Her Fifth Husband? (9 page)

“Thanks,” he said dryly. Sasha tried and failed to read more into the single word. Then, without taking his eyes off the road—this close to Memorial Day weekend the midday traffic was dense and erratic—Jake laid a hand on her thigh. “How's the ankle?” he asked.

Her breath snagged in her throat. “I'd forgotten I had one.” With his hand singeing a five-pointed brand on her thigh, she couldn't swear to having anything, especially a brain.

At the next stoplight, he turned to send her a wry grin. “Forgot you had an ankle? Believe me, I hadn't.”

“Do I take that as a compliment?”

“Take it anyway you want.” He reached across to brush the back of her neck, where her hair had long since escaped the decorative clips. “Why do you think I kept finding excuses to go back to your place? It's not exactly on the way to anywhere I need to be.”

Her breath quickened. “I thought it was your guilty conscience.” Not that he had any idea she'd been thinking about him when she'd tripped and fallen.

His fingers brushed her shoulder, then tucked a curl behind her ear. “Now why would I have a guilty conscience?” he teased. “I haven't done anything…yet.”

Before she could come up with a halfway rational response, the car behind them honked impatiently. A stretch of several car lengths had opened up ahead of them since the light had turned green.

“Later,” Jake growled, which did nothing at all to slow her heartbeat.

Was that a promise?

Or a threat?

N
ot until they pulled up in front of her house did either of them speak again. “Sasha, are you sure you want to do this?” Jake asked.

“I wouldn't have offered if there was the slightest doubt. If you'll just take in her bassinet and the rest of the stuff, we'll make out just fine, won't we, sugar dumpling?” Sasha unclipped her seatbelt and twisted around to check on their passenger. “Bless her heart, she's yawning—she looks just like a baby bird.”

Jake took her keys and unloaded the car while Sasha counted baby toes and kissed both tiny feet. A few minutes later he returned. “You'll have to show me where you want stuff. Anything else you need, I can bring it tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Thinking of reasons to prolong the inevitable, she latched on to the promise. Sooner or later
he'd come and claim his baby—the question was when? After he was done with the Jamison case, whichever way it turned out? Or maybe after his so-called interior decoration was complete? Who would she miss most, him or his baby?

Not even Solomon could answer that one, she thought ruefully.

“You sure you're up to this?” he asked, carefully un-strapping the seat and lifting seat and baby out.

Sasha led the way and held the door open. “Don't trip,” she warned.

He gave her a look that defied interpretation. Placing baby, cradle and all on the coffee table, he turned to where she stood surrounded by an assortment of baby gear, plus her usual clutter. She forgot to breathe. Was it only her imagination that made her feel as if every cell in her body turned his way, like a sunflower following the sun?

Oh, Lord, she thought—all it took was the slightest encouragement and she was off on another fantasy, inventing a happy ending that wasn't going to happen.

“Sasha?” he said quietly. The house was suddenly so silent that even the quartz clock sounded loud.

“Mmm?” A complete mental and physical meltdown, that's all it was.

Jake placed his hands on her shoulders. It took only the slightest pressure to pull her into his arms. With her face against his hard, warm chest, she inhaled the scent that was pure Jake Smith. If his arms had fallen away she couldn't have moved. It was as if a giant magnet held her there.

“Fair warning. I'm about to kiss you,” he said as calmly as if he were reading a public-service announcement.

In a voice that was only an octave or so higher than normal, she said, “Go ahead, I dare you.”

He bit off a disbelieving laugh. She looked up, and then his face went out of focus and any hope of salvation fled from her mind.

Moist and surprisingly soft, Jake's mouth dragged against her lips, parting them. Beguiled by gentleness, she felt heat sparkle to life and flow through her veins like molten lava. Hunger was there, too, hovering in the background.

His control was maddening. Her hands fisted on the back of his shirt and she strained up onto her tiptoes. He was taller, but the three-inch soles of her sandals helped make up the difference.

And then he began to stroke her back, from shoulder to waist…and lower. When he cupped her hips to press her against his hardening groin, she wanted to tear off the layers between them.

He used his tongue. Not aggressively—not demandingly, but seductively, as if neither of them had anything better to do for the foreseeable future than to explore this thing that was happening between them.

This amazing thing that had been happening the very first time she'd ever laid eyes on him, even before she'd dialed 911, she admitted silently.

