Not the Marrying Kind (Destiny Bay Romances - Forever Yours) (23 page)

She went on just as she did every Thursday night, only this time everything seemed heightened. There was a tension in the room, and it stemmed right from Michael's eyes. It was exciting, but she began to wonder when he would do something outrageous. As time passed and he sat quietly, as though he really were only auditing, she realized with a start that she was disappointed.

Was she going nuts? Did she really like it when he did crazy things?

Yes
, something deep inside cried out.
 
I love it.

So when she saw his hand shoot up at the back of the room, she turned to him almost eagerly. “Mr. Daniels?” she asked, heart beating a little more quickly.

“Ms. Carrington.” He stood beside his chair to address her, though it wasn't the custom in the class. “I can't help but think there's something missing here.”

He looked so goofy in the round glasses, she found herself grinning in spite of what he said. “What's that?”
 

“Well, you call your class Getting in Touch—with You. But I don't see much touching going on.” He waved toward the others. “No physical contact whatsoever.”

Uh-oh. Maybe she'd been a bit rash to wish for this.
 
A gentle buzz began to cloud her hearing and she felt a little dizzy—as though she were going into a trance.
 
“You see, Mr. Daniels,” she managed to get out.
 
“By getting in touch, we mean in the emotional sense.”

“Sure.
 
I get that.
 
But in my experience, I’ve found that hands-on methods work wonders to improve communication skills.”

She put her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
 
She was feeling a little punch drunk right now.
 
He was talking but she wasn’t sure what he was saying.
 
Something about Canola oil.
 
He had a plan, no doubt about it.
 
And she would end up embarrassed--and entertained at the same time.
 

Was he really doing all this just to get her to go out with him?
 
And why was it again that she was resisting?
 
Wouldn’t they all be happier if she would just give in?

“Mr. Daniels,” she said, demanding the attention of the class, even though he was in mid-sentence.
 
“Enough.”
 
She looked at the others.
 
“Class, I’m afraid Mr. Daniels is taking us way ahead of our carefully structured lesson plan.
 
I’m going to have to confer privately with him and thoroughly examine his research and experience before I can let him explain such advanced methods to students in a beginning class like this.”

She looked at Michael.
 
His mouth was open in surprise.
 
She gave him a haughty look, as though to say, “See?
 
I can do this, too.”

But she was feeling very light-headed and she knew she had to do this quickly or she was going to keel over right in front of everyone.
 

“Class, I’m going to dismiss you now.
 
I’d like you to go as a group to the closest coffee bar and discuss what we’ve learned tonight.
 
Your assignment is to write up a full report comparing the various coffee blends—or teas, if you prefer—pick the ones that cost the most and try to come up with some justification for the outrageous prices.”
 
She smiled at them dismissively, gathering her books together, feeling breathless.
 
“See you all next week.”

Then she turned toward Michael and began to sway, feeling as though she were on board a ship in whitewater.
 

But he was there in no time at all, his arms coming around her, his strength saving her.
 
She tried to open her eyes, but the way the room was spinning, she quickly closed them again, sighing, “Oh, Michael,” and clinging to him. All control was gone and she didn't care who knew it. Suddenly he was scooping her up, one arm under her knees, the other behind her neck. Instead of fighting it, she snuggled against his chest, eyes still closed.

Had she died without noticing? This certainly felt like heaven. Here she was a serious professional woman with responsibilities, and she was going to forget all about them. But she refused to feel guilty. She wanted to be with Michael more than anything in the world. If he would have her, she was ready. Anything, anywhere; it was his decision. She loved him so much, she couldn't do anything else.

So she lay back in his arms, her soft leather pumps dangling from her big toes, and rubbed up against him like a fluffy cat, purring her contentment. Nothing else mattered.
 

“Ms. Carrington has fainted,” Michael was announcing to the class, which was buzzing with astonishment.
 
He bent his head to bury his face in her hair for a moment, and when he came up again, his voice was thick and husky. “I'm going to have to administer first aid, I'm afraid. She'll need a full treatment.”

“Where—where are you taking her?” one of the students asked in a quavery voice as Michael started toward the door, still carrying her.

“Don't worry. I've dealt with cases like this before.” He paused, looking back. “Will one of you please take care of her books? Take them to the office. And tell them she won't be back tonight. Thanks a lot.”

Shelley finally opened her eyes as they went out the door. The members of the class were still lingering, watching them leave. Reactions varied from outright mirth to frowning disbelief. She looked up groggily at Michael's handsome face.

“They're not doing anything,” she complained sleepily. “You'd think they could at least have the decency to call the police.”

He chuckled. “Now what would they want to do that for?”

“I'm being kidnapped before their eyes, that's what for. Don't you think that's worth a quick call to the local law?”

“Not a chance.” He pressed the button for the elevator, kissing her softly at the same time. “They know a love affair made in heaven when they see one.”

He carried her almost all the way home. If he could have figured out a way to fit her under the steering wheel, she was convinced he'd probably have carried her in the car, too, right on his lap. She insisted she could walk when they arrived at his apartment building, but he wouldn't hear of it.

“It's just an illusion of well-being,” he informed her. “Happens every time. You can't be trusted.”

“What do you think I'm going to do, run off down the street?”

But he wouldn't budge. So he lifted her and carried her through his parking lot to another elevator. She didn't complain very vigorously. His shoulders were so wide and comforting, and he smelled so good. She just lay back and enjoyed it.

“Here we are.” He kicked open the door to his apartment and carried her across the threshold.

“You should save that for your bride,” she chided him softly.

“What do you think you are?” he responded, still holding her.

