Friday's Child (13 page)

She leaned against the door and surveyed him. “You didn't leave much doubt in my mind as to who my visitor was.”

“You were expecting me?” He sounded surprised.

“No, but I don't know anyone else who sounds like a battering ram when they're announcing themselves.”

“Your doorbell still isn't working.”

“I point that out to my landlord on a regular basis.” He looked tired. His hair, too long to begin with, showed the effects of fingers run through it. She wondered how much sleep he'd had in recent weeks. He always seemed to have an endless supply of energy but right now looked as if he'd just about depleted it. He smiled at her then, a slow, engaging smile, and her heart thumped at the difference it made to his harsh features.

“I smelled your popcorn and thought I'd take a chance on an invitation.”

She teased, “So it was the hope of a handout that brought you here. Again.”

The smile disappeared abruptly. “No,” he said soberly. “I just didn't want to be alone tonight.”

Kate stepped back wordlessly and he moved past her into the condo. His big body crowded her in the small area inside the door, but she didn't feel like moving away. She wanted to take a step closer, until she was in his arms. She wanted to hold him and touch those hard features, to make the weariness drain from his face. Flushing at her thoughts, she turned and walked to the kitchen, got the popcorn from the microwave and reached for a bowl to dump it in.

“You wouldn't by any chance have a beer in your refrigerator, would you?” he asked hopefully.

“I think so,” she said. “Check in the back.”

He did, and made a satisfied sound when he found one. She'd bought the six-pack for the occasional friend who stopped by. When she'd purchased it last month, it would never have occurred to her that the first beer out of the pack would be drunk by Michael Friday.

He trailed after her to the living room and disdained her couch for the floor. She watched him move her coffee table aside and take the pillows off the sofa to arrange behind him. Once comfortable, he looked at her and patted the floor next to him. “Come join me.”

“Since you have the popcorn…”

She sat down next to him and he used the remote to flip through the channels. He finally settled on a popular late-night talk show.

“How was Chloe when you got her home?”

He took a long drink of beer. “I took her to her mother's after supper.”

Kate looked at him, surprised. “She didn't mention that she had a visit planned when we were at the Smithsonian.” Chloe had chattered about the exhibits, Rosy and her plans for the endless summer days but hadn't mentioned a word about the appointment or her mother.

“It just came up.” He turned to look at her. “When I was talking to Deanna, she laid a few bombshells on me. She's getting married. Soon. And she won't be living in the country anymore. She's agreed to get the custody agreement changed
to give me primary custody. She wanted Chloe for a few days to explain it all to her.”

Kate was shocked into silence. She watched his face carefully. “How do you think Chloe will take this?”

He lifted one shoulder. “I'm not sure. I would have preferred being there when her mother talks to her, but that's not the way Deanna wanted to play it. Hell, she kept this whole relationship quiet, so it will be a shock, I'm sure. I really don't think Chloe will know the difference as far as the arrangement goes, because she's been living with Trask and me all year and seems happy. But visits with Deanna will be limited to the times she and her husband are in D.C. and in the summer. That's bound to be hard on her.”

“How about you?” Kate dared to ask. “How does her decision affect you?”

“Deanna and I were over a long time ago,” he said dismissively. “But we've always tried to make decisions jointly. On the one hand, I'm ecstatic that the custody arrangement will be made legal. I never questioned Deanna too closely about why she allowed me to have Chloe this year, but maybe she'd already met this guy and was dating him.” He shrugged. “I could never have gone back to seeing Chloe a couple days a week. But the thought of having sole responsibility is scary as hell, too.”

“You'll do fine,” Kate reassured him softly.

He looked grim. “What if I screw up? What if she gets sick and I don't know what's wrong with her? What if she rebels as a teenager and does some god-awful thing to her hair and starts piercing her body parts? Or if she decides to skip college and go out to California and live in the back of some grunge rocker's van?”

