Switched, Bothered and Bewildered (14 page)

He gently released his grasp on her and smiled a real bad-boy smile. Then he reached up and, with his thumb, wiped what must have been a smear of lipstick from below her lip. He turned

and walked back into the kitchen. He picked up his yellow-and-black measuring tape as if nothing had happened, then resumed measuring the kitchen floor.

Jillian did a Carly and shot up the stairs, slamming the door to Jana Lee's room behind her. Her heart pounded as she caught her breath. She continued to Jana Lee's bed and threw herself face-first on top of the new duvet she'd bought today. The big fat European pillows in their blue floral chintz shams all fell over on her head. She didn't care.

In the darkness of her sister's bedcovers she tried to figure out what had just happened. She had to analyze it, turn it around, wrestle with it, and get control of it.

Dean Wakefield was not her
perfect.
Jackson Hawks was her perfect. The aloof, worldly, powerful Jackson Hawks, right? The man she'd been trying to convince to date her?
Jackson was a man that could take it if she worked ten hours a day, because he wouldn't care.

Because ... he wouldn't care.

She squealed into the duvet. She was screwing this all up, as usual. She screwed everything up. She screwed up their Little Princess jobs, she was screwing up her sister's house, she screwed up her sister's potential boyfriend. She could create production projections and PowerPoint presentations, but she always screwed up when it came to

her personal life, which mostly involved her sister as well.

This had been a never-ending flaw with her. She'd stolen Elliot away from Jana Lee back in college without even thinking what kind of pain it would cause. She was always messing things up with men.

Of course Jana Lee had thanked her later, because she'd ended up dating Bill and they'd gotten together and lived happily ever after and had had Carly—until Bill had died suddenly and left her sister alone.

And
of course
she herself, Jillian the destroyer, had gotten what she'd deserved when Elliot had cheated on her after their marriage. But still. What kind of a sister was she? She was selfish, and Jana Lee was always forgiving her. Even during Jil-lian's years married to Elliot, Jana Lee had called and talked, although she'd never visited. And when Jillian had phoned Jana Lee, sobbing, when Elliot had left, Jana Lee had flown down to see her. It was her sister who'd made the effort to break their barriers down after all the painful years.

She'd never forget that horrible night at college when the deed had been done and she'd shown up with Elliot as her date to the end-of-the-year dance. Jana Lee had been so gracious, even though she'd hated Jillian at that moment and Jil-

lian had known it. She and Jana Lee had gotten up on stage and sung the "Sisters" song from
White Christmas,
complete with blue dresses and huge feathered fans.

Jana Lee had looked at her hard when they'd sung about how the Lord better help the sister
who comes between me and my man!
and Jillian had seen Jana Lee's tears fall as soon as they'd finished the number. But had that kept her from marrying Elliot? No. She'd thought she'd been in
love
with him. She'd been blinded by her supposed love. She'd abandoned her sister for Elliot. Why had she taken her sister's fiance away anyway? Just to
be able to win?

And here she was doing it again in a weird, twisted-up kind of way. Even if Jana Lee hadn't even met Dean, Jillian had it in her mind to help her sister find some happiness with a new man. Instead she'd ended up kissing him herself. She was messing that up before it even had a chance to get started.

She was a complete bitch. A worm. A . . . hardhearted, misguided woman. Jillian rolled over and stared at the ceiling.

And here she was, thirty-five, divorced, no kids. Her own marriage screwed up in five short years. Elliot. Even though there was no excuse for his behavior, in reality he'd hardly known what had hit him when he'd married her. She'd ignored him and spent all her time at the office. She'd taken

him for granted. He wasn't a perfect guy, and she'd found his flaws irritating. Instead of trying to deal with that, she'd run away to work.

No wonder he'd cheated on her.

The day she'd returned home from a trip to Pitman's overseas marketing group to find all his belongings cleared out of their apartment had been a real eye-opener. She'd walked from room to room, where the absence of his clothing, his art, his music and books, had been like a wide-open mouth screaming at her. His note had been dead accurate and almost like a business letter. He'd carefully outlined the fact that he'd found someone else and was filing for divorce on such and such a date, and if she needed to contact him regarding this or that, blah blah it went on.

And the way their things had divided up so easily, as if she'd never really mingled herself with him. They'd hardly owned anything together besides a sofa. His stereo, her television, her appliances. He'd known so easily what had been his and what hadn't. He'd left the sofa, too, which at the time seemed like an insult to her.

That day she'd done the same thing she was doing right now. Thrown herself on the bed and what—cried? No. She'd tried to figure it all out. Analyze it. Make it into a pie chart.

She wasn't making much progress.

There was a knock on the bedroom door.

"Come in," she croaked.

It was Dean, of course. "Carly called and said she had a meeting after school and won't be back till dinner." All the while he was telling her this he was still moving toward the bed.

Jillian stared at him. Deep in her heart she wanted to fling her arms open and beckon him to join her in bed. She felt her face flush at the thoughts that were running through her mind. Dean, holding her in his arms. Dean without his jeans and flannel shirt. Dean, undoing the buttons of the funky blouse she was wearing. Her sister's blouse.
Gawd,
she was just wicked.

He was standing about two feet from the end of the bed, looking down on her like a wolf looks at a tasty free-range rabbit. No doubt about it, Dean was hungry for rabbit.

She bolted up like she had a spring behind her back and sat on the end of the bed, pointed at an angle from him. "Thanks," she said.

"I'm sorry about the kiss. It won't happen again." He was staring at her.

"I think that's for the best. We just met. We've got lots of work to do. You probably won't be thinking about kissing me after I yell at all your subcontractor friends and make them work like dogs."

