried to cover the bare toes of her left foot with those of her right.
His eyes moved to her wet, straight hair, and from her left eye to her right. Next he caught sight of the puddle of water on the living room floor, by the telephone.
One eyebrow lifted skeptically. “All bright eyed and bushy tailed, huh?”
“Well, sort of.” She flipped her hands out only to realize she still held the brush from her eyeshadow.
The room was flooded with bright morning sunlight, cascading across the yellows and greens, dappling the gleaming hardwood floors where the plants cast leaf shadows. Rick’s glance moved around, lingering longest on the puddle before returning to her face.
“Should I have waited until later to call?” he asked.
Her heart threatened to explode in her chest as she admitted, “No, I’d have gone mad waiting another hour.”
The brown paper bag slid down his leg and landed on the floor with a thump. Rick’s eyes devoured Allison’s face while he reached out and brought her up hard against his chest, lifting her completely off the floor while he kissed her thoroughly. His tongue sought her mouth, and hers eagerly waited to meet it, moving in wild, eager greeting as if these last eight days had been agony for each of them. His teeth trapped her bottom lip, but she neither knew nor cared when she tasted the faint saltiness of blood. He fell back against the door, taking her with him, letting her body slide back down until her toes touched the floor. And in passing she realized he was hard, aroused, and marveled that she could make him so even while her hair was wet, her makeup still in its plastic cases. His hands disappeared from her back, and she began to pull away, only to be stopped.
“No, wait, don’t go,” he said, close to her ear, “I just want to get my gloves off so I can touch you.” Behind her she heard the gloves hit the floor, then his hands pulled her close again, and she clambered right up on top of his boots with her bare feet, leaning willingly, feeling the welcome length of his body against hers. His palms slid to her buttocks to draw her harder, harder against him. She circled his neck with both arms, straining toward his lips, tongue, chest, and hips while desire flared in her. His cold palm slid beneath her shirt. When it brushed the skin just above her waistband, she flinched and shivered.
He pulled back, looking down into her eyes. “What’s the matter?” His voice was deep and ragged.
“Your hands are like ice.”
“Do you mind?” he asked with gruff tenderness, one cold hand already warming on her soft, willing skin.
She searched his eyes, her own gone somber, her lips fallen open, slightly swollen and glistening with moisture from his tongue.
“No.” It was difficult to speak, her heartbeats were so erratic. She had missed him incredibly, found herself undeniably eager for more of his lips and hands on her. Those hands now spread wide over her ribs, which rose and fell in sharp gusts while the driving thrum of her heart seemed to lift her from his chest and drop her back against it heavily.
And then his face was lost in closeness as he kissed the side of her nose, her colored eyelid, her uncolored eyelid, her temple, and after that impossibly long wait—her mouth. He took it with tender, demanding ease, playing with her tongue, nuzzling even as he tasted, tempted, tried. His hand rode up her ribs until one thumb rested in the hollow beneath her left breast, where it gently stroked. Surprised when he found no bra, he lifted his head, smiled, and murmured, “Mmmm?”
Her arms still looped about his neck, she replied, “Well, you only gave me ten minutes.” Then she reached to catch his upper lip between her teeth and tugged him back where he belonged. His kiss grew ardent and searching while his hand at last filled itself with her naked breast, its nipple puckered tight with desire.
Into his open mouth she whispered throatily, “Rick, what did you do to me in these last eight days?”
“Exactly what you did to me, I hope—drove me crazy.”
“But I don’t want you to think I just . . . just fall against every man who walks through that door with a grocery bag in his arms.”
“How many have walked through it that way?”
“One.”
“Hell, one’s not too many. Your reputation’s safe.” But he backed away, grinned into her eyes, and added, “For the time being.”
And she knew her days—maybe hours—of celibacy were numbered. She was falling for him more swiftly than she’d fallen for Jason, and more surely, for while she had learned to love Jason, she’d never really liked him. But she had liked Rick Lang even before falling in love with him.
Restraining his desires, he smiled down into her eyes. “Hey, lady, did you know you have purple stuff above one eye and not the other?”
“It’s mauve, not purple, and it’s eyeshadow, not stuff, and I was hoping you’d be so overcome by me you wouldn’t notice.”
“And what about that mop of hair? You intend to leave it that way or do you want to dry it while I cook us a real omelette?”
“Inferring that the one I fixed us was not a real omelette?” she returned in an injured tone.
“Exactly. Mine will have ham and green pepper and onion and tomato in it, and it’ll be topped with cheddar cheese.”
“I can’t stand green peckers,” she stated tartly.
“Green whats!”
Immediately she colored. “Oh, Rick, I’m sorry. I . . . I . . .” She turned her back, horrified to have let the familiarity pop out unrestrained. It was an old joke between her and Jason.
