Otherwise Engaged (7 page)

“I made it up to get out of that Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year thing,” he continued. “I didn’t realize reporters were following me
around, taking pictures of us like that. I had no intention of dragging anyone else into this. Particularly not you.”

“Well, I’m here,” Molly said. “I’m all over the evening news—at least all over Channel Ten.”

“I’ve already issued a statement to the press explaining that we have a business relationship. Nothing more.”

Suddenly aware of the exposure from the windows and the blackness of the night outside, Molly began closing the blinds. “And you, of course, hold hands with all of your business acquaintances.”

He wasn’t amused. “I feel really awful about this, Molly.”

She glanced back at him. “Relax—we’ll get through it.”

“I’m not sure I’d be so understanding if you were the one who yanked me into the public eye.”

“Maybe the publicity will spark some interest in Chuck’s books,” Molly said lightly. “I could use an extra couple hundred bucks in royalty payments next year.”

Pres was staring at her as if she were from
another planet. But then he laughed, shaking his head. “Somehow I expected you’d be angry about this. I’m … amazed you’re not.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Molly asked. “I get asked a few questions.” She shrugged. “It’s only a matter of time before the reporters find out how deadly boring I am.”

Pres couldn’t believe what she’d just said. Boring? Was she crazy? She was so much the opposite of boring. He was standing in her living room, his pulse rate elevated just from being in her presence.

He followed her as she moved to shut the last of the blinds. “You’re kidding, right?”

Her hair was down loose around her shoulders and shiny clean. Her nose and cheeks were a healthy shade of pink. She wasn’t a beauty queen—not the way Merrilee had been. But there was something about Molly, a sensitivity, an awareness in her blue eyes, an aura of razor-sharp intelligence softened by a serious helping of kindness and sincerity. Whatever it was, it was something that Merrilee never had, something Merrilee would never have.

And it was something that made Molly attractive in a way that Merrilee would never be.

Molly backed away and bumped into the window. She was trapped, and Pres was still moving toward her. She cleared her throat nervously as he took her hand.

“You smell like cigarettes.”

That stopped him. She watched his eyes, saw him consider hiding the truth for only about one tenth of a second before he spoke. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I didn’t know that the second I quit all hell was going to break loose. I’ve been smoking all night.”

“It’s not so easy, is it?” She broke free, slipping past him and escaping into the middle of the room.

“I didn’t think it was going to be easy.” He smiled ruefully. “I just didn’t think it was going to be this hard.”

“Some of those questions the reporters asked you …” Molly stood behind the rocking chair, using it as a sort of a shield. “It was awful.”

Pres winced. “How much of the interview did they play?”

“Let’s just say that the entire Florida viewing
public knows that impotence is
not
on your list of problems.”

“Of course they’d play
that
part.” He ran his hands through his hair, clearly embarrassed. “Mother of God.” He turned back to her. “And you’re not afraid of the questions they’re going to ask
you?”

“Like I told you—I’m boring. What can they possibly ask that I’d be unable to answer? No, I haven’t slept with you. And no, I haven’t slept with Merrilee Fender, either. …” She shrugged. “You’re just some guy who’s trying to buy my house. The hand-holding bit and the dinner invitation were just attempts to charm me into selling you the property.”

Pres was leaning back against the windowsill, watching her intently. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

She crossed her arms. “Please. I’m hardly your type.”

“Four major networks and five newspaper syndicates had no trouble at all believing you’re enough my type to be my fiancée,” he told her.

“Yeah, well, they would believe Medusa was
your type if they thought it would sell more advertising.”

He pushed himself forward, standing up and digging his wallet from the back pocket of his shorts. “Look, I want to try to make this up to you.” He took a business card from his wallet and held it out to Molly. “Here.”

She met him halfway across the big living room and took the card from him, careful their fingers didn’t touch. “What’s this?”

Emerson James
, the card read, along with a local phone number.

“He’s a roofer,” Pres explained, “specializing in historical restorations. He owes me a favor—a
big
favor. He’ll fix this roof for you at cost. I’ve already put in a call to his office. He’ll be contacting you tomorrow.”

