Not the Marrying Kind (Destiny Bay Romances - Forever Yours) (20 page)

Love?
 

Ridiculous.
 
He’d never been in love and never wanted to be.
 
Lust was more like it.
 
Deep, quivering desire, an aching hunger, a tortured need.
 
Yeah, that about nailed it.
 
But he frowned, realizing there was more to it.
 
Possessiveness?
 
The need to stake a claim?
 
The overwhelming urge to protect her, and keep others away from her?
 
Sure, he felt all that.
 
More than he’d ever done for any other woman.
 
He groaned aloud and shook his head.
 

So what?
 

It would fade.
 
There would be someone else, some other place he had to be, some assignment so dangerous, so exciting, he would forget all about her.
 
Sure.
 
Had to happen.
 
It always did.
 
It was just a matter of time.

But until then—he wanted her, wanted to be with her, wanted to make love with her.
 
She was resisting.
 
So what was he going to do about it?
 

Charm her.
 
That was something he knew how to do.
 
He couldn’t grab her and sling her over his shoulder and carry her back to his bed.
 
People frowned on that.
 
She might react badly.
 
He didn’t want to try to talk her into it.
 
Too tedious, and he didn’t really have that much time left.
 

So charm was all he had left.
 
He would make her laugh.
 
Make her love him.
 
Drive her crazy.
 
That he could do.
 

He knew she had a thing for him.
 
He’d been there before.
 
He could tell.
 
Was it fair to exploit that?
 
Was he going to come off like a stalker?

Maybe.
 
That was the chance he would have to take if he wanted to be with her.
 
Either that, or he could walk away.
 

He stared out at the ink stained ocean, seeking advice, seeking inspiration.
 
What was it going to be?
 
The devil or the deep blue sea?

He nodded.
 
Game on.

CHAPTER NINE:
 

Irresistible is What You Are
 

“It was that vacation weekend in Newport.” Robin sighed, hand to forehead in dramatic anguish. “Too much sun. It's addled your brain.”

“Robin,” Shelley warned, holding her coffee mug as though it were a cup of brandy on a snowy plain, and the only thing between life and frostbite. “I'm counting on you to help me.”

Robin sat across the kitchen table, shaking her head. “Would a true friend help you to ruin your life?”

“Would a true friend help me ruin Michael's?” Shelley had tried to explain to Robin, giving her as much information about what Michael did as she dared.

Robin frowned. “I'm not sure I buy this business of his feelings for you ruining his concentration and dedication. It sounds fishy to me. I still say you're running away from something.”

Shelley took a long sip of coffee. She couldn't be angry at Robin. She knew her friend was only thinking of her happiness. But it would be so much easier if she would just accept what had to be done and agree to follow along. “You can say whatever you like. But please, please, help me the way I've asked.”

“Ah, yes. Shall we go over it again?” At least Robin seemed to be resigned to the plan. “When letters arrive in the mail I'm to write 'refused' and send them back. When he calls on the phone, I'm to tell him you won't speak to him. When he arrives at the door, as he will”—she shook a warning finger at Shelley— “I'm to tell him you won't see him, that you aren't home, that you don't ever want to see him again, that you've taken a seat on the next flight to the Russian Space Station and won't be back until 2030, that you've changed your name and dyed your hair .. .”

“Thank you, Robin.” Shelley stemmed the flow of words and gave her a plastic smile. “I'm so glad you're getting into the spirit of this.”

“We aim to please.” Robin bounced up out of her seat and took her own mug to the sink. “I'm going to run down and check the mail right now.” She waved as she swung out the door. “And don't worry. If there's anything from Michael, I won't let it get anywhere near this apartment.”

Shelley sighed, listening to the door slam shut. She knew that what she was doing was for the best. If only she could explain it so that others would understand.

But Robin wasn't in much of a mood to understand anything right now. She'd finally come to a decision and sent a letter to Jim two days before, asking if she could please join him in Peru.

