Pillow Talk (14 page)

Perhaps he'd already seen her hovering in the doorway, because he didn't seem surprised. "Couldn't sleep?" he asked.

She shook her head, one foot off the ground, suddenly unsure she should have intruded. Even if he didn't mind, she wasn't sure it was the wise thing to do for herself.

He looked too good standing there, all dark clouds chased away, a welcoming smile on his face. He held out a hand. "Join me by the fire?"

Nodding, she crept forward, her mug of cooling milk clasped to her chest.

He shifted slightly, making space for her in front of the center of the blaze. The logs hissed and popped and she breathed in the unaccustomed smell of genuine wood smoke. The fireplace in the Las Vegas home she and Ted had owned had been powered by gas, the fragrance fake.

"I saw the light," Meg said, glancing shyly up at Parker, admiring the play of light and shadow on his face.

"I'm glad," he said.

"I wasn't sure if you'd want company."

"Not just any company, but yours, yes." He gazed at her when he said the words. "Thank you for sticking by me today."

"You're welcome." Jeez, she was supposed to be comforting him and she couldn't think of anything better to say than that? She sipped at the milk, but found she no longer wanted it. Still, holding it gave her something to do with her hands other than stuff them in the pockets of the plush velour robe Teensy had given her to wear. Having run into Parker, Meg was thankful she'd thrown it on over her UNLV t-shirt when she'd gone in search of the milk.

The light had gone out of Parker's eyes. He was still looking at her, but almost as if it weren't herself he was seeing.

Meg gazed back. Parker didn't need words of sympathy; he'd heard enough of those today. He didn't need to be told the pain would go away; he'd discover that for himself as the weeks and months passed. He didn't need to be told to cheer up and think about the good times of his brother's life; those were stored in his heart.

She set the mug on the mantel. Carefully, she turned back to face him and opened her arms.

He walked into them, laying his cheek against her hair.

"Oh, Meg," he whispered, "you are so good."

Thirteen

G
ood
or not, Meg clung to Parker, her arms wrapped
around his waist. She'd meant to offer comfort, yet she realized she wanted more than that from him.

What she wanted she couldn't have put into words. But it felt so good to be held by Parker, to feel his strong arms around her. Ted had been gone more than a year. During that time, she'd marched onward, keeping the family together, struggling with the financial mess Ted had left behind.

Not once in that time had anyone put their arms around her, smoothed her hair and whispered, as Parker was now doing, "It's okay to be sad."

She nodded, her face brushing against his chest where the top two buttons had been unfastened. She breathed in the distant hint of a subtle cologne applied hours earlier when the day had yet to be gotten through. The aroma mingled with wood smoke and a musky maleness that spoke to a feminine awareness she had thought buried along with Ted.

Savoring the sensation of his touch and scent, she relaxed against his chest. It was only for a moment, a very long, sweet moment.

Parker continued to smooth Meg's hair. He reasoned that the least he could do was comfort her. He'd lost his brother, but she had lost her husband. If he sought his own solace, and if her touch felt a whole lot better than he had a right to experience from an embrace offered out of innocence, then he'd deal with the guilt later.

Right now he wasn't letting go.

"You really are good," he murmured, breathing against her hair. "You were such a trouper today." Running one hand in a gentle circle on her upper back, he said, "You don't have to be strong right now. I promise you're safe with me."

She snuggled against his chest in a way to which his body couldn't help but respond. But then she dropped her hands from around his waist. Still within the circle of his arms, she looked up. Softly, she said, "I'm supposed to be comforting you."

"Oh, but you are," Parker said. He traced the outline of her lips with a fingertip. Then, taking her face in his hands, he kissed her.

It was a kiss that lasted an eternity.

Yet only the briefest of moments.

Her lips were tender, and the way she parted
them slightly as his mouth brushed hers set off a searing hunger within him. Parker wanted to crush her to him, but he sensed her hesitation and he pulled back, the kiss over before it had really begun.

He wanted more.

She gazed at him, eyes wide and dark and inviting. Or did he only imagine the invitation because he so desperately wanted to lose himself in her? With the little finger of her right hand she touched her lower lip.

"I suppose I should say I'm sorry for that
,"
he managed to say, "but I'm not.''

"Then don't."

