Her Man Friday (36 page)

She did finally glance up at that. "Do you?" she asked, meeting his gaze levelly. "Do you really?"

He nodded. "Yes, I do. And I think…"

"What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. It's just not surprising, that's all."

"Does it make a difference?" she asked.

He seemed puzzled. "
A
difference in what?"

"In your reasons for being here."

He seemed to give that some thought, then told her, "No. It doesn't. My reasons for coming here are quite simple, actually."

"And just what would those reasons be?"

Neither his gaze nor his voice faltered the slightest bit as he told her, "I came to see you, Caroline. Because I missed you."

Her heart hummed at the way he offered up the admission so plainly, so succinctly. "You just saw me last night."

"Yes, and it was a long, long time ago."

This time her heart skipped a beat or two at his assertion, and she wondered just how seriously she should take what he said. He was a charming, handsome, wealthy man, she reminded herself. He was in no way the kind of man with whom she should involve herself. He couldn't possibly take seriously anything that might develop between them. There would be nothing lasting, nothing permanent with him. So why did she find herself so drawn to him?

For a long moment, they only gazed at each other in thoughtful silence, then Caroline returned her attention to the pile of roses on her counter. One by one, she lifted, snipped, arranged, until the roaster was full of the fragrant blossoms. At no time did she or Schuyler speak to each other. He only sat down on one of the high stools lined up along the counter and watched, very intently, every move she made.

When she was finished, she filled a watering can and emptied it into the roaster, then held the final product aloft in two hands. "There," she said, satisfied with her handiwork. "What do you think?"

"I think it's beautiful," he told her. "You have a way with flowers."

She smiled, then made her way to the kitchen table in the dining area that sat catty-corner to the living area. "Thanks," she said as she situated the bouquet carefully in the middle.

"Just like you have a way with kids," he added.

She made a few additional adjustments to the arrangement, then turned around to face him. "Thanks," she said again.

He rose from the stool and covered the few steps between them, then lifted his hand to run his thumb lightly over her cheek. "Just like you have a way with disillusioned, lonely billionaires," he added softly.

She had to tip her head back to look at him, because he stood a good half foot taller than she when she was in her stocking feet. She wanted to say something in response to his statement, but feared that whatever came out would simply be too revealing, too suggestive, too dangerous. So she said nothing at all, only lifted her hand to circle his wrist with loose fingers. Beneath her thumb, his pulse was pounding, something that was totally at odds with the cool, collected image he presented. She took heart in knowing that he was no more immune to the heat and awareness burning up the air between them than she was.

Gently, she removed his hand from her cheek, but not before he brushed his fingertips lightly over her lips. Impulsively, she kissed each as they passed, then knew the folly of her gesture when his pupils expanded with wanting. Hastily, she took a step backward, and retreated once again into the kitchen.

"I'll just, um… start dinner, shall I?" she asked, her voice faint and uncertain, and none too steady.

"Yes, why don't you?" he suggested. But he, too, seemed to be interested in something else other than the preparation of a meal.

Which was all the more reason, she told herself, why they needed to slow down.

Feeling more and more awkward with every passing moment, she opened all the cupboards necessary to gather the ingredients for their feast. But even after she'd amassed everything down to the salt shaker, she still felt as if something very important were missing. She glanced down at her clothes, at the very comfortable—but none too formal—shirt and leggings that were her at-home uniform. Then she looked back up at Schuyler.

"I can't believe you wore a tuxedo," she told him. "I feel horribly underdressed."

His mouth curled into a predatory smile, and his eyes flashed with a predatory fire. "Well, if it makes you uncomfortable, I could take it off," he told her, without hesitation, without batting an eye.

She shook her head quickly. "No. No, that won't be necessary." She had no idea what possessed her to do it, but she heard herself add, "Not yet, anyway."

He narrowed his eyes at her, then, with only a brief hesitation, reached for his bow tie and rugged it loose. Caroline opened her mouth to object, but something—something totally unmitigated and utterly confusing inside her—halted her from doing so just yet. She watched with what she hoped was only veiled interest as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the kitchen counter beside him, then freed the top two studs of his shirt. His cufflinks followed, each of them clattering onto the counter with finality behind the studs he had already tossed there.

Finally, she found her voice. But all she could manage to utter was, "Schuyler."

Not surprisingly, he ignored her protest and reached for another stud on his shirt. Then again, she supposed what she'd said really hadn't been much of a protest at all. So she tried again.

"Schuyler."

"What?"

"You shouldn't… I won't… We can't…"

But no matter which way she tried to word it, any objection she might have uttered simply would not come. So Schuyler did. Slowly, as he freed yet another stud and tugged his shirt tail free of his trousers, he drew nearer. With fluid grace and clear intent, he covered the space of the tiny galley kitchen, until he stood in front of her, loosing the last of the studs. That one, he simply tossed over his shoulder without care, and it went sailing to the floor, skittering across the linoleum, right under the refrigerator.