“Go dry your hair. I’ll holler if I can’t find everything I need.”
In the bathroom she glowered at her reflection in the mirror.
“Stupid twit!” she scolded her reflection.
To turn the odds in her favor, she made her bed, put on a bra, and took extra pains with her hair, styling it with the curling iron until it fluffed about her
collar in wispy tendrils that bounced on her shoulders.
The sound of the stereo came to her. Smiling, Allison glanced toward the doorway, then began humming as she turned toward the mirror again.
Her makeup was subtle and iridescent, applied with a light but knowledgeable hand, for she’d made up many models in her day. As an afterthought she placed light touches of perfume behind each ear, on each wrist, then on impulse snaked a hand beneath her shirt and touched the valley between her breasts before bending to touch each ankle, too.
Straightening up, she turned to find Rick leaning indolently against the bathroom doorframe, grinning as he watched her. He let his head tip speculatively to one side while teasing, “So that’s where you women put perfume, huh? I counted—there were seven places.” He pulled his shoulder from the door and turned away. “Your breakfast is ready, Cleopatra.”
Allison could have died on the spot.
She might have felt self-conscious meeting his eyes when she took her place at the table, but he put her at ease with his teasing. Swinging around, bearing two plates with enormous, fluffy Spanish omelettes, he unceremoniously plopped them on the table, advising, “Eat up, skinny, you look like you can use it.”
“Oh, do I now? I didn’t hear any complaints a few minutes ago when you came in.”
“You may not have heard them, but you may recall I had a hand on your ribs, and you’re about as fat as a sparrow’s kneecap.”
She smiled. “You sound just like my mother. Every time I go home it’s, ‘Allison, eat up. Allison, you just don’t look healthy. Allison, have a second helping.’ It drives me crazy. Why is it that mothers and grandmothers think a woman isn’t healthy unless she’s at least twenty pounds overweight?”
“Probably because they love you and mean the best for you. If they didn’t they wouldn’t bother to notice. I get the same thing from my dad when I go home, only about being single. ‘Rick, you know that Benson girl moved back home and got a job in Doc Wassall’s office. Didn’t you used to date her when you were in high school?’ ” Rick grinned sardonically. “That Benson girl probably weighs a hundred and eighty now and wears support hose and orthopedic shoes. Besides, I don’t think Dad would believe it if I told him I can actually cook an omelette. He’s never cooked one in his life. Mom’s always there to do it for him . . . and his laundry, his house-cleaning, and reminding him when it’s time to pay the electric bill. That’s their way of life. If they try to force it on me, I understand it’s because they want me to be happy. So I just grin and tell Dad maybe I’ll give old Ellen Marie Benson a call before I leave.”
“And do you?” Allison peered up at him, suddenly curious about the women he’d dated.
“Occasionally . . . oh, not Ellen Marie, but a couple of others my folks don’t know about.”
“Anyone in particular?” she inquired, watching his expression carefully.
It remained noncommittal. “Nope,” he answered shortly and took another mouthful of eggs.
“Speaking of calling girls, you’re going to get a call from one.”
“Who?” He looked up over the rim of his coffee cup.
“Vivien. She asked me for your phone number.”
He chuckled. “Oh Vivien.” He drew out the name and followed it with a salacious grin.
Allison leaned an elbow on the table, smirking. “Do girls actually do that, I mean, call guys and . . . and boldly . . .” She stammered to a halt.
“And boldly what?”
“And boldly . . .” Allison gestured vacantly. “I don’t know. What do girls boldly ask when they call guys? I’ve always wondered.”
“Meaning you’ve never done it yourself?”
“Hardly. It’s not my style.”
His eyes danced over her pink cheeks, and he leaned his elbows on either side of his plate, a coffee cup in one hand. “I’m glad.”
“You are?” Her eyes were wide and innocent now, meeting his over the cup.
“Yes, I am. Because I’m one of those guys who still wants to do the pursuing as if women’s lib never came along and gave women the idea of doing it themselves.”
“Judging from the kiss Vivien treated you to, I’d say you’re in for some mighty diligent pursuing from that quarter.”
He lifted his chin and laughed lightly, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, that Vivien, she’s incorrigible.” Yet he didn’t fawn over the fact. Instead he made light of it, suffering no bloated ego, which pleased Allison. All of a sudden the corners of his mouth drifted down into a placid expression as he studied her. His eyes moved over her hair, ears, mouth, cheeks, and came at last to her wide brown eyes. “Your hair is very pretty,” he said quietly.
