Dear Cupid (16 page)

“It’s just that I thought in the meantime, we could, you know ...” He trailed off, cringing at his own words. What a dumb thing to say. He held his breath, waiting to be flamed with an adamant refusal.

“No,” she said at last, in a much quieter voice than he’d expected. He glanced over in time to catch the frown that dimpled her brow. “No, I don’t think that would be a good idea at all.”

Hope flared to life. Unless he mistook the signs, she was considering the possibility of an affair with him. And if he managed to keep his big mouth shut about his true intentions, who knew where that could lead?

When they reached her cabin, he pulled up under the grove of trees and cut the engine. She scrambled from the car, denying him the chance to open the door for her. Gritting his teeth, he followed her onto the tiny front porch. The porch light gave off a feeble glow, casting a faint halo over her tousled hair as she dug in her purse for her keys.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked.

She looked up at him, frowning. “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

“You’re right, I meant Monday. I assume Jim will be by to fix the hole in my ceiling.”

She bit her lip. “I’m sorry about your house.”

He plowed his hands through his hair. “I don’t care about the house.”
I care about you
. “So, will I see you Monday or not?”

“I can’t come until afternoon. I have too much work to do on my column.”

“Fine. As long as you’re there to keep an eye on the crew.”

She nodded, without meeting his eyes. They stood there for an awkward moment, neither of them moving. More than anything, he wanted to gather her into his arms and indulge in a long, wet, good-night kiss. Or, better yet, have her invite him inside. That, however, was not going to happen tonight.

He sighed in frustration. “Well, then, I guess I’ll see you Monday.”

Before he could make an even bigger fool of himself, he turned and headed back to his car. With every step, he vowed that the next time he saw her, he’d find some way to get her back into his arms and show her he was right for her—as right for her as she was for him.

Dear Cupid,

Every time I try to do something romantic, like buy my girlfriend flowers, she gets all huffy and says I’m just trying to get into her pants. I don’t get it. Do women like roses or not?

Confused

Dear Confused,

Most women adore flowers of any kind—depending on who they’re from and why they’re given. So, the question is, are you trying to romance her heart or seduce her body?

If you are bent on seduction, take the time to learn her fantasies and gift her with pleasure. If, however, you strive to win her heart, take the time to learn her dreams, and offer a gift that shows your understanding and support.

Cupid

NODDING
in satisfaction after she finished her last letter, Kate shut down the computer and headed for the Davises’ to get Dylan. The sun had yet to burn off the dew that dampened her feet through the open toes of her high-heeled shoes. As much as she enjoyed the casualness of working at home, she liked church on Sundays for the chance to dress up.

“Is anybody home.” she called through the side door of the house on the hill.

“Up here,” Linda called back.

Kate went up the half flight of stairs to the main level of the house. The large open area that combined the living room, dining room, and kitchen offered a view of the Hill Country and Lake Travis. She found Dylan already dressed for church and eating breakfast with Linda and Jim.

“There’s my best boy,” she said and kissed his sticky cheek. “Mmm, maple syrup. My favorite.”

“Want some?’ he asked, holding up a forkful of pancake.

“Maybe I’ll just have you instead.” He giggled when she made gobbling noises against his cheek. Just being near her son filled her heart with joy. “I missed you last night.”

He bobbed his head in agreement, his cheeks bulging as he filled his mouth with pancake.

“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” Linda said. “And plenty of pancakes if you want some.”

“I’ll take you up on the coffee.” Kate sighed, and headed for the cabinet to get down a mug. Even though she and Mike hadn’t stayed out that late, she’d spent the remainder of the night staring into the dark, remembering that kiss, trying to ignore the ripples of need that wouldn’t go away.

“Did you have fun last night?” Linda asked from the table with enough innuendo to let Kate know she was asking about Mike, not the party.

Kate’s hand tightened on the coffeepot before she forced it to relax. “The party was great. They had live music, tons of food, and the people! You’ve never seen such an eclectic crowd. You’d have loved it, Linda.”

“Only I would have loved it alone. Jim hates parties.” Linda made a face at her husband.

Smiling over her coffee mug, Kate watched Jim as she said, “Rachel Lee was there.”

“Oh, yeah?” His eyes lit up. “As in the actual Rachel Lee?”

“The genuine article,” Kate confirmed.

“Now, that’s one party I wouldn’t have minded going to.”

“Jim Davis!” Linda batted her husband playfully on the shoulder. “Why don’t you and Dylan finish getting ready for church?”

“In other words,” Jim said to Dylan, “why don’t you men get lost so us women can talk.” Dylan giggled as Jim took both their plates to the sink. “Come on, partner,” Jim said. “Let’s go get the present you made for your mom.”

“You made me a present?” Kate asked, delighted.

“Uh-huh. A wooden paperweight.” Dylan nodded, his eyes wide. She gave silent thanks that he’d told her what the gift was, since some of them were difficult to figure out. “It’s out in the shop,” he said. “So you have to wait here while I go get it.”

She smiled as her son dashed from the room with Jim lumbering slowly in his wake.

“That shop,” Linda grumbled, clearing away the  last of the dishes. “I swear I should get a case of dynamite and blow the thing to smithereens. Then Jim would
have
to spend some time with me.”

“I take it your evening didn’t go as planned?’ Kate asked, concerned.

With angry jerks, Linda piled the dishes by the sink and turned on the water. “After we put Dylan to bed, Jim went right back out to that stupid shop, and stayed there so long, I fell asleep. So much for seduction.”

