Keep On Loving you (10 page)

Her arms suddenly came around him, clinging. “You promise?” she asked again, her voice hoarse. “You really promise?”

“I do, Mac,” he said, and then he shifted her up to seal it with a kiss.

It was supposed to be an act of reassurance, a physical symbol of his pledge.

But with their bodies so close together, when his mouth touched hers, all intentions fled. What flooded in was impulse, imperative, immense waves of sensation. Heat. The softness of Mac's lips. Her fresh, sweet taste.

His head spun as he hitched her closer and touched his tongue to her bottom lip.

On an instant she opened for him and his head revolved again, but he didn't let the dizzy feeling prevent him from surging inside the heated cavern of her mouth. Her hands slid into his hair and her body pressed closer—or maybe that was his doing, because he drew one hand down to her ass and pushed her hips against his.

It felt like no time at all and also forever since he'd been like that with Mac. Relief and regret and lust coalesced into a molten ball that formed in his belly and traveled toward his chest. He was burning all over and greedy for more of her. So he pushed her to her back, taking them from their sides in order to press into the cradle of her pelvis. She instantly made room for him there, parting her legs so he could tuck his erection against the warm center of her.

She moaned, and his hand slid up her side to cup her breast. Her hips tilted and she ground herself against him as he thumbed the nipple that went hard beneath his touch.

His tongue dived deeper into her mouth. She sucked on it, shooting his lust even higher and taking the last of his air. He tore his lips from hers to pull more in, then lifted his head to look at her flushed face. The pink made her half-closed eyes a brighter blue.

Struck by her sweet beauty, he toyed with her nipple, loving the little catch to her breath. “God, Mac. I've missed you.”

Which he discovered were the exact wrong words to say, because they were barely uttered before she was pushing on his shoulders, shoving him off her so she could jump from the bed. Her feet landed with a
thunk
on the floor. Her finger shook as she pointed it at him. He stared, still horny and totally unable to think straight.

“I told you,” she said, her color high and her eyes glittering. “Not happening again.”

Then she was gone, leaving him with the echo of her footsteps racing down the stairs as if she wanted to outrun an enemy.

And, considering he now owned her family's most prized possession, that's probably exactly what she considered him to be.

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
ILDA
SLOWLY
APPROACHED
a huge wooden front door and told herself she wasn't the least bit intimidated. After all, for months, as one of Mac's employees, she'd been in and out of many of the most impressive homes in the area. Looking up, and up again, she acknowledged this one wasn't even as posh as some others surrounding the lake. It had more of a lodge feel, the exterior walls half rock and half stained wood.

Her fist looked small and pale as she lifted it from her side, but she made herself knock anyway—and pretended her knees weren't doing the same as she waited for a response.

Then the door swung open and a tall woman with a perfect platinum bob and Ash's dark blue eyes looked down at her.

Tilda swallowed. “I'm sorry. I'm part of the catering help. I didn't see a way to get to the back entrance...”

The woman smiled and it looked as expensive as her hairstyle. “Come in, come in. We don't expect you to use a service entry, I promise you.”

“I'm Tilda,” she said, stepping over the threshold. When the woman didn't react to her name, the knot in Tilda's stomach loosened a little.

“And I'm Veronica Robbins. Let me show you to the kitchen.”

She followed behind Ash's mother, noting her dark gray slacks and the deep violet sweater she wore with them. Cashmere, Tilda supposed. She'd considered not taking the job the caterer had offered—to act as server during a bridge luncheon—but she'd never been in any position to turn down extra cash.

Not so different from her mother, she realized, and the thought made her a little ill. She rubbed her queasy stomach but let her hand drop when Mrs. Robbins glanced behind her. “Tilda, did you say?”

Did she know of her, then? Had Ash mentioned her before? Or was it for some other reason? Shame set her cheeks flaming and Tilda tried ignoring the edge of panic. “Short for Matilda.”

“Such a charming, old-fashioned name,” the woman said.

“My grandmother's.” Tilda took strength in that. Until the day she died, the practical old lady had encouraged her granddaughter at every opportunity.
You have backbone and brains, girl—which means you don't bow your head to anyone!

So Tilda kept her chin lifted now until she was ushered into the kitchen. There, she could breathe a sigh of relief. She might not need to bow her head during this job, but she had every intention of fading into the woodwork. Ash was an unlikely guest to his mother's luncheon, so she could do her work, collect her pay and get on her way without any close contact with any of the Robbins family.

Later, when the dozen guests were gathered at a long table in the dining room, Tilda perfected her silent act by moving about the table like a ghost, serving plates, filling glasses, bringing in more courses. The food smelled delicious and she prayed her stomach wouldn't grumble. The good thing about these gigs for the caterer, after the guests were finished, there would usually be leftovers offered to the servers. They'd sit in the kitchen, resting their feet while chatting about the party.