Ka-boom, ka-boom! The beat of her heart sounded like the jungle drums in those old Tarzan movies—or maybe it was his heart. The air around them was alive with electricity, she felt it all the way down to the soles of her feet.

By the time he lifted his face she was crushed in his arms so tightly she could hardly breathe. But then, who
needed air? She rubbed her cheek against his shirt, inhaling his clean, sweaty scent. Please don't ever let me go, she begged silently. Let's just stay here like this for the next few years. Better yet, we could climb those stairs to where there's a queen-size bed, and—

A small sound made her catch her breath. “Peaches!” she gasped, pulling away at the thought of the small guest she had all but forgotten.

“Oh, honey—” She bent over to touch the fretful infant. “Let me take you out of that thing,” she murmured.

“Wait a minute, I'll set up her bassinet.” He sounded as calm as if he hadn't just kissed her senseless. “Where do you want it?”

“Oh, ah—upstairs, I guess. In my bedroom.” She straightened up and glanced out the window. “Was that thunder?”

So maybe he wasn't responsible for all those special effects after all, she thought, chagrined. Only about ninety-seven percent of them.

Together they managed to get baby and bassinet upstairs. Sasha held her while Jake settled the wicker bed on a table, after clearing it of various items, including pictures of her family.

“What about sheets? Doesn't she need something on that pad?”

“Look in the hall. There's a linen closet. A pillowcase will do just fine until I unpack everything and wash the linens.”

“The hall,” he muttered, remaining where he was for a few moments.

Was he having trouble concentrating, too? Served him
right for opening a door she'd thought closed for good. She knew better than to build dreams on quicksand.

“How about bringing that rocking chair up from the living room?”

He finished slipping the bassinet pad into a monogrammed Egyptian-cotton pillowcase. “You believe in rocking babies?”

She looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. “Why do you think the things were invented?”

“I remember we talked about getting one, but by the time we got around to it, Timmy was too big to be rocked.” For a tough, sexy guy who could easily hold his own in almost any situation, he looked remarkably out of his element. “The one in the living room?”

“The one in the living room,” she said softly, wanting to hold him and his baby for the foreseeable future.

Jake placed the rocker in the only available space. “I'll get the rest of the stuff, then I'd better head back to Manteo.” Not a word about the kiss they had shared, or about how long she could keep his baby—or when he'd be back.

Sasha knew when to leave well enough alone.

Jake brought up the three-drawer chest and several parcels, his masculine presence making waves in the decidedly feminine room. Fodder, she thought ruefully, for another round of erotic dreams.

Standing beside her bed, he looked down at his granddaughter. “You think she knows where she is?”

Sasha joined him there, standing close, but not touching. “Of course she does. She's aware of color even if she can't see details. I'm positive she can feel the ambiance.”

He slid his hands into his hip pockets. “The ambiance,
huh?” He glanced down at the antique Chinese rug in a faded shade of purple; at the ivory damask-patterned wallpaper and the green velvet fainting couch. Most of her furniture consisted of leftovers from various jobs or irresistibles from various estate sales. The fact that nothing went together didn't particularly bother her.

Smothering a smile, Sasha said, “You know what? I think she's far more intelligent than the average five-and-a-half-week-old.” Boldly tucking her arm through his, she gazed at the solemn infant, knowing that she wouldn't be able to look at her lovely purple rug again without seeing a pair of size-twelve deck shoes planted firmly beside her queen-size bed.

What was that tacky old saying? He can park his shoes under my bed any old time?

She should be so lucky. Darn it, in spite of all her good intentions she'd gone and done it again. And now that he'd hooked and landed his baby-sitter, he was free to go about his business.

To give him credit, though, she was pretty sure that hadn't been his original intention. He'd been stunned at Timmy's call. What happened after that had simply happened, like a row of dominoes, each one tumbling the next.

“I know you have things to do,” she murmured, hoping to hear him say he was in no hurry to leave.

He nodded, but made no move to go.

She tried to imprint him on her mind so that she could drag out the memory of him standing in the middle of her bedroom once he was no longer a part of her life. Probably not a good idea.

Searching for an impersonal topic to steer her away from temptation, she said, “I don't suppose the Jamison
woman is your only client.” According to Miss Martha, JBS Securities was seriously shorthanded. They had advertised, but so far, no one with the proper skills had applied.

“On top of that,” the older woman had complained—if expressing a mild frustration could be called complaining—“Jake had to go and take on a private case.”

