McCallum Quintuplets (5 page)

“I can't,” Ian said through clenched teeth. “I'm in a two-day golf tournament, and my tee time tomorrow isn't until eleven. Sorry.”

“I'm not,” Blake said, carefully placing his business card in Maddie's hand, gently closing her fingers around it. “Old friends, huh?” he said. “Ian, I think you're losing your touch.”

Ian watched Blake, his custom-made suit and lizard cowboy boots snake their way through the tables to join a willowy blonde at a small table in the corner. Bubba, called up as if by magic, to hit on his Maddie. Damn.

Then he looked at Maddie, who had popped the last piece of steak into her mouth as if nothing was wrong. “You're not going, right?”

“I'm not? Why not? Isn't he a business associate? He
seems very nice. And quite handsome. I even have an outfit in mind.”

“He's…he's a
lech,
” Ian heard himself saying, just like some Victorian father warning his daughter away from the local Lothario.

“A lech. Oh, right.” Maddie rolled her eyes. “Come on, Ian, he's just a man. And that was the point of all this, wasn't it?” she asked, indicating her new hairdo, her new clothes. “April and Annabelle will be
so
pleased. It's just what they wanted to have happen.”

“Bully for April and Annabelle,” Ian muttered under his breath. “Come on, we'll have dessert at home.”

“At home? Ian,” Maddie said, her face lighting with pleasure, “did you buy me a birthday cake?”

“Something like that,” he said, calling the waiter over so he could pay the bill. “Well, actually, no, I didn't. But you're inventive, Maddie. I bet you'll figure out a way to put a birthday candle in a bowl of popcorn.”

“We're staying home and popping popcorn?” Maddie asked, and her eyes were dull, clouded. “I thought—oh, never mind. Sure, let's go home.”

Ian felt like a rat, which was happening entirely too often, and had yet to be the least bit comfortable. “You wanted to go somewhere else?” he asked. Where would he take her? He never
took
Maddie anywhere. They just went places together. Now, if she was his
date,
he'd know what to do. He'd take her dancing. Definitely dancing.

“Maddie?” he asked as they walked to his car. “How about we go dancing? After all, it is Saturday night, and it is your birthday.”

She stopped beneath one of the overhead lights in the parking lot, looked at him. “Dancing? Ian, we've never gone dancing. In fact, the only time we've ever danced
together was three years ago, when we took those western line-dancing lessons at the YMCA.”

He shrugged, grinned. “There's a first time for everything, Maddie. What do you say?”

She looked at him, her eyes shining, and nodded. And Ian began to wonder just what he'd gotten himself into this time…and if it was a good thing or a bad thing.

Madeline dragged Ian by the hand as she made her way through the crowd around the dance floor and flopped in her chair, a hand pressed to her chest, trying to catch her breath.

“No more, no more,” she protested, laughing, gulping air. “When do the geriatric line dances start?” she asked as Ian raised a hand, signaling for the waitress to bring them another round. “Oh, good. Yes. Definitely another drink. I think I'm dehydrating.”

Ian took a white linen square from his back pocket, leaned across the small round table and pretended to pat perspiration from Madeline's forehead. “You were great, Maddie. I forgot the steps halfway through, did you notice? I turned left, then right, and backed myself straight off the dance floor. But some very nice lady in a Dale Evans outfit—with Day-Glo pink plastic fringe—helped me catch up on the steps.”

“Where is she?” Madeline asked, half rising in her chair to look out over the crowd still on the dance floor. “Oh, okay, I see her. Wow, she's good!” She smiled at the waitress and took the glass of white wine from her, downing half of it in one thirsty gulp.

“Whoa, birthday girl,” Ian warned her, taking the glass
from her hand, placing it on his side of the table. “That's your third, if we count the glass you had at dinner. You know two's your limit.”

“
One's
my limit, Ian,” she corrected, trying not to giggle. “When I have two, my whole face starts to tingle. But, hey, this is a special occasion, right? A girl only turns thirty-five once.” She rubbed the palm of her hand over the tip of her nose. “Good thing, too. Who'd want to turn thirty-five
twice?
”

“Lots of women, probably,” Ian told her. “In fact, if you want to, you can turn thirty-five again next year, and for the next fifty years. I'll never tell. That's what friends are for, right?”

Madeline plopped her chin on her hand as she smiled at him. “Definitely. And you're such a good friend, Ian. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

“Yeah, well you don't have to find out,” he answered, and Madeline frowned, because he suddenly sounded so serious.

“Ian? Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? Why would anything be wrong?”

“Because you've got that little
thing
going with the nerve in your left cheek,” Madeline said reasonably. “Feel it? There it goes again. The last time you did that was the day your garbage disposal did its Vesuvius act twenty minutes before the dinner party we threw for your folks' fiftieth anniversary. Remember? Salad fixings
dripping
from the ceiling.”

She watched as Ian put a hand to his cheek, covered the slight tic. “There are times, Maddie,” he complained, “I think you know me entirely too well.”

