River's End (12 page)

No, she was definitely not a kid anymore, he thought, thankfully.

“You look great.”

She only lifted her eyebrows, skimmed her gaze over Linda. “I’ll just get a jacket.”

She pivoted, walked back into her apartment on long, wonderful hiker’s legs.

There was no reason to be angry, she told herself as she snatched up her jacket and bag. No reason for this grinding sense of disappointment. She wouldn’t have known he was
flirting with Linda if she hadn’t been watching for his car like a love-struck teenager. If she hadn’t scurried over to the door to look out the Judas hole and watch him come toward the door.

There was no point in feeling let down because she had agonized for two hours over the right dress, the right hairstyle. It was her own problem. Her own responsibility.

She turned back toward the door and bumped right into him.

“Sorry. Let me help you with that.” He was close now, and drew in her scent as he took the jacket from her. It was perfect for her. Just perfect.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Interrupt what?” He slipped the jacket on for her and indulged himself in a sniff at her hair.

“You and Linda?”

“Who? Oh.” He laughed, taking Olivia’s hand and walking to the door. “Not exactly shy, is she?”

“No.”

“Did you finish your paper?”

“Yes, barely.”

“Good. You can tell me all about fungus.”

It made her laugh. He held her hand all the way down to the car, then he skimmed his fingers over her hair, brushing it back just as she started to climb in.

Her heart stumbled, and fell right at his feet.

He’d found an Italian place just casual enough not to intimidate. Tiny white candles flickered on soft, salmon-colored cloths. Conversation was muted and punctuated with laughter. The air was ripe with good, rich scents.

He was easy to talk to. He was the first man, outside of family, she’d ever had dinner with who seemed actually interested in her studies and her plans to use them. Then she remembered his mother.

“Is your mother still involved with causes?”

“She and her congressmen are on a first-name basis. She never lets up. I think the current focus is the plight of the mustang. Are you going to let me taste that?”

“What?” She’d just lifted a forkful of portobello mushroom. “Oh. Sure.”

When she would have put the bite on his plate, he simply took her wrist, guided her hand toward his mouth. Heat washed into her belly as his eyes watched hers over the fork.

“It’s terrific.”

“Ah, there is a wide variety of edible mushrooms in the rain forest.”

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll make it back up there one of these days and you can show me.”

“I’m—we’re hoping to add a naturalist center to the lodge. There’d be lectures and talks on how to identify the edibles.”

“Edible fungus—it never sounds as appetizing as it is.”

“Actually, the mushroom isn’t the fungus. It’s a fruiting body of the fungus organism. Like an apple from the apple tree.”

“No kidding?”

“When you see a fairy ring, it’s the fruit of the continuous body of the fungus that grows in the soil, expanding year after year and—” She caught herself. “And you can’t possibly care.”

“Hey, I like to know what I’m eating. Why do they call them fairy rings?”

She blinked at him. “I suppose because that’s what they look like.”

“Are there fairies in your forest, Liv?”

“I used to think so. When I was little, I’d sit there, in the green light, and think if I was very quiet, I’d see them come out and play.”

“And you never did?”

“No.” So she’d given up fairy tales. Science was reliable. “But I saw deer and elk and marten and bear. They’re magical enough for me.”

“And beaver.”

She smiled, relaxing back as the waiter cleared, then served the main course. “Yes. There’s still a dam where I took your family that day.”

She sampled her angel-hair pasta with its generous chunks of tomato and shrimp. “They always give you more than you could possibly eat.”

“Says who?” He dug into his manicotti, with shells bursting with cheese and spices.

It amazed her that he managed not only to do justice to his meal but also to put away a good portion of hers. Then still had room to order dessert and cappuccino.

“How can you eat like that and not weigh three hundred pounds?” she wanted to know.

“Metabolism.” He grinned as he scooped up a spoonful of the whipped-cream-and-chocolate concoction on his plate. “Same with my dad. Drives my mother crazy. Here, try this. It’s amazing.”

“No, I can’t—” But he already had the spoon to her lips, and she opened them automatically. The rich glory of it melted on her tongue.
“Hmm,
well. Yes.”

He had to pull himself back a little. Her response, the half-closed eyes, the just-parted lips made him think of sex. Made him realize he wanted his mouth on hers, so all those tastes would mingle.