“It isn't as if I had a career here, or anything like that,” she'd said convincing herself as she was writing it. The two of them had been in the living room. Shelley was working on a case report and Robin was pacing back and forth in front of the stereo, changing cds as her mercurial mood switched gears. And every now and then she stopped at the table to add another sentence to the letter she was writing.

“I'm a legal assistant, but I can do office work anywhere,” she declared, stopping in front of the chair where Shelley was sitting. “Why didn't I look at it that way when he first told me about the job in South America?” She shook her head, bewildered. “I was so caught up in what was fair and what wasn't. I didn't look at it from his point of view. And so I threw him away to stand on a principle.”

“You'll make it up to him when you get there,” Shelley had comforted her confidently.

“If he still wants me,” Robin answered softly. She'd sunk to the floor and closed her eyes. “Oh, please, make him still want me.”

And so she'd sent off the message, and now she was racing to the mailbox every half hour to see if there was a reply, even though her outgoing letter had hardly had time to clear the runway at Los Angeles International Airport yet.

Despite her misgivings, Robin would be true to her word and help Shelley persuade Michael to give up on their romance. And at first the plan seemed to work. Michael called only once, and when Robin told him that Shelley wouldn't speak to him, he sounded almost cheerful.

“I'd watch out if I were you,” Robin crowed, enjoying it immensely. “He's going to come into your room like a cat burglar or drop off the side of a building on you. Just you wait. He won't take this lying down.”

Shelley spent a nervous night with her window locked and an uneasy day glancing up at lampposts and rooftops, but there was no sign of Michael. She'd almost forgotten about Robin's warning by the time she left work for the library the next day. She had some research to do for her lecture series, and she was absorbed in thinking about her topic when she drove up to the tree-shaded public library. She didn't notice the car that drove up and parked behind her.

She did see Michael once she was inside, however. He kept showing up at the other side of the stacks she was browsing through. He didn't say anything—just winked, then sauntered away. And she dropped a book every time, or knocked over a whole row of them. Her nerves were jumping at every turn.

Then he disappeared. She caught sight of him a little later, leaning against the circulation desk, flirting with the young librarian. She walked right by him to check out her books. The clerk chatted amiably as she went about the stamping and checking, but Shelley's attention was all on the couple standing a few feet away.

It was revolting to listen to other people flirt. She felt her nails digging into her palms, and she was furious with herself for caring, furious with him for showing her that she did. She marched out with her head held high, then had to go back for the books she'd forgotten on the counter. He never made a move toward her and she hated him for that too.

Maybe he was just there through coincidence, she told herself. Maybe he was showing her that he no longer cared about dating her. But she knew that couldn't be true. And an hour later, he proved it.

She'd stopped at the local supermarket to pick up a few things for dinner. It never occurred to her that he would corner her there. She'd just reached out and picked up a long loaf of crusty French bread when the voice behind her made her jump into the air.
 

“Stocking up on more bread putty, I see. In for a big evening of bread sculpture, are you?”

She whirled. She was ready for him. She was going to be dignified and to the point, and most important she was not going to laugh, no matter how he provoked her. “Don’t do this, Michael. Please.”

“Do what?” He spread his arms wide in total innocence. “I'm just shopping for groceries like everyone else.” He pointed out the wire cart parked behind hers. “Look at this. One quart of milk. A pound of linguine. Evidence.” He smiled smugly.

Raking him with a scathing glance, she looked suspiciously into the cart. “What are you planning to do with that can of baby formula?” she asked.

“Baby formula?” He looked down at it, coughed, and shuffled his feet. “Would you believe my cousin just came in from Phoenix to stay with me, bringing baby and all? Cute little bugger. Hope you get to meet them someday.”

She met his gaze firmly. “I wouldn't believe anything of the kind,” she said with pleasant contradiction.

