Enchanted (11 page)

Turning around, he smiled at Kathleen through the doorway, holding his treasures in the air for her to see. “I’ll be out in a moment. If the food comes, don’t eat it all without me.” He kicked closed the door, and Kathleen retreated to the living room, just in
time to answer the knock at
the door.

“Room service.”

oOo

Mac stared at his eyes in the mirror. Bloodshot. He looked awful. His muscles ached, his brain pounded against his skull. And Kathleen asked if he felt better. Better than what? Better than a rodeo rider who’d just been thrown and kicked? That’s how he felt. How could he hold his head up high when he walked out of the bathroom to face her again? What did she mean by he’d done nothing worth mentioning? What had he done? He wouldn’t find out by standing in the bathroom talking to himself for the rest of the night. He had to face her sometime. It might as well be now.

He stood in the doorway, quiet, motionless, and watched the auburn-haired beauty. She still wore the skintight dress that showed every curve, curves he wanted to explore. In the back of his mind a voice told him he’d already touched her, but he didn’t remember a thing. Surely he would remember touching something that looked so good. She leaned over the table sampling with her fingers bits and pieces of everything on the trays. She looked wonderful, especially her bare feet and longer-than-long
legs. Obviously she wasn’t aware that
he stood in the doorway. She licked her fingers, humming with the soft, piped-in music playing throughout the suite. Her hips swayed, her foot tapped, and a lump the size of a golf ball formed in his throat.

“Looks good,” he said, totally beguiled by the schoolmarm-turned-goddess.

She swung around, her hair flying about her head, as if in slow motion. She smiled—she always smiled. Her eyes sparkled. “You look a little better.” She laughed.

He had thought the room was cold, but she was all the warmth he needed.

“May I join you?” He waited for her invitation. He didn’t need one, but he waited just the same.

“Of course.” He watched her eyes leave his for a moment and travel to his chest, to his unbuttoned shirt. She fluffed the pillows on the couch. “Sit here and I’ll fix you a plate.”

“I’m not sure I can eat,” he said, relaxing in the soft comfort of the sofa, his eyes never leaving the splendid curve of her back and bottom while she filled his plate.

“This stuff’s wonderful. As soon as your stomach’s full, you’ll feel good as new.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Kathleen knelt on the floor in front of him, holding a plate in each hand. She held one out to Mac. He touched her fingers when he took the plate. His senses tingled, his legs weakened. She had to be a witch. He found no other explanation for what she did to him. God, he thought, first I’m confronted by a little old woman straight from Santa’s workshop, and now a sorceress, bewitching me with her spell.

He shook his head to rid
himself
of thoughts of witches and rosy-cheeked women.

Kathleen watched his every move. “I thought you were feeling better.”

She dipped a piece of lobster into a silver cup of drawn butter, then slowly, leisurely, bit into the dripping morsel. Not giving a thought to the outcome of his action, he reached out with his thumb and wiped a drop of butter from her lower lip. He lingered a moment, then brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it clean. “I’m feeling better all the time.”

He watched the rise and
fall of Kathleen’s breasts. Her
breathing deep, slow.

What the hell am I doing? What is she doing? He turned away from the power of her eyes. A few hours ago they were yelling at each other, and now all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and kiss away all those doubts and fears that had been haunting him.

“You should try the fettuccine,” she said, invading his thoughts, breaking her spell.

“Do you always eat so much?” he asked.

“Yes, but my tastes and pocketbook usually opt for peanut butter and hot dogs. I could get used to this, though. Here, give it a try.” She held a fork full of shrimp and crab up to Mac’s mouth, and he pulled it off with his teeth. She may not have been trying to be sensual, but she was doing a damned good job.

Mac pushed up from the couch and added more food to his plate. He stared down at the lady curled up on the floor. Did he dare join her?

He moved the drinks and trays of food to the coffee table. “No need to keep jumping up and down,” he said, then went to the fireplace. He thought about lighting a fire, then realized they didn’t need any more heat in the room.

He could sense her watching him, but she didn’t say a word. What should he do next? He could leave. He could sit next to her on the floor. He could return to the couch. He opted
to sit in the chair on the
opposite side of the coffee table. He couldn’t think of a safer option.

“I make you nervous, don’t I?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re not nervous at work.”

“That’s different.”

“Why? Because you feel you’re in control?”

“I’m always in control—in business anyway.”

“I prefer you this way,” she whispered,
her voice soft and
sultry.

Why did he find everything about her so sensual? Her voice, her movements, the way she licked her lips? He set his plate on the table and got up from the chair. He went to the thermostat and turned the dial, lowering the temperature. The fan came on instantly. Cool air blew out of the vents.

He picked up the phone and started to dial room service for beer, but the lingering throb in his
head made him reconsider.
She made him feel sixteen instead of forty-nine, young and insecure, wanting to cop a feel but afraid of the repercussions. Hell! Isn’t that what he wanted? A change in his routine? A chance to start over? To be young and impulsive again?

He paced the floor, attempting to regain just a speck of composure. When he stopped in front of Kathleen, he looked down into the face of contentment. Oh, Kath, he inwardly sighed. What am I getting us into? He wanted to touch her, but didn’t. He wanted to smile, but couldn’t. It took what little courage he had left just so speak. “We need to talk.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

Her smile deepened. His throat constricted.

He took a deep breath. “I think if we’re going to have any kind of relationship we should get to know each other better.”

“Are we going to have a relationship?” Her question seemed innocent enough, but Mac knew Kathleen was anything but innocent. She knew what she wanted, and she seemed to know just how to get it.