The camaraderie came in near second place to the food. A little patience and she'd get her taste of linguine and shrimp, the crunchy rolls and possibly some of the delicious cheesecake for dessert.

She was half dreaming about the creaminess of her first bite of the stuff when she tuned into the conversation at one end of the table. Mrs. Robbins was responding to a question about her son. “Oh, Ashton.” She beamed just saying her son's name. “Yes, he has that six-month job in London starting in a few weeks. It's far, but that just means we'll make many opportunities to visit him there.”

“Then it's just a hop and skip to Paris,” the woman to her right added.

London, Tilda thought. Hop and skip to Paris. Ah well, she still had cheesecake.

“Is there a girl in his life?” another of the guests asked.

Tilda bobbled the stacked plates in her hand, causing a minor clatter that caused several of the guests to glance around. Her face heated and she wondered if letters were scrolling across her forehead. I HAD A NIGHT WITH ASH ROBBINS! I'D LOVE TO HAVE ANOTHER!

Except, of course, she really wouldn't love to have another.

Because of the way the first one had ended.

Because of the reason why the first one had even happened.

And especially because another night might cause her to want yet another and then yet another and her grandmother hadn't raised any fool. A girl with backbone and brains didn't believe there ever could be a future between a Smith and a Robbins.

Though as these thoughts wound through her head, that didn't mean her ears didn't pick up Ash's mother's response to the question. “No one special. Ash is too young to make any kind of commitment, even if the right kind of girl came into his life.”

Tilda was definitely not “the right kind of girl.”

After the dessert had been offered, then cleared, and after she ate a plate with the other servers, she expected to be released from duty. Instead, the caterer and operator of Fare by Fanny, Fanny herself, turned to Tilda as she performed the final tidy of a countertop. “Could you do me a favor, honey?”

The older woman was motherly and friendly and now passed her another piece of leftover cheesecake. Double desserts! “Um, sure?” she said.

“It means more money for you.”

Tilda smiled. “Absolutely sure, then.”

“I was going to stay another two hours or so, put the remainders in the fridge and then serve coffee and tea a bit later, along with some nuts and candies. But I just got a call that one of my ovens is acting up. I need to go sweet-talk the thing immediately. Can you take over for me here and put out the beverages and sweets? She wants them on the small buffet in the card room. Ninety minutes, two hours max.”

Tilda hesitated. She had the time, and there had been neither sight nor sound of Ash, but she didn't want to push her luck. Yet what could she say? “Of course, Fanny.”

After helping the caterer carry her now-clean pots and pans to her van, Tilda stayed busy stretching plastic wrap over the leftovers and rearranging the Robbinses' refrigerator to hold the new items. While she had it open, she took an inventory of its contents, and it served as yet another reminder of the Tilda-Ash divide. The teeny fridge in her apartment that she shared with two roommates contained generic condiments, a couple of store-brand yogurts and some questionable lunch meat that no one claimed, so everyone declined to throw out.

On the other hand, the Robbinses had a drawer of gourmet cheeses alongside butcher-paper-wrapped packages with adhesive tags that proclaimed them to be different kinds of ham, turkey and pastrami. Bottles of European sparkling water and organic milk sat next to juices that were labeled Fresh-Squeezed. There were five different kinds of mayonnaise and three of mustard, and none of them were the white and yellow kind with which Tilda was familiar.

We don't even eat in the same universe
, she thought.

Then she checked the time and turned away from the refrigerator in order to prepare a tray to take to the card room. This part of the afternoon turned out to be a little trickier than she'd expected, because Mrs. Robbins asked her to fetch teacups and tiny plates from the immense breakfront in the dining room.

But she didn't break any of the china and enjoyed admiring the pieces as she carried them carefully to each of the guests. It was a little like playing tea party. When she was little, she'd had a set of thin plastic dishware about the size and colors of Necco wafers. There'd been three plates and two cups—her grandmother had found the partial set at a garage sale—and Tilda had shared imaginary meals with many a princess before she'd understood that only in a Cinderella story did a scullery maid ever get to dine with royalty.

Finally, the guests began to leave, which was Tilda's sign to begin clearing the dishes and remaining food. It was all put away and she was glancing around the kitchen to make sure everything was in place when Mrs. Robbins strolled through the door, one of the delicate cups and saucers in her hand.

“Oh,” Tilda said, hurrying forward. “I'm sorry. I missed one.”

The older woman held it aloft. “No, no. This was mine and I'm just finishing it up. After an afternoon like that it's either more caffeine or open a bottle of wine early.”