At
cost
. Molly gazed at Pres. “I don’t know what to say.”

He shook his head. “You don’t have to say anything. I feel as if I’ve somehow tainted you—God, I didn’t mean to do that.” He turned away. “I better go.”

Molly stopped him with a hand on his arm. His
skin felt warm beneath her fingers, and she could feel the tension in the tightness of his muscles.

“Thank you,” she said.

Pres looked down at her. “Helping you with the roof doesn’t begin to make up for the grief I’ve caused you.”

“It’s not that big a deal. Everything’s going to be all right,” she told him.

As if on sudden impulse, he pulled her in close, holding her tightly against him. Molly didn’t resist his embrace. She knew he needed to be held. And to her surprise, she found that she had a similar need.

His arms felt sinfully good wrapped around her, and she closed her eyes, resting her head against his chest. He was even more solid than she’d expected, all hard muscles and broad shoulders and powerful legs. He smelled like cologne and cigarette smoke, and for the first time in her life the smoky smell didn’t bother her.

He sighed. “I have to stay away from you.”

Molly kept her eyes tightly closed as she nodded. “That would probably be a good idea.”

“It’s a damned lousy idea.”

His vehemence rumbled in his chest, and Molly lifted her head to look up at him.

Big mistake.

Their gazes caught and sparked and Molly knew he was going to kiss her. He lowered his head.

“Don’t,” she said. “Pres, don’t.”

He stopped, mere inches from her mouth, pulling back to a safer distance. “Ashtray,” he said, chagrin in his eyes. “Right?”

Ashtray? She made the connection—she’d told him that getting close to him was like cozying up to an ashtray. In truth, that had nothing to do with her not wanting to kiss him. In truth, it was pure fear that stopped her. Fear of getting in too deep, fear of falling, once again, for a man she knew nothing about.

She nodded, letting him believe the easiest explanation. “Ashtray,” she echoed weakly, and he pulled away.

“Sorry.”

Pres stood with one hand on the doorknob. He knew he should go, and he knew he didn’t want to. But what he wanted and what Molly needed were two entirely different things.

She looked up at him, her blue eyes so subdued.

Pres gazed at her, still amazed at how soft she’d felt and how perfectly she’d fit in his arms. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

He opened the French doors and vanished into the night.

“I
S THAT
supposed to be a boat?”

Pres turned and looked at Zander, who had appeared behind him and was staring critically over his shoulder at his watercolor painting. “Yeah.”

Zander nodded, his glasses crooked as usual. “It’s good.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Better than I could do.”

“I wonder. I was just thinking that from certain angles it looks more like a hippopotamus.”

“A what?”

Pres turned and faced the boy, letting him see
his lips. “A hippopotamus. You know, big animal, wide mouth. Lives in Africa …?”

Zander nodded, turning back to study the painting. He couldn’t hide his smile as he glanced at Pres out of the corner of his eyes. “It’s the right color.”

“I keep wanting to add ears and eyes right here,” Pres said, pointing to his painting.

“Maybe you should.”

“Who’d want a picture of a hippo swimming in the Gulf of Mexico?”

“I would. I could give it to Mom for her birthday.”

“Your mom’s birthday is coming up?”

“Yeah—in a couple weeks.” Zander angled his head to look at the picture again. “I bet she’d like it. It would be … unique. That’s my word for today.
Unique
. It means special.”

“That’s a pretty hard word.” Pres sat back in his chair and fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes. “And you learn one every day?”

The cigarettes weren’t there. He’d quit the night before for good, after not kissing Molly. But God, it hadn’t even been twelve hours yet, and he was dying for a smoke. His hands were shaking—no
wonder his damned boat looked like a hippo. This not smoking could very well kill him. But if it meant he’d get a chance to kiss Molly Cassidy, then dammit, he’d die smiling. He pulled out a pack of gum, offering it to Zander too.

The boy eagerly took a piece. “Thanks.” They both unwrapped the gum and chewed in silence for a moment. “The daily word is Mom’s idea,” Zander finally told Pres after his gum was soft enough to talk around. “I learn how to say it right, and we both learn how to sign it.” He held up the pointer finger of his left hand, and with his right thumb and index finger, he took hold of it and lifted both hands upward. “That’s the sign for
unique.”