It wasn't the panic edging his voice that made her chest tighten with emotion, it was the vulnerability layered beneath it. Some might think it odd that this self-made man who'd used cunning and a ruthless determination to overcome all obstacles could be leveled by such insecurities. But she found it incredibly endearing. Surely one of the most important
measures of a man was the success he made of parenting. Michael's fierce, all-encompassing love for his daughter came as naturally to him as the corporate warfare he waged daily.

And that fact threatened her heart as nothing else could.

I
t was a moment before she could speak. “Michael, whatever happens, Chloe knows she can depend on you. Just keep listening to her, supporting her. Loving her.”

One side of his mouth curled. “You sound like the voice of experience. Is that what your father did for you?”

Her smile abruptly ceased. Her father's voice floated across her mind like a ghost that refused to stay banished.
You ain't startin' to forget where you come from, are ya?

She turned away from the curiosity in his eyes. “No.” Her voice was flat. “Not my father.” Because it was more comfortable, she buried the memories that threatened and focused on evading the questions in his eyes. “You might want to consider signing Chloe up for dance, gymnastics or martial arts. Any of those would give her activity level a natural outlet and help teach her to channel it in a constructive way.”

“I'm not sure I could stand going through a kung fu stage with her,” he responded. “But gymnastics…that's a possibility. She loves doing cartwheels and stuff, although I'm constantly reminding her to do them outside.” He pondered the idea for a minute. “I have been teaching her to swim, and
she catches on really quick. I think she might have a natural affinity for gymnastics, as well.” He smiled crookedly. “Speaking with the natural bias of a father, of course.”

Her returning smile was strained. Rising, she muttered something about getting napkins and turned to flee to the kitchen. Her wrist was snagged with a suddenness that startled her.

He gently pulled her back down beside him and sent a thumb skimming across the sensitive inner skin of her wrist. His speed didn't frighten her, but his tenderness did. “Want to tell me about it?”

She sat very still, attempting to keep the emotion she was feeling from leaking into her face. It was amazing how old hurts and inadequacies never really went away. She could bury them for long periods of time, but then when she least expected it, the pain could slice through years and maturity with a sharpness that was unrelenting.

She was familiar with Michael's determination. There would be no dodging his questions, so she let him guide her head to the hollow beneath his shoulder. She had the distracted thought that they shouldn't seem to fit together so perfectly. He brushed a hand over her hair, smoothing it away from her face. And waited.

“I told you I grew up poor.” Her voice, when she finally spoke, didn't betray her. It was calm and matter-of-fact.

“That never really bothered me. Few of the children I knew had a whole lot more than we did. But most of them had something that I envied, something that I knew was missing from our house, even before I was old enough to put it in words. And that was love.”

He waited for her to go on, and when she didn't, he drew his own conclusions. His fingers cupping her shoulder tightened, but his voice was carefully blank when he asked, “Did your father abuse you?”

She glanced up at him, astonished. A muscle in his cheek tensed, and what she saw in his eyes shouldn't have warmed her but did. She reached up with one finger to soothe his tight jaw in a single light caress. “No, oh, no, Michael. Nothing
like that. My parents aren't bad people. They're just…emotionally sterile.” She'd wondered as a child if she was impossible to love. She'd been an adult before she'd realized that the failing belonged to her parents, not to her. She didn't know which was sadder.

He picked up her hand, measuring her palm against his, then laced their fingers. Skimming his mouth over her knuckles, he said nothing, but the caring in the gesture was as loud as a shout. With an effort she banished the tears that his concern threatened to recall. She'd long ago forgiven her parents for what they couldn't help, for the lack they'd never noticed. They weren't capable of giving love, at least not in a way she'd ever learned to recognize. What had passed for it, duty and obligation, hadn't been enough, but she was a woman now, and it shouldn't matter anymore.

For reasons she didn't want to identify, it did matter that Chloe had the understanding and support that Kate had lacked. Michael would always be there for his daughter. The knowledge was soothing and beckoned to the old yearning she was used to shoving into a pocket in her mind.

He seemed to read the regret that simmered inside her and didn't push. For long minutes they sat there, intimacy weaving between them. Michael's heart thudded hypnotically in Kate's ear. The sound was solid and comforting.