“There’s something going on between us, but I sure as hell don’t know what it is.”

“Mutual attraction?” she asked and reached across the coffee table for her glass. When she tugged at the top of her strapless dress, Mac nearly lost what little remained of his composure.

“Are you attracted to me?” he asked.

She bit her lower lip and again let her eyes travel up and down the length of his body. “Yes.”

“How could you possibly be attracted to me? I’m older than you—”

“Wait a minute,” she interrupted. “So what if you’re older? You’re also richer and bigger. You’re also the opposite sex and very good looking.”

“I suppose you say these things to every older man you date.”

“I haven’t dated in years.”

“Why?”

“The truth?”

“The truth.”

“Because I’ve been waiting for you to open your eyes and look at me.”

Her words stabbed at his heart. Six long years wasted because he’d been afraid of his feelings, afraid he was too old for her. He’d been such a fool.

“I’ve closed my eyes to lots of things in the last few years.”

“They weren’t always closed, were they?”

He knelt down beside her, taking a strand of her hair, feeling its texture, letting the curl wrap around his finger. “No.”

“Then I didn’t imagine it all those years ago? You did feel something for me?”

He trailed his fingers along her cheek, touched the bottom of her chin, and tilted her face toward him. “Yes, I felt something, something I felt would be better to run away from.”

The smile left her face, replaced by a myriad of emotions—anger, grief, confusion. “Why did you run away?”

Mac avoided her eyes, just as he avoided her question. It was easier to reach for an éclair than to give her an honest answer. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Okay,” she whispered, then took another sip of soda, sadly staring at Mac over the rim of her glass. Within seconds, her smile returned. “If you don’t want to talk about
that,
then tell me how a cultured gentleman like you ended up drinking so much beer? And why is it that you have to pepper all your sentences with
damn
or
hell?”

He chewed thoughtfully on her question and on the cream-filled pastry. He grinned, glad she didn’t pursue the previous topic. “Because women like you have a tendency to anger me.”

“Oh, come on. I don’t believe that for one moment. If you don’t like a woman, or a man for that matter, you just give them one of your death stares and ignore them. That has nothing whatsoever to do with the beer, the
damns
, the
hells,
or me.” She reached over and grabbed a dish of chocolate mousse from the dessert tray.

Mac groaned. “Would you stop doing that?”

Kathleen eyed him, puzzled. “Doing what?”

“Bending over like that. Every time you do I can see all the way down your dress.”

“Then quit looking.”

“I like looking.”

Kathleen jumped up from the couch and went to the closet.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mac bellowed, following her to the closet, afraid she was going to leave.

She pulled his coat off the hanger and slipped it on over her dress. The sleeves extended beyond the tips of her fingers. She felt tiny inside the coat that nearly swallowed her, but she found it to be the perfect attire for hiding her body. “Now you don’t have to look,” she barked, stomping back to the couch and her chocolate mousse.

Looking at Kathleen made his loins ache. Looking at Kathleen and not touching her was the hardest thing he’d ever done. A million thoughts filled his head—good ones, bad ones—but in the end, propriety won.

He followed her back to the couch and sat on the floor at her feet. He leaned back against the sofa and sighed. “Okay. I’ll admit it. You’re driving me crazy.” Turning around to look at the woman sitting above him, he smiled with warmth and affection. “Maybe it’s time to talk.”

Five hours later they hadn’t run out of words. Kathleen listened to Mac open his heart about the not-so-poor little rich boy’s life. He’d grown up with everything, including love from both his mother and father. He wasn’t ignored. He wasn’t sent off to boarding schools. He was a very bright child who wanted to know everything about his father’s business, and at the early age of twelve started working in the mail room, doing odds and ends, learning every aspect of the empire that would someday be his.

He lay on the couch, his head in Kathleen’s lap. She played with his hair. At times she wanted to kiss his brow, stroke his cheek, touch his chest—but that wouldn’t happen tonight. She knew the magical spell would be broken if anything physical happened. Tonight they would talk, and talk only.

“You’ll never guess what I wanted to be when I grew up,” Mac said with a laugh.

“What?”

“A cowboy.”

“What’s funny about that? Most little boys want to be cowboys.”

“The funny thing is, I haven’t gotten it out of my system.”

“Neither did your dad,” Kathleen added. “Unfortunately, the closest he got to being a cowboy was having all those Remingtons and Russells in his office.”

Why did she have to mention his dad once again? Why did she have to know him so well, know of his dad’s love for the West and its culture? Hell! He had to force those ridiculous rumors out of his head. His father wouldn’t have had an affair—not with Kathleen, not with anyone.

“You’re right, Kath,” he said, absently stroking her hand which rested on his chest. “I’m just like my dad. Both way too busy to give in to a foolish whim like becoming a cowboy.”

“It’s not too late to change careers.”

“I’m forty-nine years old. At my age
,
I can’t start over. At thirty-two you see things differently than you do when you’re nearly fifty.” He sat up, and only inches separated them. “Do you realize I’m old enough to be your father?”

“Or lover,” she tossed back without thinking.

Again he felt the stirring in his loins. “Is that a possibility?” He stretched his arm out along the back of the couch behind her head.

“Not tonight.”

“But it
is
a possibility.”

“If you really think a thirty-two-year-old woman could be interested
that
way in a forty-nine-year-old man.” She laughed at him. Why did he think his age made a difference? Didn’t he realize the bond between them went beyond age, went beyond physical attraction—that age was secondary to everything else?