She stiffened against him. What was he talking about? Was he joking? If so, it would be best to get it out in the open right now. “You once said not to expect any white lace,” she reminded him, trying to keep up the illusion that she was taking all this, as lightheartedly as he seemed to be.

“So, wear pink lace,” he grumbled. “Or better yet, don't wear anything at all.” His warm lips were just in front of her ear, dropping a soft kiss. “Don't bother me with details. I'm too busy loving you.” He kissed her again. “I want to love you all over.”

“Michael...” She struggled to sit upright in his arms.

He sighed. “Going too fast? You like a little more finesse, I suppose? All right.” He dropped her unceremoniously on the couch. “Would you like a drink, madam?” he asked formally. “A nice little meal? We can always have some roast chicken brought in. A soothing bath?” He bowed. “We aim to please.”

She laughed up at him. “A drink, please,” she said, mostly to give her something to do with her hands and a shield to hide behind while she got her bearings. “Something light and cool.”

She looked around the apartment while he left the room to make the drinks. It was surprisingly sterile, simple, and standard, with none of the personal touches she would have expected from a man with his vibrant personality. But then she remembered. He never stayed in one place long enough to put down roots. All of this anonymous-looking furniture was most likely rented by the month. She felt suddenly cold.

Her glance caught on something out of place. There was a photograph in a gold frame on the desk along the far wall. He couldn't have rented that, could he? Maybe it would give her a clue to his life. She rose and went to it. It was a picture of her.

“Where did you get this?” she asked Michael as he came back into the room, two tall drinks in his hands.

He came up behind her and smiled. “That picture has kept me warm on more than one long, lonely night. Cute, isn't she?”

“I don't know.” She picked up the photo and held it out, examining it critically. “A little perky-looking for my taste.”

“You think so?” He frowned at the picture, pretending to consider her opinion. “You may be right. Sort of cocker spaniel puppy, wouldn't you say?”

She met his gaze and laughed. “Thanks a lot.” Putting down the picture, she turned back to him. “But where did you get it?”

“Robin gave it to me the night I appeared in your apartment looking like something left over from a fifties motorcycle movie. She took pity on me, I guess.”

Shelley remembered the picture. Robin had taken it when they'd spent an afternoon in the San Gabriel Mountains a few months before. She wondered why Robin hadn't told her she'd given Michael a copy. It looked like her roomie was doing a little matchmaking on the side, no matter how much she professed to be a supporter of Shelley's failed plan.

Michael steered her toward the couch and sat her down. “So much for the small talk,” he announced. With one swift movement he pulled the pins from her hair and she shook it out so that it flew around her head like a bright golden halo. “Now I'm going to ply you with liquor. Drink up.”

She grinned, looking up at him. “Ply away,” she told him, “but it's not going to do you a whole lot of good if you don't do something about your own hair. Really, Michael, you look so silly. Do you always go overboard on your disguises?”

He pulled a comb out of his pocket and set his hair to rights. “This isn't a disguise,” he told her haughtily. “It's called getting a feel for the character.”

She smiled. “You're a character, all right,” she teased, then a frown crept over her face. “Man of a thousand faces.”
 
She shook her head.
 
“But who's the real Michael Hudson?” she asked softly.

He didn't seem to sense the unease behind her words. Spreading out his hands, he said, “What you see is what you get.”

Shelley made a sudden resolution. “Sit,” she told him, pointing to the far end of the couch while she settled herself in the opposite corner, facing where she wanted him to put himself. “You're going to tell me all about yourself.”

“You want me to sit all the way down there?” he complained. “I'll have to shout to make myself heard.”

“Then shout,” she told him firmly. “I want to hear your whole history with no distractions.” After all, who was this man she loved? She knew almost nothing about him. What had made him opt for this crazy life he led? She had to begin to gather clues, at least.

He hesitated, then did as she'd ordered, looking grumpy. “You want to analyze me, right?” he accused. “You want to pick me apart, identify my yin and yang, pin me to the wall like a butterfly.”

“Why not?” Shelley was beginning to enjoy this. She laced her fingers together on her lap and gave him a level look. “You intrigue me.”

His eyes squinted as he stared back at her.
 
“Is that a good thing?”

She shrugged.
 
“That depends.
 
Start at the beginning.
 
Tell me about where you were born and what your parents were like.”

He groaned and shook his head.
 
“Okay, here goes. I was born in a little town in the south. My parents…”

He hesitated.
 
Was he really going to tell her the truth?
 
Had he ever really told anyone before?
 
He studied her for a moment, studied the earnest look in her beautiful eyes, the tilt of her head, the way her hair spilled around her face.
 
His family was so different from hers.
 
Would she be able to understand?
 

No, not really.
 
But yeah, he was going to do it.
 
Maybe not everything, but he was going to give her an honest outline of what his background was like.
 
She deserved it.
 

He rose and began to pace as he talked.
 

“My parents were small-time crooks,” he said evenly, then waited a beat or two to let that sink in.
 
“They robbed banks for a living.
 
Or anyone who might have some loose change they could pilfer.
 
They weren’t picky.
 
We moved from place to place a lot, of course.
 
If you’re going to rob people, you can’t stick around afterwards.”
 

He stopped and looked down at her, wondering how she was taking all this.
 
She stared up at him, looking stunned and a little pale.
 

“Sorry,” he said softly.
 
“But you wanted the truth.”

He started pacing again.
 

“It wasn’t all bad.
 
Once in awhile they got caught and I actually got to go to school while I lived with foster parents until they got back out of jail.
 
Then we were off again, grabbing the dough and heading for the next state line.”

 
“Oh Michael…”