“Let’s take a walk.” He scribbled a tip and his signature on the bill, pocketed his credit card. Air, he told himself; he needed a little air to clear her and his fantasies out of his head.

But they were still there when he drove her home, when he walked her to her door, when she turned and smiled at him.

She saw it now, clear and dark in his eyes. Desire for her, the anticipation of that first kiss. A tremble shivered up the center of her body.

“This was nice.” Could you possibly be more inane, Liv? she asked herself. “Thanks.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Her mind went as blank as glass. “I have classes.”

“No, tomorrow night.”

“There’s . . .” Studying, another paper, extra lab work. “Nothing.”

“Good. Seven, then.”

Now, she thought, he would kiss her now. And she’d probably implode. “All right.”

“ ’Night, Liv.” He only ran his hand down her arm, over the back of hers, then walked away.

He took her to McDonald’s, and she laughed until her sides burned.

She fell in love with him over fish sandwiches and fries, under glaringly bright lights and through the noisy chatter of children.

She forgot the vow she’d made as a child that she would never, never love anyone so much she’d be vulnerable to him. That she would never hook her heart to a man and give him the power to break it, and her.

She simply rode that wonderful, that wild and windy crest of first love.

She told him what she hoped to do, describing the naturalist center she’d already designed in her mind and had shared with no one but family.

The biggest dream in her life was easy to share with him. He listened, he watched her face. What she wanted seemed to matter to him.

Because she fascinated him, he put aside all the work he’d done that day—the sketchy outline for the book, the notes, the more detailed plans for interviews—and just enjoyed her.

He told himself there was plenty of time. He had the best part of two weeks, after all. What was wrong with taking the first few days with her?

He wondered if the center she spoke of with such passion was her way of opening the bubble his mother had described or just another way to expand its boundaries and stay inside.

“It’ll be a lot of work.”

“It’s not work when you’re doing what you love.”

That he understood. His assignments at the paper had become a grind, but every time he opened himself up to the book, dived into the research, pored over his notes and files, it was a thrill. “Then you can’t let anything stop you.”

“No.” Her eyes were alive with the energy of it. “Just a few more years, and I’m going to make it happen.”

“Then I’ll come see it.” His hand closed over hers on the white plastic table. And you, he thought.

“I hope so.” And because she did, because she found she could, she turned her hand over and linked her fingers with his.

They talked about music, about books, about everything couples talk about when they’re desperate to find every shared interest and explore it.

When he discovered she had not only never been to a basketball game, but had never watched one on television, he looked totally, sincerely shocked.

“You’ve got a huge hole in your education here, Liv.” He had her hand again as they walked to his car. “I’m sending you copies of my tapes of the Lakers.”

“They would be a basketball team.”

“They, Olivia, would be gods. Okay.” He settled behind the wheel. “We’ve managed to introduce you to the cultural delights of fast food; we have the only true sport heading your way. What’s next?”

“I don’t know how to thank you for helping me this way.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

He already knew what was next, as he’d spent part of his day scoping out the area around the college. He had a pretty good idea it wasn’t only fish sandwiches and sports Olivia had missed.

He took her dancing.

The club was loud, crowded and perfect. He’d already decided if he was alone with her he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from moving too fast.

He was an observer, a measurer of people. It had taken only one evening with her for him to realize she was every bit as lonely as the young girl he remembered on the banks of the river. And that she was completely untouched.

There were rules. He believed strongly in rules, in rights and wrongs and in consequences. She wasn’t ready for the needs she stirred up inside him.

He wasn’t sure he was ready for them himself.

He saw her dazzled and wary look when they shoved their way through the crowd. Amused by it, delighted by her, he leaned close to her ear.

“Mass humanity at ritual. You could do a paper.”

“I’m a naturalist.”

“Baby, this is nature.” He found them a table, jammed in with other tables, leaned forward to shout over the driving scream of music. “Male, female, basic courtship rituals.”

She glanced toward the tiny dance floor where dozens of couples managed to squeeze in together and writhe. “I don’t think that qualifies as courtship.”

But it was interesting enough to watch. She’d always avoided places like this. Too many people in too small a space. It tended to create pressure in her chest, to release little flutters of panic in her throat. But she didn’t feel uneasy tonight, bumped up against Noah, his hand lightly covering hers on the table.