All of which meant he was far too busy to deal with a grandchild, much less to get involved in a relationship. And while she might feel a powerful connection to him—that kiss alone had practically caused a brain meltdown—even if he was mildly interested in starting something, he didn't have time.

You buttered your bread, now lie in it, as Faylene would have said, and had on more than one occasion.

And she would. One more working mother. Working grandmother? One way or another she could do it.

The baby made a few experimental sounds and then let out a soft wail. Sasha shouldered Jake aside and said, “Here, give her to me. Come to mama, sugar pie. There, there, it's going to be all right, you wait and see.” To Jake, she said, “Where did you put her bottles?”

“Come to
mama?
”

She curved a hand under the tiny body and supported her head. “Oh, hush, don't confuse her.”

“Don't confuse yourself. And watch your step, will you? Those crazy shoes…” He frowned at her platform sandals.

Feeling vulnerable, Sasha promptly went on defense. “You do realize, don't you, that I've known this baby every bit as long as you have? My name is on her adoption papers, which gives me a personal interest. Be
sides, I'm obviously more experienced than you are.” Holding the baby protectively, she glared at him.

“How do you figure that? Have you ever had a kid?”

“Twin sisters and a baby brother—I told you about them, remember? Chief baby-sitter and bottle washer. Not only that, next month I'm flying out to Oklahoma to be godmother to my best friend's first baby.”

Was there such a thing as a god-grandmother?

“What are you planning to do with her? I mean, with my baby?”

“You mean right now? Tell you what—go downstairs and sit down in the living room and I'll let you hold her while I fix her a bottle.”

Frowning, he appeared to consider her words. Hadn't he said the case he was working on was on hold? Sasha would be the first to admit she was being a bit presumptuous, but if she'd learned one thing, it was never to show weakness.

There was a casserole in the refrigerator that looked Mexican. Marty must have sent it by Faylene, so at least she wouldn't have to worry about supper. There was more than enough for two.

By the time she got back from the kitchen with a bottle of formula, Jake was tipped back in her ergonomic leather armchair with Peaches sprawled contentedly on his chest, gnawing on a tiny knuckle. “I think she's asleep,” he whispered. “I'm afraid to move in case she starts crying again.”

One more memory to tuck away in her album. Sasha stared just long enough to imprint the vision indelibly on her mind—the tough security man in the worn jeans and the faded black T-shirt, one big square hand cover
ing practically the entire length of the tiny pink-clad infant.

“Things have changed a lot since I used to help Mama with the babies,” she admitted as she lifted the limp form from his chest. “We actually used real diapers back then—the kind you wash and re-use. We didn't have a dryer, so in rainy weather we had drying diapers hanging all over the house. Most people were using disposables, but we couldn't afford them.”

Way to go, gal! Like he really needed to know all that.

In case he'd forgotten them, she reminded him of the terrible twos, when toddlers went scouting for whatever trouble they could find—and found it. Double-trouble in the case of the twins, just about the time Buck came along. “Don't count on being able to concentrate until she's in kindergarten. By that time, if you're lucky, you should occasionally be able to get a few hours of work done.”

She wondered how old Timmy had been when his mother had died, but couldn't think of a tactful way to ask. Holding the baby, she settled onto the sofa and touched her tiny lips with the nipple. When little Tuesday Smith took her cue and began suckling, she felt like crying because it felt so
right.

Jake made no move to go. She probably should remind him of all the work he needed to be doing according to Miss Martha. Instead he was baby-sitting the baby-sitter.

Would he ever kiss her again? Could she go on living if he didn't?

Talk about going on a diet.

His long legs were crossed at the ankles, his arms
crossed over his chest. His eyes were narrowed, but not quite closed. He looked comfortable. Comfortable, tired and beautiful in the way certain men could look beautiful, that had nothing to do with any particular arrangement of features.

She thought of all the unhandsome Hollywood heroes she'd seen in movies and fallen in love with. Robert Mitchum and James Coburn. Charles Bronson and that guy who used to race around on a motorcycle—Steve McQueen. It all boiled down to chemistry. Like an elusive perfume that was impossible to describe. Either a woman reacted to it or it left her cold.

Nothing about the man seated across the room left her cold. That was something she was going to have to deal with—the sooner, the better. “What colors are you painting your house?” she asked, testing to see if he'd fallen asleep. It was drizzling outside, but not all that late, even though it seemed as if a week had passed since she'd first woken up that morning.