Solid gold, she was certain, had now joined the dust bunnies, the stray cat kibble, and the petrified Froot Loops under her refrigerator. Somehow, the knowledge of that both aroused and comforted her.

"Schuyler," she tried yet again.

But he reached for her hand and tucked it beneath the fabric of his shirt, splaying her fingers open over the smooth, heated skin beneath. Soft coils of hair wound easily about her fingers, as if trying to entrap her, and hold her there against him forever. Every bump and ripple of flesh and muscle that she encountered felt as if it came alive under her touch. It had been so long since she had touched a man this way, so long since she had enjoyed even the most innocent intimacy with another human being. So long since she had
wanted
to share intimacy with another human being.

Telling herself she was foolish to do so, she closed her eyes and lifted her other hand to join the first, nudging it under his shirt, trailing her fingers over the same path her others had already traveled. He felt so good beneath her hands, so hot, so alive, so… She sighed deeply, then filled her hands with him, stroking, palming, caressing, enjoying.

A rough sound of satisfaction rumbled up from inside him, and Caroline felt it, absorbed it, through her fingers as well as her ears. When she opened her eyes, she saw that he was ravenous, and knew that the hunger blazing in his eyes was nothing more than a reflection of her own.

"We shouldn't do this," she told him. "It would be a terrible mistake."

"Why?" he demanded. He lifted his hand to her hair, skimming his palm over one long tress before winding it around his finger. "What would be so terrible about the two of us making love? I think we'd rather enjoy it."

"But it wouldn't mean the same thing for you as it would for me," she told him.

His gaze shot from the hair wound around his finger to her face. "Who says it wouldn't mean the same thing for me?" he demanded.

"It couldn't. Schuyler, I—"

"Don't," he interrupted her. "Don't try to analyze what this is about. It doesn't matter where it comes from, or even where it's going. This is about us, Caroline. You and me, right now, and the way we are when we're together."

"But—"

"For me, that's enough," he told her. "Because what's here right now, between you and me…" He inhaled deeply and released the breath slowly, raggedly. "God knows it's more than I've
ever
had with anyone else."

She held his gaze for a moment more, then forced herself to look away. Because if she didn't, she knew she would do something she really shouldn't do.

"But what's between us now," he continued, "isn't enough for you, is it?"

"I don't know," she told him honestly.

"Caroline, I…"

But whatever he had wanted to tell her, Schuyler halted himself. Instead, slowly, he unwound her hair from his finger and took a step away. When he did, Caroline found herself with her hands still extended toward him, but where a moment ago they had been filled with heat and life, now they groped for cool, empty air. So she dropped them back to her sides.

For a moment, Schuyler only stood there looking at her, and for a moment, she thought everything would be okay. Then a shutter fell over his eyes, and he turned toward the studs and cuff links scattered about her counter. With one swift, fluid gesture, he swept them all into the palm of his hand and dumped them in his trouser pocket. Then he scooped up his jacket and shrugged back into it.

He looked utterly and completely lost, she thought. His black hair hung restlessly over his forehead, and his shirt hung open over his bare chest. His collar was twisted and one of his cuffs stuck out of his jacket at an odd angle. More than anything, Caroline wanted to go to him, wanted to smooth him out and calm him down, but something in his posture forbade it. As if punctuating the image, he straightened then, lifting his chin almost defiantly.

"When you decide what will be enough for you, Caroline," he told her, "call me."

Without awaiting a response, knowing, she supposed, that she wouldn't have one to give him, he turned and strode easily through her living room, to the front door. Just as he had the night before, he left without once looking back.

And more than anything else in the world, Caroline found herself envying him his ability to do that.

Lily was surprised when Schuyler returned to Ashling before nine o'clock. After all, he was alone when he did. What wasn't surprising, however, was that he was in a surly mood when he arrived. After all, he was alone when he did.

She intercepted him in the gallery as he made his way toward the east wing, matching her stride to his with no small effort. Boy, was he mad about something, she thought. And it was only going to get worse.

"We have a problem," she said by way of a greeting. But, because he didn't answer her, because he seemed to be focused on something else entirely, she offered nothing more until they reached his bedroom.

Bedrooms
, plural, was more like it, she thought, as she invariably did whenever she came to his suite. As so many other areas of the house were, Schuyler's set of rooms was an utterly masculine retreat. The dark mahogany-paneled walls were interrupted only occasionally by even darker oil paintings of hunt scenes. All the furnishings were mahogany, too, as was the massive four-poster bed he claimed as his own. The carpet was an expansive Aubusson spattered with rich, deep jewel tones of ruby, sapphire, emerald, and amethyst, and the only light afforded this time of night came from a large, but none-too-bright, Art Deco lamp in the image of the sun that was fixed at the center of the ceiling.