He ordered a beer, and she opted for sparkling water. By the time the waitress had managed to swerve, shuffle and elbow her way through with their order, Olivia was relaxed.

The music was loud, and not particularly good, but it meshed nicely with that drumming under her heart. A kind of primitive backbeat to her own longings.

Since she couldn’t hear her own thoughts, she forgot them and just watched.

Courtship. She supposed Noah was right, after all. The plumage—in this case leather and denim, bold colors or basic black. The repeated movements that signaled a demand to be noticed by the opposite sex, a sexual invitation, a willingness to mate. Eye contact, the flirtation glance toward, then away, then back again.

She found herself smiling. Hadn’t she seen the ritual, in various forms, in countless species?

She said essentially this to Noah, speaking almost against his ear to be heard, and felt his rumble of laughter before he turned his face and she saw his smile.

Just as she realized how incredibly stupid she must have sounded, he tugged her to her feet.

“Are we leaving?”

“No, we’re joining.”

Now the panic came, fast and hard to fill her chest. “No, I can’t.” She tried to pull her hand free as he headed for the dance floor. “I don’t dance.”

“Everyone dances.”

“No, really.” Her skin went hot all over, burning from the inside out. “I don’t know how.”

They were on the edge of the dance floor, surrounded, closed in, and his hands were on her hips. His face was close. “Just move.” His body did just that against hers, and turned the panic into a different, deeper, far more intimate fear. “It doesn’t matter how.”

He guided her hips, side to side, shifted so that they moved in a small circle. The music was fast, driven by a frenzied riff on an electric guitar and the vocalist’s roar. Beside them someone let out a wild laugh. Someone bumped her hard from behind and brought her up against Noah, curves to angles, heat to heat.

Her hands gripped his shoulders now. Her face was flushed, her eyes, dark and wide, on his, her lips parted as the breath rushed in and out.

Through all the scents—the clash of perfume, sweat, spilled beer—he smelled only her. Fresh and quiet, like a meadow.

“Olivia.” She couldn’t hear his voice, but watched in dazed amazement as her name formed on his lips. It seemed that the only thing inside her now was the warm, sweet longing.

“The hell with it.” He had to have her, if only one taste. His arms wrapped tight around her waist, urging her up to her toes. He felt the quick intake of her breath, and the tremble that followed it. And hesitated, hesitated, drawing out the moment, the now, the ache and the anticipation until they were both reeling from it.

Then he brushed his mouth over hers, soft, smooth. Nibbled her in, patient pleasure. Slid into her silkily, as if he’d always belonged there.

He heard her moan, low and long, over the thunder in his own blood. Slow, easy, he ordered himself. Sweet God. He wanted to
dive, to devour, to demand more and still more as the surprisingly sharp, stunningly sexy taste of her flooded through him.

Her body was pressed against his, slender and strong. Her arms had locked around his neck, holding on. Holding him. Her mouth was full, and just shy enough to speak of innocence.

Just a little more, he thought and changed the angle of the kiss to take it.

The music crashed around them, building to a frenzy of guitars, a feral pounding of drums, a shouting stream of voices.

And she floated, drifted, glided. She imagined herself a single white feather, weightless, spinning slowly, endlessly, through the soft green light of the forest. Her heart swelled and its beat quieted to a thick, dull thud. The muscles in her stomach loosened and dipped. As she skimmed her fingers into his hair, tipped her head back in surrender, she could have wept from the discovery.

This, she thought, is life. Is beginnings. Is everything.

“Olivia.” He said her name again, ended the kiss while he still had the power to do so, then just nudged her head to the curve of his shoulder.

The band ripped into another number, pumping the crowd to a fever pitch.

While they swayed together in the melee, Noah wondered what the hell he was going to do now.

He kissed her again at her door, and this time she felt little licks of heat from him, quick riffs of frustration that were oddly thrilling. Then he was closing the door between them and leaving her staring blankly at the solid panel of wood.

She pressed a hand to her heart. It was beating fast, and wasn’t that wonderful? This was what it was like to be in love, to be wanted. She held the feeling close, closing her eyes, savoring it. Then her lids flew open again.