He forced himself to edge out of arm's length. "Do you never say what you don't intend?"

"Well, I do try to say what I
mean
…"
She hesitated and her glance clouded.

"—and mean what you say?" Parker finished for her.

She smiled at that. Backlit by the crackling fire, snuggled in the forest-green velour robe, her bare feet peeking from beneath the hem, she reminded him of a child up early, eager for Christmas morning.

Only she was no child. The feel of her lips, the curves of her body, the wisdom of her actions all reminded him of that.

And it's not Christmas, Parker.

It wasn't Christmas, but he wanted a present—the gift of forgetting, of blotting the loss of his brother from his mind.

Meg could give him that gift.

A temporary respite, but one he craved.

They'd shared the loss and now they could share their solace.

Right, Parker. As if your motives could be called pure and unselfish. Still watching her gazing back at him, he tried to remember how suspicious he'd been of her at their first meeting. Tonight it was damned hard to remember.

A log sizzled and a shower of sparks burst forth.

Meg jumped slightly.

"Sit down?" he asked abruptly, hoping she'd stay with him. He indicated the loveseat beside the fire.

She glanced from the fire over her shoulder towards the doorway. "If it's not too late?"

"Not for me." Taking her lightly by the arm, he led her to the loveseat. "I promise to let you go at the first sight of a yawn."

Meg smiled; she collected her mug and settled on the loveseat, knees together, legs crossed primly at the ankles.

"I'm going to pour a cognac. Would you like some? Or would you like me to warm your milk?"

"Cognac would be nice," Meg said.

He took her mug from her and moved to the bar tucked in a ship captain's locker on the far side of his now-neglected desk. His computer
still whirred and as he glanced at the image flashing on the screensaver, Parker was more grateful than he could say for Meg's presence. She was saving him from himself.

When he returned to the loveseat with two snifters of cognac, Meg accepted one, then said, "You know, I thought you didn't drink."

Parker heard the curiosity in her voice. What he also heard was that she observed and noticed his behavior. "I don't much," he said, standing beside the sofa but not yet joining her. He wanted to admire the picture she made and had a feeling getting too close to her would be a mistake.

"Because of Jules?"

He almost couldn't hear her question she spoke so softly.

"Partly."

She half turned towards him. The relaxing of her proper posture gratified him. "And the other part?"

He shrugged. "Alcohol can get to be habit forming for any Ponthier."

Meg laced her fingers around the bowl of her crystal glass, picturing Teensy over the past two days and the way Jules had guzzled bourbon and water the night at the Pinnacle when he'd hired her to marry him.

That thought caused her gut to tighten. Her job was done. She had ten thousand Ponthier dollars waiting for her in a Las Vegas bank. She
had no business getting to know Parker Ponthier one whit better.

There was no future in such knowledge. Nonetheless, she stroked the sides of the glass with her fingers and inhaled the pungent liqueur.

"I've never seen a Baccarat snifter displayed to such ad
vantage," Parker said, his low-
pitched voice breaking in on her thoughts.

"And I've never sipped brandy from Baccarat before," she said, tucking her bare feet beneath her and fussing over the adjustments as she kept her head bowed in embarrassment at her forthright words.
Wow, Meg. Make him think you're straight out of Poverty Park.

She loved fine things. Her life with Ted had been a huge step above what she'd known as a child but no way had she been able to afford crystal that cost a hundred dollars a stem. But she'd coveted it, pricing it at the fancy mall in Vegas where the wealthy tourists shopped. Well, heck, why be embarrassed now. She took a tiny sip and smiled at him. "You know, it tastes better out of Baccarat."

Parker smiled and joined her on the loveseat, leaving a careful six or seven inches separating their bodies.

That distance both relieved and annoyed Meg. She had absolutely no business letting him touch her again. Yet she couldn't stop herself from lightly tracing her lower lip with her pinky finger. Gosh, but he'd tantalized her
with that kiss. His lips were warm and tasted of the promise of passion.

Don't go there
,
Meg.

She lifted her gaze from the warm amber of the brandy. She hadn't heard him move, but the six or seven inches of space had disappeared, swallowed up as he'd leaned closer. His arm now lay behind her back atop the loveseat's mahogany scrollwork.

She gulped a mouthful of brandy.

And promptly choked.

He leaned even closer, patting her sharply on the back.

