Future Perfect (6 page)

“Order me a tallboy, sis,” he shouted back over his shoulder.

The dance floor was already packed and hotter than blazes from the lights. Sam winked at Juliana from the stage as she began to dance with Kurt, and she smiled back at him, thinking about Sam and Liz’s rocky start. All those years of unhappiness could have been avoided, if only they’d been able to communicate right from the very beginning. They’d both loved each other, but neither one of them had thought to tell the other.

Inwardly she shook her head, thinking of her own disastrous near marriage. In Juliana’s case, the trouble only began
after
she and her fiancé, Dennis, started communicating. No, Liz’s story was sweet and touching, but the fact remained that Juliana couldn’t hope for something she was never going to have. And there’d be plenty of time to cry over
that
when she was alone in her apartment, late at night.

Juliana smiled into Kurt’s pretty hazel eyes, and he spun her around and around the floor until she was nearly giddy with dizziness and laughter.

Web started the engine of his little car, holding the cold steering wheel carefully. He was feeling dizzy, a little warm, and more than a little off balance.

Food, he thought. He needed some food in his stomach; that would make him feel better.

He pointed his car toward town, but before he reached the quaint little green with its border of shops and restaurants, he saw a sign for a place called Red’s. It was not your upperclass establishment, but there were so many cars out in the parking lot, Web figured
something
had to be going on inside that was worth checking out. A neon sign in the front window said,
GOOD FOOD, GOOD DRINKS
. Good enough.

The club was dark inside, and a band was up on the stage. A country band, Web noticed, and they were damn decent, too. The place was a real dive, but it was packed nearly wall to wall with people dancing, laughing, drinking, and listening to the band. If this was Benton, Massachusetts, on a Tuesday night, what were weekends like?

He sidled up to the bar and caught the bartender’s eye, signaling for a beer. The mug came frosted, and Web took a quick sip as he ordered a turkey sandwich on rye. He sat back on the bar stool then and nursed his beer as he watched the band.

They finished a song, and the crowd roared its approval. The lead guitar player immediately kicked into another song, one Web recognized. It was a Sam Beckwith tune from a few years ago, back when the country singer was just starting his legendary climb to fame.

Man, this guy could play
and
sing just like Beckwith. Webster squinted, staring hard at the man in the black cowboy hat who stood center stage in front of a mike.

The barkeep tapped him on the shoulder. “One turkey on rye. You wanna pay now or run a tab?”

“Tab,” Web answered, and pointed to the stage. “Hey, is that—?”

The burly bartender grinned. “Sam Beckwith. In person.”

“What the hell is he doing playing here?” Web asked, astonished. Beckwith could fill the Meadowlands Arena. “No offense …”

The other man grinned. “None taken. Sam lives down the road. When he’s in town, he likes to show off for that pretty little wife of his. I can’t complain. Oh, yeah, I should warn you—Sam’s wife’s pregnant, so he doesn’t want anyone smoking in here tonight. You want a butt, take it outside.”

“This is wild,” Webster said, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Absolutely wild.”

He finished his sandwich and polished off several more mugs of beer as he watched the band. Sam Beckwith in person, he thought, shaking his head in disbelief. Playing in a club that was smaller than his parents’ living room …

There was a dance floor down in front of the stage, and as the band kicked into a swing tune, most of the dancers moved aside, leaving plenty of room for a man and a woman who were doing some fancy jitterbug moves.

The woman was a knockout, dressed in slim-fitting jeans that accentuated her slender hips and small waist. She wore a black tank top that fit like a glove over her full breasts and torso. Her hair was the most marvelous red-gold color, and it seemed to explode around her face—

Webster stood up, leaving his beer half finished and
forgotten on the bar. He pushed his way through the crowd. God almighty—it
was
her.

It was Miss Anderson.

But it was a Miss Anderson
he’d
never seen before.

Damn, she looked good enough to eat. Her legs were so long. He’d known that somewhere underneath all those skirts lurked a fabulous pair of legs. And, oh Lord, the woman had a tattoo! It was a tiny little one, a teensy little rose by her left shoulder blade, peeking out from the racer back of her tank top.