She should have asked him in. What was wrong with her? Why was she such an idiot around men? He’d wanted her, she was sure of it. She wanted him. Finally there was someone who made her feel.

She flung open her door, raced down the steps, and burst outside just as his car pulled away from the curb. She watched
the red taillights wink away and wondered why she could never quite match her pace to anyone else’s.

He worked through the morning. And thought about calling her a dozen times. Then he shut down his laptop and changed into sweat shorts. The punishing workout he subjected himself to in the hotel’s gym helped purge some of the guilt and frustration.

He needed to change directions, he decided as he did a third set of curls with free weights. He should never have gone this far down this road with Olivia.

He puffed out short breaths, added another rep while sweat ran satisfactorily down his back.

He’d have bet a year’s pay that she was a virgin. He had no right to touch her. However horrible an experience she’d been through, she’d lived the first eighteen years of her life completely sheltered. Like some princess in an enchanted forest in a fairy tale. He was years older—not the six that separated them chronologically, but in experience. He had no right to take advantage of that.

As he switched to flies, the practical side of his mind reminded him she was also smart, strong and capable. She was ambitious and her eyes were as ancient as a goddess’s. Those were traits she owned that appealed to him every bit as much as the shyness she tried to hide.

He hadn’t taken advantage of her. She’d responded, she’d all but melted against him, goddamn it. She had to feel something of what he felt. That bond, that connection, the absolute rightness of it.

Then he circled back around and berated himself for thinking with his glands.

That had to stop. He’d call her, ask her if they could meet for coffee later. Something simple. Then he’d tell her about the book he was preparing to write. He’d explain things carefully, how he was going to contact everyone involved in the case. That he’d started with her because she’d been the reason the idea had formed in his mind in the first place.

He wondered if the seed had been planted the first time he’d seen her.

He set the weights aside, mopped his face with a towel. He’d call her as soon as he’d gone up to his room and showered. And he’d do what he now realized he should have done as soon as she’d opened her apartment door to him.

Feeling better, looser, he bypassed the elevator and took the stairs to the ninth floor.

And jolted to a halt when he saw her standing in front of his door, digging through an oversized purse.

“Liv?”

“God!” She nearly stumbled back, then stared at him. “You startled me.” She kept her hands buried in her bag until she was sure they wouldn’t shake. “I was just about to write you a note and slip it under your door.”

She sent him a smile and stood there looking neat and fresh in jeans and a boxy jacket. When he didn’t respond, she shifted uneasily. “I hope you don’t mind that I came by.”

“No, sorry.” He couldn’t afford to let her dazzle him again. “I just wasn’t expecting you. I was down in the gym.”

“Really? I would never have guessed.”

His quick grin had the worst of the tension smoothing out of her stomach. He dug his keycard out of his pocket, slid it into the door. “Come on in. And you can tell me instead of writing a note.”

“I had some time between classes.” That was a lie. She was, for the first time in her college career, skipping class. How could she be expected to concentrate on wildlife ecology when she was planning to ask him to take her to bed?

Oh God, how could she possibly tell him why she’d come? How would she begin?

“Time enough for coffee?”

“I . . . yes. I was going to invite you to dinner—a home-cooked meal.”

“Oh yeah? Much better than coffee.” He tried to think. He could talk to her more privately at her apartment. She’d be more comfortable there. She was obviously nervous now, standing in
his cramped hotel room, with her hands locked together while she flicked uneasy glances toward the bed.

So they’d get out. All he had to do was keep his hands off her in the meantime.

“I need to clean up a little,” he told her.

“Ah . . .” He looked wonderful, damp from his workout, the muscles in his arms toned and tough. She remembered how strong they’d been when they’d banded around her. “I just have to pick up a few things at the market.”

“Tell you what. Give me a chance to take a shower, and we’ll both go to the market. Then I can watch you cook.”

“All right.”

He grabbed jeans from the back of a chair, hunted up a shirt. “There’s a very miserly honor bar under the TV. Help yourself. We’ve got cable,” he added as he dug socks and underwear out of a drawer. “Just have a seat. Give me ten minutes.”

“Take your time.” The minute he closed the door to the bathroom, she lowered herself to the edge of the bed. Her knees were shaking.