Just then a young woman with a baby strapped to her chest came up and wheeled the cart away, baby formula and all. They both watched her go, Shelley with triumph, Michael with regret.

“Your cousin's not too friendly, is she?” Shelley commented.

“Uh . . . laryngitis. That's it.” He nodded wisely. “She can't talk and she's rather shy about it.” He raised his eyebrows. “You're not buying this, are you?” he asked sadly.

“Not for a moment.”

Sighing, he tried to take her elbow, though she managed to evade him. “Oh, well. It was worth a try.” He could see that she wasn't anywhere near cracking under his inept campaign of deceit, so he quickly changed tactics. “I'll go and get a shopping cart so I can be a real shopper, just like you. Stay here. Don't run away.”

Don't run away. She was rooted to the spot. She watched him stride quickly toward the rack where the shopping carts were corralled. He was dressed simply in dark slacks and a crisp blue shirt, but he caused a small sensation nonetheless. Heads turned as he passed, and admiring female glances followed him everywhere he went, Shelley noted. He was so good-looking. He made her melt inside. Did he do that to everyone?

A wave of tension tightened through her. He was too good-looking for his own good. Undercover agents were supposed to be dull, bland, forgettable people, Shelley told herself. Michael was definitely noticeable and absolutely memorable. Wasn't that dangerous? Shouldn't she warn him?

Her hands clenched on the handle of the shopping cart.
Stop it,
she ordered herself.
You're either in his life or you aren't. You can't have it both ways. And what are you doing standing here, waiting for him, just as he told you to?

Turning, she pushed her cart purposefully down the aisle, making a sharp turn just beyond the ice cream and then a left that put her right in front of the soup display. It was going to take him a while to find her here.

Feeling pleased with herself for her evasive maneuvers, she began to peruse the soup cans. She didn't need much, after all. She'd just grab a few cans of cream of mushroom, dash through the produce section to pick up salad makings, and be out of here in no time.

“Think a nice bowl of chicken noodle would help soothe my wounded ego?”

She jumped. “Why do you always sneak up on me like that?”
 

He shook his head. “I'm not sneaking. You're just not paying me the proper attention.”

He was so adorable, Shelley thought. His dark hair was slightly ruffled, falling over his forehead in a way that made him look young and vulnerable.

Vulnerable? Who was she kidding? This man had the skin of a rhinoceros! She was going to have to get tough.

“Michael,” she said sternly, trying to frown. “You've got to stop following me around.” She was prepared to go into an extensive lecture on the right of privacy, but he didn't give her the chance.

“Who, me?” He looked aghast, as though she'd accused him of some horrible crime, then he looked about him as though to gather support from the passing shoppers. “I'm not following you around. I'm just shopping, like everybody else. I should be allowed to stop and chat with a pretty fellow shopper who happens to stumble across my path.” He pointed into his cart. “Look. Real food. And I picked it myself this time.”

His “real food” consisted of a large bag of gooey doughnuts and a six-pack of beer.

“What's that?” she asked distastefully .

“Dinner,” he answered.

“You'll get sick,” she accused. “You can't live on that junk.”

“I know.” His eyes were baby-wide. “I need someone to take care of me.”

“Oh, Michael.” She was going to laugh if she didn't get out of here. Picking up three cans of soup at random, she tossed them into her basket and began to march down the aisle, pushing her cart in front of her, on her way to the produce section. Michael, of course, was right behind her.

Don't speak to him
, she advised herself silently.
Don't look at him. Don't answer if he talks. Don't love him
, a tiny voice added mournfully toward the end. But that was obviously a lost cause.

“These carts are pretty neat, aren't they?” His cheery voice came from right behind her shoulder blades. “I bet we could get up some fantastic races if we got all the shoppers together. We could assign handicaps according to age and conditioning, filling up the carts with groceries depending upon the numbers.” He managed to maneuver himself right alongside her as they came up into the vegetables. “I think I'd insist you carry a nice big turkey in yours,” he teased.