“Did Chloe say anything to you about the appointment today?” he finally asked.

She shook her head. “Did she mention it to you?”

“We talked a little. She told me she thought she had to go to the lady doctor because sometimes her feet take her places her head doesn't tell them to go.” His voice grew rough. “When she said that, it hit me right in the gut. Here I've been denying to myself that there was a problem and she's been aware of it all along. The doctor warned of the dangers of low self-esteem in these kids. What if I had never admitted it? Or worse yet, what if I—”

Kate's fingers pressed against his mouth, stemming his words. “You didn't,” she said simply. “You're addressing
it, and you'll be able to talk to Chloe about it. You'll learn together how best to deal with it.”

He caught her fingers and pressed a warm kiss against her palm, then gave her a crooked grin that transposed his hard features. “You have a great deal of faith in me.”

“Yes,” she whispered, “I do.” She watched his grin fade away and shivered inside when it was replaced with awareness and something else, a desire she'd seen on his face before. That powerful masculine intent was almost frightening in its intensity, but it was tempting, too.

“Do you know why I came here tonight?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

“You said you didn't want to be alone.”

“I wasn't alone. Trask was there. I needed to be here. I needed
you.
”

A bittersweet blade of longing slipped into her heart. As his face moved closer, her eyes drifted shut in silent anticipation of his kiss. She could already imagine the feel of his hard mouth moving against her own, his rougher skin abrading her cheek.

The sensations didn't come. Instead she heard his voice in her ear urging, “Kate, kiss me.”

Her eyes flew open. He was close, very close. She could see the heat in his hazel eyes, feel his warm breath on her face. For a moment she went blank. What was he asking? And why? The experience she had, depressingly limited, hadn't prepared her to be the aggressor. She had been the recipient of kisses many times, had responded to
his
kisses with an eagerness and an abandon that both terrified and exhilarated her. But there had been a comfortable familiarity in the passive role of acceptance. It seemed as if all her life she'd sought the human contact denied her by her parents. She'd lavished attention on her siblings; physical demonstrativeness hadn't been rejected by them. She sometimes thought that if she hadn't had that outlet, the emotional side of her nature would have withered away, much as her parents' had seemed to.

Other girls, starved for the kind of love and acceptance
she'd been denied, might have sought it in the arms of any boy who'd shown an interest in them. But Kate had been too fastidious, too cautious to fall into that trap. And so she'd somehow managed to reach the age of twenty-seven with some intimate experience, yet without ever having initiated a kiss with a man.

Her gaze fell to his mouth, to the chiseled lips, firm and waiting. Michael wasn't just any man. The attraction between them was there; she'd never been able to deny it. She already knew how he would taste, and the memory was exquisite. He was offering her the opportunity to venture into uncharted waters by taking a first with him, and the newness of the situation gave her pause.

He tipped the balance then by muttering
“Kate,”
his voice low and urgent. By moving only a fraction of an inch, she was able to catch the sound in her mouth.

His taste was familiar, yet the experience was foreign. The first kiss was a whisper, then her mouth hesitated for a moment, like a butterfly suspended in midair. Her lips parted over his, tentative at first. He held himself rigid, only his lips soft and pliant against hers, allowing her to mold them as she wished.

She forgot to be embarrassed, forgot to wonder about technique. Instead, she fell into the intoxicating pleasure of being the aggressor. Her mouth moved against his sweetly, tenderly. His lower lip was full and curved, equally capable of delivering a lopsided grin or a snarl. Her teeth scraped against it lightly, worrying it with delicate precision. She dared to use the tip of her tongue to trace the seam of his lips and was rewarded by his indrawn breath.

It was pleasant, but soon it wasn't enough. Unconsciously she moved closer, twisting her body to face him more fully. He reached out one long arm and helped her straddle his lap, and she accomplished the feat without releasing his lips.

Her arms went around his neck, her fingers curling in hair that had been neglected long enough to spill over his collar. She leaned against the solid breadth of his chest and pressed his lips open. As a demand, it probably was more tentative
than most. But Michael was helpfully responsive, and when she dared to test her tongue on the ridge of his teeth, his breathing grew choppy.