“There’s always tonight.” Kate leaned her hip against the counter, sipping coffee as her friend loaded the dishwasher. “Speaking of Dylan, did Jim talk to him?”

“Of course he talked to him.” Linda attacked the sticky plates with a food scrubber. “All he did last night was talk to your son, which saved him from having to talk to me.” She stopped abruptly, and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound like a complaint against Dylan.”

“I know you didn’t. I’m just sorry you and Jim are having problems.” Lord, if Linda and Jim couldn’t be happy together, there really wasn’t any hope left for romance.

“Yeah, me too.” Linda ‘s quiet voice alarmed Kate more than any burst of anger. “To answer your question, yes, Jim found out what’s bothering Dylan.”

“Oh?’ Kate felt a skitter of nerves.

“You know the talent show the school puts on every spring?”

“Yes?”

“Apparently, Jason Haynie talked his dad into doing some sort of father-son routine.”

“Oh.” Understanding fell heavy on Kate’s shoulders. “So now I suppose Dylan wants his dad to do a skit with him.”

Linda gave her a sympathetic look. “He asked Jim for advice on how to talk Edward into it.”

Kate’s shoulders sagged. “We both know the chances of Edward agreeing are next to nil. Or worse, he’ll agree, and then promptly forget about it, which will hurt Dylan far more.”

“Or ...” Linda began. “Jim could offer to do a skit with him.”

“Jim? On a stage? In front of an audience?” Kate laughed at the image that sprang to mind. “The man would die of stage fright.”

“But he’d do it. For Dylan.”

“Yes, he would.” Kate sighed, grateful for Jim’s interest in her son, but concerned about the relationship becoming awkward. What would happen when the baby came? Would Jim still be as willing to play surrogate dad to a friend’s child when he had a child of his own? “I don’t know. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Linda nodded in understanding, then her eyes lit as she veered back to the original topic. “So, tell me about last night.”

“I already did.” Kate smiled, even as her stomach tightened.

“Details, Kate. I want details.”

Shaking her head, Kate gave in, but strictly avoided any mention of her dance with Mike by the pool, or the heated kiss they’d shared. Or the fact that she’d lain awake all night wondering what to do about it. Even now, in the morning light, fantasies of what could have happened warmed her skin. She felt like the clichéd divorcée, hungering for a lover’s touch, even as her battered heart cringed at the thought of emotional involvement. Worst of all, the inevitable question had wormed its way into her head: What if she could have the physical without the emotional?

She shook the question off, knowing such a shallow involvement was wrong for her and unfair to Mike. At least she’d have a day’s reprieve before she had to see him again.

~ ~ ~

On Monday, the rain started just as Kate returned from taking Dylan to school. With the sound of it drumming against the roof, she booted up her computer and settled in to get some work done. She’d had an inspiration during the night for her next column: “Party Flirting: How to Keep it Platonic.”

With every sentence she typed, she felt more and more as if she were lecturing herself rather than handing out advice to others. In hindsight, she saw a dozen ways she could have handled the situation with Mike differently right from the beginning. The question now was, how to proceed from here. If only she had somewhere to turn for advice like her readers did.

The thought stopped her mid-sentence. “All right,” she said. “So, what advice would Dear Cupid give to someone in this pickle?”

Before she could come up with any words of wisdom, the phone rang. She answered it absently, her mind still focused inward.

“Kate! Have you seen that thing on your Web page?” the caller demanded.

“What?” She frowned, recognizing Gwen’s voice. “What thing?”

“That flying Cupid.” Anxiety crackled over the line like static electricity. “The Web master called me this morning to tell me about it. I can’t believe it!”

As Gwen went off on a tangent about computer hackers and deadly viruses, Kate clicked on the bookmark for her site. For the most part, she tuned out Gwen’s words. Even back in college, Gwen had been a knee-jerk alarmist who overreacted to any hint that she wasn’t the one in control.

When the page finished loading, Kate stared in wonder at the new, animated graphic for her front page: a beautiful, charming, whimsical graphic. Rather than the stationary cupid stuck above the curlicue script, a da Vinci-style sketch of a cupid fluttered playfully around and through the letters. Then it swept downward and toward her, until it landed at the bottom of the screen with one forearm resting on the edge of the window and the other forearm raised so the chin rested in the hand—the classic pose of Raphael’s angel from the
Sistine M
adonna
. Rather than a serene, contemplative expression, though, this winged cherub looked straight at her and gave her a very cheeky wink.

Kate laughed in delight; the cupid looked just like her! Not in the manner of a serious portrait, but still the artist had captured her perfectly.

“And just what do you think is so funny?” Gwen demanded.

“It’s wonderful,” Kate breathed. If Gwen had gone to the trouble to have her page redesigned, then surely her job was once again on sure footing. “Oh, Gwen, I love it. Who did it?”

“That’s precisely what I’d like to know. So I can have them sued.”

“Sued?” Kate frowned. “Gwen, what are you talking about?”

“Some hacker broke into our Web site during the night and put that ... that thing on your front page. Do you know what this means? Someone out there might have copied all the files in our database, our business records, our client lists. And for all we know, they left behind some time-bomb virus that could explode any second and wipe everything out.”

“I don’t understand.” Kate tried to focus on Gwen’s words. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Obviously someone who knows you, or at least knows what you look like. Which is another thing that worries me. God, Kate, for all we know, there’s some wacko out there who’s formed an attachment to you. Look what happened to Jodi Foster. And John Lennon.”

Kate mentally weeded through Gwen’s paranoia. “What makes you think the person knows me?”