Her long, slender arms were exposed, and he realized that with the exception of her low-cut evening gown, which she’d only worn that one night, she’d always kept herself carefully and modestly covered. It seemed erotic, risque even, for her to show so much of her skin, here in a bar, in a public place. With a start, he realized that it was only her arms that were bare. Her
arms
, for crying out loud. Yet he was more turned on by the sight of her arms than he’d ever been even when he’d been surrounded by women in thong bathing suits at the beach.

Her hair was long and loose, and it shimmered in the lights. She was laughing, her beautiful mouth open in a smile of pleasure, her eyes sparkling as she looked at the man she was dancing with.

The man she was dancing with, Webster realized suddenly, was a uniformed policeman. No, he was the town sheriff, he corrected himself, catching a glimpse of the man’s badge. Worse and worse. This sheriff was also quite possibly the most handsome man in the entire bar—and Web included both himself and Sam Beckwith in that tally. Whatever points Webster won for being taller, he lost them for not being able to dance as well as the shorter man.

Damn
, he thought.
No wonder she didn’t want to go out with me
.

He thought back to the evening he’d managed to get her alone with him in front of the fireplace. That was the evening he’d planned to seduce her. She’d been as attracted to him as he was to her. He’d known. It was just a matter of finesse, just a matter of getting her in the right place at the right time.

How wrong had he been?

Instead of making love, he’d found himself arguing with the woman.

And now, watching her like this, he realized that he’d give almost anything just to talk to her, just to stand next to her. But judging from the way she’d left his room so quickly today, she didn’t want anything to do with him.

The song ended, and Miss Anderson and the sheriff came laughingly, breathlessly to a stop. Instead of giving her a kiss, the sheriff lifted a hand and they high-fived.

Webster felt a wild flash of hope. They didn’t kiss. They didn’t
kiss
.

The sheriff leaned close to Miss Anderson’s ear, she nodded, and he headed toward the back, toward the men’s room. And she walked straight toward Webster.

Web knew the exact moment she spotted him there in the crowd. Her eyes met his, widened slightly, and she stopped dead in her tracks. Something, some unknown force propelled him forward, toward her, and she wet her lips nervously.

“Hi,” he said. God almighty, did he really just say, “hi,” and then grin like an idiot? Smooth, Web, very smooth.
Please God
, he found himself praying,
don’t let her see the uncertainty in my eyes. Don’t let her know
that just being next to her like this scares me to death. And don’t let me say something stupid
,
something that will make her angry at me again
.

She was still breathing heavily from the up-tempo dance, and Webster tried not to watch her chest as it rose and fell. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to feel her body against his.

“I thought you’d be at the house, trying to write,” she said, her clear voice cutting through the din of the bar.

“Yeah, no,” he said, “I’m not. I’m … I’m here.”

She smiled at him then. “I noticed.”

She was so beautiful his teeth hurt. And he wanted to touch the smooth skin of her arms so badly he felt like some kind of deviant.

“Dance with me?” he asked. His voice was husky, and he cleared his throat. “Please?”

Juliana hesitated. She’d heard the band discussing their set when they were setting up, and she knew the next song was another fast one. She could handle that. Couldn’t she? She glanced up at the stage. As soon as the rhythm guitar player changed a broken string …

“Please?” he said again.

She risked a glance at him.

He was wearing a pair of jeans, a red T-shirt, and his worn-out cowboy boots. His hair was in its usual state of disarray, and his face was tired. His eyes looked almost bruised from lack of sleep, yet she felt herself drawn in by their dark-blue depths.

The crystal edge that was usually in his eyes was missing. Whether it was from fatigue or from some other reason, she didn’t know, but all of his cocky arrogance was gone. He seemed uncertain, scared even, and to Juliana, the effect was irresistible.

“Okay,” she heard herself say. “One dance. Just promise you won’t be a jerk.”

“I promise.” He smiled, like a kid given free rein in a toy store.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Juliana warned him. “It’s just one dance. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But don’t you think you should tell me your name? I mean, as long as we’re gonna dance …”

The crowd began to cheer, and she turned her head, pretending not to hear him over the racket.