"Are we square?" Dean extended his hand to her. She twisted over and met his grasp. His hand was warm, and that handshake was . . . very . . . seductive.

"We're square. Let's get back to work." Her voice didn't sound too convinced. It sounded like a sultry, sexy voice.

"Yes, ma'am." Dean saluted, smiled a very knowing smile, turned and left the room.

It was a good thing he left. She was in serious trouble here. She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to stop the sensations of lust from buzzing over her skin, over her breasts and . . . between her legs. Somebody should shut down her breaker box, because Dean Wakefield's touch just about blew her fuses.

With that thought, all the lights went out. Obviously Dean had heard her in his head. She stifled a giggle. Well, a man couldn't exactly work on the light fixtures without shutting off the power, now, could he?

After another half hour of painful self-analysis and pointless mind circles, Jillian gathered herself and got back downstairs to help paint the kitchen cupboards. But after a good hour, the scent of oil-based paint filled the room and made Jillian's head swim in circles.

"Whoa. I need air." She dropped her paintbrush into the tray and headed out to the front deck. A few deep breaths of salt-sea air would help stop the swirling effect.

Dean stuck his head out the open sliding glass door. "Okay?"

"I'm fine. Just dizzy." She dropped herself onto an aluminum chaise lounge with nylon strapping that was broken here and there. She had laid an old quilt over it earlier so it could be used without incident.

Jillian's butt poked through the bottom, but the quilt held enough so her butt didn't hit the deck.

"I'll grab you a glass of ice water and we'll take a break. It's been a long day." Dean went back in.

Time was getting away from her. Wednesday had just vanished, and here it was Thursday. Thursday! Where had the days gone? She felt her old panicky feeling start to creep into her thinking about the disaster area that was her sister's kitchen, living room and dining area. She closed her eyes and breathed slowly and deeply through her nose, the way the therapist at Serenity Spa had taught her.

Things weren't going very well. The tile setters hadn't shown up this morning, so she and Dean were giving the kitchen another coat of oil. The only blessing had been the weather. Sometimes June was just dreadful here. She'd seen it rain for the entire month. This week the sun had helped dry paint layers in short order, although working in the heat wasn't always easy.

Part of the
not easy
part was watching the sweat make Dean's T-shirt stick to him and show off all those muscles. She'd been having trouble concentrating. She'd mixed latex Flotrol into oil paint and

ruined an entire gallon of Monroe Bisque watching Dean remove his T-shirt and walk through the sprinkler to cool off.

Jana Lee should have air-conditioning. But then again, it only got hot around here maybe two months out of the year. It seemed to her it was hotter in Seabridge now than when she was a kid.

Thursday.
She had two more days before her Sunday flight. Before she'd be back to work at Pitman. She opened her eyes and looked out at the calm, lapping water. People were out in their sailboats enjoying the afternoon. Families.

She'd completely forgotten how to have fun. When was the last time she'd done
anything
fun? Jillian tried to remember. Well, she'd gone on vacation with Random Ron in January, but she'd mostly watched him gamble at the casino in the hotel they'd stayed at on
Paradise
Island
. They'd quarreled; he'd been demanding and rude. She'd put up with him. What had she been thinking? The minute they'd gotten back he'd dumped her.

And she'd gone back to work with a vengeance to forget about her own stupidness with relationships.

She'd revamped the entire archival production database, she'd gone over the company's expense reports twice to try and add a few more items to the tax return in April. She'd worked Oliver to the snapping point as well.

Late hours, too much coffee and not enough

food—Oliver had warned her of the potential results if she kept up her unwise ways, and he'd put his foot down at skipping lunches. She'd let him go to lunch, but she'd worked through hers.

No wonder she'd gone over the edge. It hadn't been very far to drop.

Jillian tried to picture herself back at work, at her desk. She started to remember what was waiting for her; quarterly reports, possible recall of the Byker Chikz motorcycle with its defective muffler, the holiday trade shows in July and August.

She closed her eyes fast and tried to breathe it away, but a wave of panic hit her hard. Her heart started pounding. She gasped for air and clutched the arms of the lawn chair. Oh God, she hated these. Her mouth went dry, and her lungs burned. She'd left behind that medication the doctor in
San Francisco had prescribed.

Her eyes flew open and met Dean's eyes. He was crouched down next to her chair. He set the water down and reached over to her. He placed his fingers gently on her forehead and rubbed softly between her brows. Then he used the palm of his hand to smooth her entire forehead, trailing his fingertips on her temples. He breathed deeply, and she found herself matching the rhythm of his breath.

In a few minutes she could feel her heart start to slow down. She felt the terrible grip of fear start to fade and heard only his breathing and the lapping

of the waves against the rocky shore. It was a good sound. She realized he was holding her hand.

"Oh, Dean/' she whispered.

"Shhhh." He laid his hand quietly over her eyes, and she closed them obediently. "You're going to rest for a while now." He got up from beside her, and she felt his absence sharply.

Jillian half-opened her eyes and watched him pick up a soft sofa throw pillow from the furniture they'd moved out here. He got her sweater off the deck bench, too. Dean came to her and helped slide the pillow under her head, then covered her bare arms with her sweater, like a blanket, tucking it around her. She sighed, and it came out ragged. A tear slid down one side of her face.

The sun dappled through the old red maple tree and danced across her, warming her bare legs. She let herself drift. She felt him beside her. Having a bad attack always wiped her out.

Dean sat beside her for another half an hour, watching to be sure she slept. He felt her pulse. It had slowed down. He also felt the grip she had on his one hand. She held two fingers of his hand as if she were afraid to let go.

He'd seen this before. Sometimes Trina would panic when she was facing a chemo treatment or before being put in an MRI tube for a scan.