“I understand,” Tilda said. “Would you like me to put on the kettle? Make an espresso for you?” There was a gleaming machine on the counter and she hoped she could figure out how to use it if Veronica Robbins said yes.

“I'm fine.” She smiled. “How old are you, Tilda? Eighteen?”

“Twenty-one.”

“You'll be glad to look younger than your years when you get to be my age,” Mrs. Robbins said, smiling. “Husbands get more distinguished while their wives just get older.”

Tilda fumbled with the apron bow at the small of her back. Talking about husbands and wives, particularly with this woman, was not a discussion she wanted to have. “I should be going.”

Mrs. Robbins tilted her head. “Is this what you do?” she asked. “Work for Fanny?”

“Mmm,” she said, trying to sound noncommittal.

“Fanny,” the older woman said again and slapped her free hand to her forehead. “I completely forgot to hand her a check.”

“She'll invoice you,” Tilda said.

“No, I better get it now. We're going to the Palm Springs house for a few days. If I give it to you, will you be seeing her soon?”

“I can drop it off on my way home,” Tilda offered. “No problem.”

“Excellent.” Veronica Robbins beamed. “You wait right here. I won't be long.”

That's why, when she heard footsteps approaching, Tilda felt no alarm. But instead of Ash's mother entering the kitchen, it was Ash himself.

He stopped short, staring at her.

“Um, I helped with your mother's luncheon.” She backed up a step. “I'm leaving in just a minute...”

Why did he have to be so gorgeous? That rumpled golden hair, the lean body, the way his mouth curled at the corners—the entire package was just. So. Hot.

As if he read her mind, he came closer.

Tilda retreated. “Your mom will be back any second.”

“Don't look so scared, Tilda. I'm not going to bite you.”

Her laugh came out weak. “Of course I don't think that.”

“I took you at your word,” Ash said, still moving forward. “I've left you alone.”

She'd said “no.” She hadn't said anything about him leaving her alone. Not that she was going to make that distinction, because of course she wanted him to leave her alone.

Except now, when he was closer than he'd been since that night in May, she couldn't leave
him
alone. She couldn't move, except to breathe in the soapy scent of him.

“Go out with me,” Ash whispered.

She should speak. At least shake her head. In some way indicate refusal.

“Your mom will be back any second,” she repeated. The idea of Veronica Robbins walking in on them standing so close caused Tilda to panic. Her throat squeezed and the back of her neck flashed hot. “You don't want her to catch us, um, you know...flirting.”

“Flirting?” One of Ash's eyebrows winged up and his mouth quirked. “Is that what we should call this?”

“What, um, else would it be?” Damn! She sounded breathless and helpless and spineless.

“Let's call it kissing,” Ash said. Then he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers.

The floor went unsteady beneath her feet. To keep upright, she curled her hand around Ash's biceps, feeling the flex of his muscle in reaction to her touch.

“Go out with me,” Ash said against her mouth.

In the distance she could hear footsteps and his mother's voice. She was on the phone, it sounded like, and on her way to the kitchen.

With Ash's lips still soft on hers, Tilda tried marshaling her thoughts. But only one was crystal clear:
I like his mouth on mine
. Her common sense had completely left the premises or was wrapped in the honey sweetness that was Ash's hand now in her hair and the fingers of Ash's other hand stroking her cheek.

Shivers rolled down Tilda's body as that voice and those footsteps got closer and closer.

“Go out with me,” Ash said a third time.

And it was the charm. Because Tilda said, “Okay, okay, but please, get out of here.”

Flashing a triumphant smile, Ash departed, leaving Tilda vaguely recalling her vow to fade into the woodwork and definitely worrying about what trouble “Go out with me” could cause.

For them all, including Ash's mother and his father.

* * *

M
AC
RETURNED
TO
Zan's the day after he dropped the bombshell about owning the cabin property. She'd had twenty-four hours to get her head on straight and her emotions locked down and now she was prepared to do the grown-up thing. An adult would be able to look her old flame in the eye, get down to business—he had a job for her, she always needed money—and proceed in a professional manner.

Hot kisses be damned.

He pulled open the door and the surprise on his face kind of pissed her off. She frowned at him. “What? You thought I'd run away for good? I'm no quitter.”

“But you hold grudges damn well,” Zan said.

Narrowing her eyes, she tried not to absorb how mouthwatering he looked in battered jeans and an off-white chambray shirt, cuffs rolled up, tails out. No way would she recall the weight of his body on hers the day before, the solid heat of him all around her, and especially against that pulsing place between her legs.

Blame those moments on her weak will following his announcement. She'd been flabbergasted and beyond anxious about how the rest of the family would take the news—especially Poppy. Her mind reeling, she'd succumbed to the warmth of his arms and of his body, and after breathing in his scent she'd temporarily lost all her good sense.