“Sorry,” she said, then giggled. “Oh, Ian, now my teeth are going numb. You'd better not let me near the
rest of that wine.” She leaned closer. “Tell me about Blake Ritter. He's handsome enough. Is he nice?”

“Nice? Blake? Sure, he's nice. If you like guys who evict widows and orphans for a living.”

“Oh? He's a banker? That's probably very good. Being a banker, I mean.”

Ian shook his head. “Maddie, are you listening to me? Hell, are you listening to
you?
I know you're on this husband-hunting kick, but show some discretion, okay? Or don't you know what Blake will think if you show up at his open house tomorrow, bells on, to let him take you to dinner?”

“No, I don't know what he'd think,” Madeline said, blinking at him. Was it warm in here? She was definitely feeling very warm. “What would he'd think?”

“He'd
think,
Maddie, that you were willing,” Ian told her with a sharp nod of his head.

“Willing?” Madeline blinked, wondering why she'd never noticed how handsome Ian looked in the semidark. His features a little hawkish, very cleanly cut. And with his eyelids narrowed and his expression so
intense,
he looked positively sexy. Even slightly dangerous. Or maybe it was the wine? “Willing to do what, Ian?”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Ian exploded, getting up from his chair and holding out a hand to her. “Come on, Maddie, let's dance.”

Madeline began to put her hand out to him, then hesitated. “But…but this is a slow song.”

“Your point?” Ian countered, grabbing hold of her hand and pulling her to her feet. “Come on, I think we can muddle through.”

“But…but I don't slow dance, Ian, you know that. I'll be all over your toes.”

“What else is new,” he said, winking at her as he
stepped onto the dance floor, stopped, turned and drew her into his arms. He took her right hand in his left, curled both their arms in, pressed against his chest, so that Madeline had no choice but to raise her left arm, settle it on his shoulder, tip her head so that the top of her head sort of snuggled against the side of his chin.

He smelled of the aftershave she'd bought him for Christmas, the one she'd sniffed at the department store and decided was just what the sexy man-about-town should smell like as he went out on hot dates.

His hand was warm as he held hers. Warm, and dry, and big enough to make hers feel small. He was big enough to make her feel small. And protected. And safe.

And something else.

Uncomfortable.

“Oops, sorry,” Madeline said as she stepped hard on his instep. “But I did warn you.”

He pulled her closer, laughed quietly, called her his favorite drunk.

Was that it? Was she drunk? She didn't think so. She'd had a single glass of wine at dinner, and that had been hours ago. She'd sipped the second glass here at the club, and Ian had taken the third glass away from her. She couldn't be drunk.

Okay, so what was she? Why was she feeling sort of…sort of
tingly?
And
aware.
Aware of Ian. His hand on the small of her back. His warm breath tickling her ear. His long legs lightly bumping against hers. His strong chest, so delightful to lean against. His hips, so…no, she wouldn't think about his hips. Or her hips. Or how close his hips and her hips were as they danced.

What was wrong with her? This was Ian, for pity's sake. She hadn't felt this way about Ian in forever! Not since she'd figured out that he was the love-'em-and-
leave-'em type, and if she wanted him to stay around, then they had to be friends, not lovers.

So she'd tamped down any other feelings, physical feelings, she had for him, and had concentrated on being his friend. And they were great friends. The best.

For fifteen years, she had depended on him, and he had depended on her. She'd watched his girlfriends come and go, and come and go, and come and go, but he had never left her. They were connected, that's what they were. Connected by friendship, and friendship was almost as good as love.

Wasn't it?

The song ended, and suddenly Madeline realized she was standing in the middle of the dance floor,
draped
all over her best friend. Dancing only looked logical as long as the music kept playing. Once it stopped, you were just two separate people, hugging each other in public.

Madeline pulled her hand free, smiled at Ian. “Well, that was fun,” she said, her cheeks feeling stiff, her tongue slightly thick. “Can we go home now?”

 

M
ADDIE WAS QUIET
all the way home, sort of sunk into the leather bucket seat, her chin on her chest. In fact, Ian thought for a moment that she'd fallen asleep, but then she sighed—a deep, rather heartfelt sigh—so he knew she was still awake.

He turned on the radio, pushed the buttons until he found the basketball game and tried to concentrate on the play-by-play. But it didn't work. All he could think about was Maddie, sitting next to him so silently. Maddie, smiling at him, stars in her eyes. Maddie, filling his arms as they swayed back and forth on the dance floor.

Maddie. His good friend.

Maddie. A woman he no longer recognized. No more
the safe, sensible Maddie who always wore rubbers when it rained and checked the expiration date on the milk carton every time she took it from the refrigerator shelf. No more the Maddie who schlepped around in shorts, an oversize sweatshirt and a pair of pink bunny slippers definitely past their prime. No more the Maddie who wore those shapeless, ankle-length dresses that went well with the tight braid she wore—and nothing else.

This new Maddie even stood up straighter, dammit.