Pres imitated the movement. “That’s
cool.”

Zander brought both hands up to his face, palms in, and flapped his fingers as if fanning himself. “No,
that’s
cool,” he said with a grin.

“Very funny. Hey, you know, I was serious about wanting to learn how to sign. Will you teach me?”

Zander made several rapid motions with his hands. He did them again slower. “If you teach me to swim, I’ll teach you to sign,” he interpreted.

The sign for
teach
looked as if Zander were pulling information out of his forehead.

“I don’t know the sign for
scuba
or
snorkel,”
he told Pres, “but that’s what I really want to learn how to do. I know my mom doesn’t want me to, though.”

“Remember you have to be twelve before you can actually start training to get certified to dive. But maybe by then we can talk Molly into taking scuba-diving lessons too.”

“Mom?”
Zander gave Pres a disbelieving look.

“Speaking of your mom, does she know you’re down here at the beach?”

Zander glanced over his shoulder, and Pres turned also to look back toward the Kirk Estate. From where he was sitting, he could just see the red-tiled roof over the tops of the trees.

“I told her I was going outside,” Zander said. “If she wants me, she’ll page me.”

“You have a pager?”

“Yeah, we just got one. The house is so big, and I can’t always hear Mom when she shouts for me. She says it was driving her crazy. This way, she pages me, and we meet in the kitchen. She says it’s
a lot more dignified.
Dignified
was yesterday’s word.”

“Your mom’s pretty cool.” Pres made the sign for
cool
.

Zander grinned. “Why don’t you come up to the house? It’s almost time for breakfast. Mom makes the best muffins. And I just got a whole bunch of new CDs from the library. We listen to something new every morning at breakfast. My two favorite composers are Wolfgang Mozart and Alan Menken. Mom says Menken is Mozart reincarnated. That was one of last week’s words. I think Mozart’s probably pretty happy to be called Alan this time around instead of Wolfgang. Who’s your favorite composer?”

Pres shrugged. “I don’t really have one.”

“You
don’t?”
Zander’s eyes were huge with disbelief.

“I don’t listen to music that much.”

“You
should
. Everyone should. I love music more than anything in the world. I wish I could be an opera singer when I grow up.”

“Maybe you can.”

Zander quickly shook his head. “Nah. But you should
definitely
start listening to music. I can tell
you which of the CDs in the library are the best, if you want.”

Pres had to smile. “I didn’t even know the library
had
CDs.”

“The Sunrise Key Library doesn’t have very many,” Zander told him. “So are you going to come up and have breakfast?”

Pres shook his head. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Because of what it says in the newspaper—about you and Mom getting married, only none of that’s true?”

“Yeah.”

Zander sat down next to him, picking up a stick and drawing a line in the dry sand. “Were you really married to that movie star?”

“Yeah.”

Zander thought about that for all of two seconds. “She’s pretty,” he said, “but I bet she can’t play Donkey Kong Two the way Mom can.”

Pres had to laugh. “No, I think you’re right.” He looked at the boy. “You know, your mom is pretty too.”

Zander gave him a long look. “But she’s not a movie star.”

“Thank God.”

Zander stood, brushing the sand off his hands. “I gotta go. My pager’s going off. It’s got a silent setting, and it just shakes. It’s funny—you want to feel it?”

Pres took the pager that Zander offered him. It vibrated in his hand. “That definitely feels funny.”

“You sure you don’t want to have some breakfast? You could hear some good music and Mom wouldn’t mind. …”

Pres wasn’t convinced about that. He shook his head, handing the pager back to the boy. “No thanks, Zander. Just tell Molly …” What? “Tell her I said hi.”

Zander gave him another of those long, appraising looks. “I’ll tell her you smell better today too.”

Pres laughed. “Thanks.”

Molly didn’t like going to Millie’s Market.

It didn’t have anything to do with the owner, Millie Waters, who was as warm and friendly as she was large. It didn’t have anything to do with the vast selection of fruits and vegetables—all of
them incredibly fresh, some of them from Millie’s own organic garden.