A stab of warmth flooded her cheeks, and her eyelids fluttered down momentarily. He crossed his hands over his stomach and continued studying her pink, flustered cheeks and the self-conscious way her eyes cast about for something to settle on. They came to rest on his knuckles. “And so is the rest of you,” he added.
A warning signal went off in her head. Was this his line? It was different from Jason’s, which never included compliments quite this simple, but rather effusive hosannas on how she “turned him on.” Remembering them now, Allison told herself to slow down, beware, things were going too fast.
But she experienced a heady feeling of pleasure in being the object of his admiring scrutiny as he leaned back in his chair with casual ease, his voice coming softly again. “You have butter on your top lip.” Her hand reacted self-consciously, grabbing the paper napkin from her lap and lifting it toward her mouth. Halfway there, his came out to stop it. He leaned across the corner of the table while her eyes flew up in alarm.
“Would you mind very much if I kissed it off?”
His eyes remained steady on Allison while her throat muscles shifted as she swallowed. Her brown gaze held a startled expression. Her lips fell open in surprise while she sat as still as a bird in deep camouflage, staring back at Rick.
“Would you?” he repeated so softly it was nearly a murmur.
Her wariness fled, chased away by his soft, persuasive question. The negative movement of her head was almost imperceptible. Eyes locked with hers, Rick removed the napkin from her numb fingers, crossed her palm with his, in the fashion of an Indian handshake, only gently, as if he held a crushable flower. As he leaned by degrees across the corner of the table, the pressure of his fingers increased, and he brought the back of her hand firmly against his chest. She felt the heavy thud of his heart as his eyes slid closed, and his lips touched her buttery upper lip, lightly sucking, licking, moving across its width from corner to corner before he did the same to her bottom lip. Allison felt as if melting butter were rippling down the center of her stomach, ending in a fluttering delight between her legs.
He backed away a fraction of an inch so that only the tip of his tongue circled her mouth, which eased more fully open until her own tongue did his bidding, just its tip caressing the tip of his while beneath her hand the hammering of his heart grew almost violent.
He took his long, sweet time at it, tempting her with unhurried leisure, backing away an inch that made her eyes drift open to find his had done the same. He rested his forehead against hers, nudging softly, then backing away again so they could gaze into each other’s eyes. His calculated slowness caused an insistent throbbing within the deep reaches of Allison’s body. His eyes stayed on hers while he gradually brought her hand between their two mouths, opening his lips in slow motion, taking her thumb gently between his teeth, making miniature, caressing motions of gnawing, while his chin moved left and right, left and right, and his eyes burned into hers. He moved on to her index finger, biting its knuckle before straightening it with a flick of his thumb. She watched, fascinated and sensualized as it disappeared into the warm, wet confines of his mouth.
The gushing responses in her body were like nothing Jason had ever elicited from her, short of climaxes, which he had carefully regulated and often delighted in denying until she begged. No
w, as Allison’s finger was caressed by Rick’s tongue, her body felt ready to explode. Gradually he slipped the finger from his mouth, then turned her hand over and gently bit its outer edge, his eyelashes drifting down to create a fan of shadow on his cheek while his labored breathing told her what this foreplay was doing to him, too.
He fell utterly still for a long, long moment, resting the backs of her fingertips against his lips, eyes closed as if in deep meditation. When he lifted his lids to study her, he spoke hoarsely, with her knuckles still touching his lips, muffling the words. “I didn’t think I’d make it through these last eight days. You don’t know how many times I went to the phone and stood there staring at it, wanting to call. But I remembered what you said about not wanting a relationship, and I was sure you’d say you didn’t want to see me again.”
His words sent a wild reverberation of joy through Allison.
“Are you for real?” she managed at last, letting her eyes travel over what she could see of his face behind their hands. “I mean, look at yourself. Look at your face and your . . . your form, and tell me why you should be worried about whether or not one girl wanted to see you again.”
“Is that all you see when you look at me? A face and a . . . a form?” he queried.
“No.” She swallowed, retrieved her hand, and picked up her coffee cup to have a reason for withdrawing from him. “But why me?”
“If you don’t know, if you can’t feel it, I can’t explain. I thought what was just happening here a moment ago was explanation enough—that, along with some enjoyable hours we’ve spent together.”
“Rick . . . I . . .” She quickly rose to her feet, taking their plates to the sink so she could turn her back on him. She heard his chair scrape back and knew he was standing directly behind her.
“You don’t trust me, do you? You think I’m handing you a practiced line of bull.”
“Something like that,” she admitted. In her entire life no man had ever so effectively seduced her as he’d just done across the corner of a breakfast table, touching no more than her hand. He had to know his appeal—all he had to do was look in the mirror to see he was no Hunchback of Notre Dame. And he had a wooing, winning way that could easily turn a woman’s head.