And when had she learned to flirt? Because that's what she'd been doing with Blake Ritter. Flirting. Oh, sure, she'd sounded so innocent when she'd told him, “We're just good friends,” or whatever drivel she'd said while batting her big brown eyes at the guy who'd just kissed her hand.

Kissed her hand? Ian flexed his hands on the steering wheel, once more feeling the itch on his palms he'd felt when Blake had put on his Sir Galahad act.

We'll go to dinner.
Fat chance. We'll go to
bed.
That's what Blake had meant. He knew that. Didn't Madeline know that?

And then a small voice spoke from behind a recently opened door in Ian's brain.
And just what business is it of yours anyway, bucko? You don't own her.

I don't?
Ian silently asked that small voice.
Then why do I feel like I do?

Do the words “selfish bastard” ring any bells?
the little voice asked, dripping sarcasm.
No? Well, how about these? You can't have your cake and eat it, too. How about those words? Then, as long as we're at it, how about dog in the manger? That means you don't want her, but you don't want anyone else to have her, either. Which, when you get right down to it, is pretty much a synonym for selfish bastard. Am I getting through here, sport?

“Ian? You missed the turn,” Madeline said from the passenger seat. “Ian? Do you hear me?”

“Thanks, Maddie,” he answered, grateful that her voice had finally drowned out that little voice, the one he was pretty sure had to be his guilty conscience. “I, um, I thought we'd take the scenic route.”

“Ha! You missed the turn, Einstein. Admit it.”

“Did not, Miss Manners Politeness School dropout,” he countered, happy that Maddie once more seemed to be in a teasing mood.

“Did so, which-way-did-he-go doofus,” she said…and they were off, laughing and joking with each other as he drove around the block, headed into the apartment complex.

Madeline had just topped his “Miss Just-shot-the-ball-into-the-wrong-basket” with “Mister Do-you-mean-toothpaste-tubes-have-
tops?
” as Ian inserted the key in his front door, then stood back so she could enter first.

Madeline immediately sat down on the edge of the coffee table and bent over to unzip her short boots, kick them off. “Oh, God, I've wanted to do that for the past three hours. I
hate
high heels.”

“And there goes the glamour,” Ian teased as she stuck out her legs and wiggled her toes. He picked up the boots and set them side by side under the coffee table. “But, please, Cinderella, now that you're home from the ball, can you wait a little longer to get back into your customary rags? I kinda like the view.”

Madeline got up, padded over to the minibar in her stocking feet. “Don't worry, I won't be going back to my customary rags, as you so sweetly put it. I've got a whole new casual wardrobe. It'll knock your socks clean off, buster.”

Ian grinned as she disappeared behind the bar, resurfaced with two bottles of soda. “What? No more wine?”

“Please,” she countered, rolling her eyes. “I'm just beginning to be able to feel my lips again.” Then she frowned, looked at the soda bottles, left them on the bar. “Coffee. I'll make coffee.
Black
coffee.”

Ian followed her into the kitchen, watching as she measured grounds into a filter, then started the coffeemaker. “You're not drunk, you know,” he told her as he observed her quick, efficient movements. “You've just had a good time tonight, that's all.”

“And I can't recognize the difference?” she asked, looking at him owlishly. “Now that's depressing. How long has it been since I've had a good time?”

“How long? Well, let's see. You busted your butt for way too many years of college, med school, your internship and residency. You worked day and night for about the last year, getting all your ducks in a row for the new multiple birth wing. Now that it's finally up and running, you're working days, nights, weekends. I don't know, Maddie—how long has it been since you've just…let it all hang out?”

“I may have been twelve,” Madeline said, pulling a face. “That is depressing, isn't it?”

“Definitely,” he said, opening the cabinet door, reaching in to grab two coffee mugs. He turned around, the mugs in his hands, and realized that he was standing directly in front of her. “But you had fun tonight?”

She tilted her head, smiled at him. “Oh, yes, Ian. Definitely.”

Her smile had a very strange effect on him. It squeezed his heart until it hurt.

“Coffee's ready,” Madeline said as she looked at him, as he looked at her. “Ian? Coffee's ready.”

“Huh? Oh, okay,” he said, giving his head a quick shake. What was the matter with him? There had to be something the matter with him, because he'd been about to kiss Maddie. He'd really been about to kiss her. And none of that good-pals-kissing-on-the-cheek stuff, either. A real kiss.

Maddie took the mugs, filled them, then spooned sugar into both of them, one teaspoonful for her, two for him, just the way he liked it. “Here you go,” she said, handing him the mug then walking past him into the living room, oblivious to the fact that she'd almost gotten thoroughly kissed.

She sat down on the couch, her long legs propped on the coffee table, as usual. She held the mug with both hands as she carefully sipped the hot coffee, watching him over the rim. “Ian? What's wrong? You seem sort of on edge. Is this about Blake Ritter? Because if it is, don't worry. I won't accept his dinner invitation.”