Up on stage, Sam Beckwith had stepped up to the microphone. “I’ve just been given a message from Liz, my wife,” he said in his thick Kentucky accent. “Y’all know she’ll be making me a daddy for the third time ’round in a few more weeks?”

The crowd roared its approval. Webster barely heard a thing as he reached out and brushed a stray curl from Miss Anderson’s face. She pulled away from the contact as if he’d burned her.

“Liz asked if I wouldn’t mind playing her favorite song right now,” Sam continued. “Right this very second, in fact. Liz darlin’, your wish is my command.”

The band started the song—a slow, pulsing ballad, not the fast song Juliana had expected. She shook her head in despair. “I’m gonna
kill
that woman,” she muttered. She caught sight of Liz standing in the crowd, giving her the thumbs up sign. Juliana resisted the urge to flash her friend a very different hand gesture.

Webster slipped one arm around her waist, taking her hand in his and pulling her in close to him as he began to move to the music.

His arms were hard and strong, yet he held her so gently. And, sweet heavens, he still smelled too damn
good. Men just shouldn’t smell that good. There should be a law against it.

Their thighs brushed, denim against denim, and Juliana was afraid her heart was going to stop.

“Mr. Donovan, maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” Juliana breathed. Sweet heavens, being so close to him like this was making her heart pound and her mouth go dry. Another few seconds, and she’d be trembling. And then he’d know how he made her feel, and he’d kiss her. And he’d kiss her again, and he wouldn’t stop kissing her until they were both home in his bed.

He brought her hand up to his wide shoulder, near his neck, and slowly, sensuously, ran his fingers along the bare skin of her arm. Caught off guard by the amount of pleasure that swept through her from his light touch, she tightened her own hand around the back of his neck. He took that as an invitation, pulling her even closer to him.

A gentle hand under her chin pulled her face up, and she realized with shock that he wasn’t going to wait. He was going to kiss her right then and there. She didn’t have time to protest. She didn’t have time to pull away. His lips found hers, warm and soft and sweet.

But still she didn’t pull away. In fact, she was clinging to him as tightly as he was holding her, and he kissed her harder, deeper, the dancing all but forgotten. She could feel her heart pounding—or was it his?

One large hand pressed her hips against him, and she could feel the hardness of his arousal. Even more shocking was the sudden wave of fire that raced through her. She wanted him as badly as he wanted her.

Somehow she pushed him away. “Stop,” she said, breathing hard. “I can’t do this.”

She turned and was swallowed up by the crowd.

Webster tried to follow her, but the club was dark and packed with people. He fought his way through the mob as he saw a flash of her red-gold hair by the door.

It took far too long to get to the club’s entrance, even though most people stepped aside for the huge man with the look of hard determination on his face. By the time he stepped out into the cold, clear night, all that was left for him to see was the taillight of a motorcycle, heading quickly down the road.

Webster parked his car carefully outside the big Victorian house. He was feeling dizzy again, and way too hot. Still, he poked his head into the carriage house that served as a garage, looking for the telltale signs of a motorcycle.

But there was nothing. No sign of a bike of any kind.

A four-wheel-drive pickup truck sat quietly on the far side of the garage, and there was plenty of room for at least three or four other vehicles, too. The floor was swept clean, and gardening tools lined one wall, carefully hung on hooks, everything in its own special place.

Web wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. A motorcycle handbook, he guessed. Yeah, sure. A spare carburetor or a second shiny black helmet, hanging on the wall.

Of course, maybe the motorcycle didn’t even belong to Miss Anderson. Before tonight, he never would’ve pictured the proper, quiet, old-fashioned woman on a bike. But he wouldn’t have been able to picture her in jeans, her hair loose, looking like something out of a steamy music video either. That woman, that wild, red-haired beauty he’d held in his arms and kissed in the bar
tonight … 
she
would definitely look at home on a motorcycle. He could imagine her swinging one long bluejeaned leg over the back of a powerful machine, straddling the black leather of the seat, her hair moving behind her in the wind as she took a corner.…