Her face flushed, still gasping, Meg s
lowly brought her coughing spell
under control.

He kept his arm over her shoulders. "Better?"

His voice was so tender Meg wanted to melt against him. But she was made of sterner stuff than that. Sitting forward, just out of range of his warm hand, whose strong fingers had cupped her face when he'd kissed her, she said, "I guess I'm not used to the finer things."

He scowled, which surprised her. "Well, you would have gotten used to them if Jules hadn't gotten himself killed."

What could she say to that? No, I wouldn't, because I planned to leave the minute he forked over the thirty thousand dollars he offered me and pay off the creditors who won't quit hounding me?

For a wild moment, she did consider telling
him the truth and ending her charade.

Then he brus
hed her cheek with his thumb. "F
orgive me
,"
h
e said, "and this time I mean it
."

She melted then.

Just one night.

His hand left her cheek but lingered over her shoulders. He circled his thumb lazily on the hack of her neck.

Meg tried not to hold her breath.

He took a sip of his drink. "
I
want to thank you again for the way you've handled Gus."

Meg wondered if her surp
rise showed. A t
en-year-old nephew was the last topic she expected from a man with his arm around her stroking the back of her neck in a way that made her crave his touch on other, even more sensitive spots.

She sighed and settled against his hand. She might as well face the fact that she was the mother-figure type. Why should she expect Parker to see her as some alluring and sexy woman who was already dissolving into a puddle of desire under his touch?

Because I
want him to.

J
ust this one fantasy, this one night.

She was going home tomorrow. She'd be sensible then. Parker's strength, the way he stood like a rock while the turmoil of his family swirled around him—these qualities appealed to her.

And face it, Meg, he's sexy as all get out and you've denied yourself for so long.

Just one more kiss.

She wouldn't ask for more than that. She took a sip of cognac, savoring its sweet warmth. Then she realized Parker must be waiting for her to respond to what he'd said about Gus. Summoning her attention, she said, "Gus is a child. A child needs his family. It was pretty straightforward."

Yes, as straightforward as her longing for Parker to hold her, kiss her, pull her close and make the world go away. She would never have this moment again.

A feather light touch beneath the collar of her robe flamed her senses even higher.

He walked his fingers up the vertebrae of her neck. "I have a confession to make," he murmured.

Her eyes widened. Did Parker want the same thing she wanted? Trying not to sound too hopeful, she said, "You do?"

"Mmm, hmmm. If it hadn't been for you, I would have left Gus at that school."

"You what?!" Meg sat upright. Brandy sloshed up the bowl of her glass then trickled down the crystal sides. Her estimation of Parker mirrored the slow downward crawl of the liquid. "Why ever would you have done that?"

"I'm ashamed of it now, especially after seeing how good you are with him." He shifted and his hand no longer touched her neck.

Strangely lost without the contact, Meg said, "Don't you like children?" Waiting for his answer, she scolded herself for caring what it would be.

Irrelevant, Meg McKenzie Cooper Ponthier. Completely irrelevant.

"I don't dislike them," Parker said slowly. "I just never know what to say or do. And with my family background"—he paused for a taste of his drink—"the only thing sure with me and a child is that any input from me would no doubt uphold the family tradition of screwing up the next generation."

Meg played with her glass, wondering if Parker really believed what he'd just said. She watched the play of the firelight on the amber liquid and told herself Parker's reaction to Gus was of little importance. She was going home tomorrow and all of the Ponthiers would be left to fend for themselves, as they'd been doing for generations. But in the back of her mind, she couldn't walk away and leave Parker thinking he was hopeless when it came to kids.

Why, Meg? Because you think he's going to follow you back to Las Vegas and woo you?

"Did I stump you?" Parker asked.

"What?" Meg looked up. He'd put his arm back around her shoulders. She blurted out, "Do you think you're screwed up?"

He laughed. "Not exactly." He grinned in a disconcertingly charming way. "Not unless you count my bad points."

"Which are?"

Hearing the sincere interest in her voice, Parker shifted on the couch and considered telling her his number one fault at the moment was admiring the way her hair curled over her shoulders and led his eye downward to where her robe was slowly loosening from the grip of its sash, which led his mind to thoughts of her hair spilling over his body, her robe abandoned on the rug beside the fire.