That evidence of his response tempted her to venture further. Her tongue slipped into his mouth to tangle with his, savoring its rich, masculine flavor. She was lost in the experience; if he had taken over, if he had responded too quickly or too eagerly, she might have awoken from the intoxicating reverie and drawn back. But his hands remained motionless on her waist. He was making no attempt to guide her movements or to change the pace.

The power of it was heady. Kate's senses reeled as she allowed herself the pleasure of exploring his mouth with quick little flicks of her tongue; along the sensitive roof of his mouth, the inside of his lip, across the front of his teeth. When a groan rumbled up from his chest, she almost echoed it. She nibbled at his full lower lip, explored the corners of his mouth, then pressed her cheek to his. Whisker stubble prickled her skin; it had been many hours since his morning shave. Her lips sought out the same experience, dragging back and forth across his cheek. Her teeth caught his chin lightly, and her tongue tested its rough surface.

She opened weighted eyes slowly. His remained closed, the lashes thick brushes against his skin. His breathing was rapid and the skin was pulled tautly across cheekbones that seemed carved from granite. She'd seen him teasing, angry, laughing and grim. But by far the most seductive sight was the image of him now, muscles rigid with the enormous effort required to hold himself in check.

Kate dropped kisses along the cord of his throat and lingered at the base. His top button was undone, and she lowered her lips to the triangle of skin bared there. It was smooth and heated, warming her lips. Her hands came down to clutch his shoulders, kneading the tight muscles. An emotion was boiling in the pit of her belly, one she had never quite understood before.

Desire.
Hot and naked, it was snaking through her veins, leaving a conflagration in its wake. It singed her from her
toes to her fingertips, and suddenly kisses weren't enough. She wanted more. That vee of bare flesh was a taunting sample of the tightly muscled planes lying beneath his shirt. Her palms itched, and she fisted her hands as if to guard against the temptation.

Drawing her lip between her teeth, she stared hard at the next button. So easy, really. It would be so easy to slip that one small button open to expose another inch or two of flesh. Her fingers acted before her brain gave them conscious permission, and she couldn't help being pleased with her work. Brown chest hair covered the portion she'd revealed, and her lips went to explore the newest territory. It was surprisingly soft, not unlike the strands she'd recently had her fingers tangled in. No doubt it matched the rest of his chest, still hidden from her view.

Her fingers danced down his shirtfront, and her lips followed in their trail, welcoming each new inch of flesh revealed. When she finally finished, she pushed the shirt apart impatiently, her breath knotting in her throat. His chest was massive and solid with muscle. His heavy shoulders were almost as wide as the half of the couch he was propped against. His large form radiated power and strength, yet he remained still, only the muscles quivering beneath the smooth skin of his stomach giving mute testament to the effort it cost him.

She smoothed her hands up and down his torso, gasping as his heat transferred from his skin to her palms. Her fingers walked up his ribs and combed through the triangular mat of hair on his chest. Leaning forward, she sealed his mouth with hers again, reveling in the eager twisting of his lips beneath hers. She kneaded his chest, his shoulders before trailing her hands down to clutch at his massive biceps.

Michael shrugged out of his shirt and wrapped his arms around her waist, urging her closer. Kate complied, her mouth still moving on his, her hips intimately pressed against the thick ridge beneath his jeans. Hunger built as he pulled her T-shirt from her jeans and his hands swept inside, roaming
over her back and waist restlessly. She squirmed against him, unable to get close enough.

Her hips rocked against him, and their moans mingled at the contact. That solid length of manhood assuaged the ache that had settled between her thighs, even as it fueled it. Her breasts were full and heavy, her nipples unbearably sensitive within their lacy confines. His hands flamed a path on her skin, leaving her wanting more. She waited, breath indrawn, for him to take the next step, to touch her as intimately as she touched him. Her movements became a little more frantic, a little more frustrated, and she nipped at his full lower lip before soothing it with the tip of her tongue.