Temptation (8 page)

“Too late,” he murmured; then he kissed each of her fingers, one by one. “Too late for you. Too late for me.”

She couldn't allow herself to believe that. She couldn't accept the softening and opening of her emotions. How badly she wanted to let him in, to trust again, to need again. How terrifying it was to be vulnerable. “Please don't do this. It's a mistake for both of us.”

“You're probably right.” He was almost sure of it himself. But he brushed his lips over the pulse that hammered in her wrist. He didn't give a damn. “Everyone's entitled to one enormous mistake.”

“Don't kiss me now.” She lifted a hand but only curled her fingers into his shirt. “I can't think.”

“One has nothing to do with the other.”

When his mouth touched hers, it was soft, seeking.
Too late
. The words echoed in her head even as she lifted her hands to his face and let herself go. This is what she had wanted, no matter how many arguments she had posed, no matter how many defenses she had built. She wanted to be held against him, to sink into a dream that had no end.

He felt her fingers stream through his hair and had to force himself not to rush her. Desire, tensed and hungry, had to be held back until it was tempered with acceptance and trust. In his heart he had already acknowledged that she was more than the challenge he had first considered her. She was more than the summer fling he might have preferred. But as her slim, soft body pressed against his, as her warm, willing mouth opened for him, he could only think of how he wanted her, now, when the sun was beginning to sink toward the distant peaks to the west.

“Chase.” It was the wild, drumming beat of her heart that frightened her most. She was trembling. Eden could feel it start somewhere deep inside and spread out until it became a stunning combination of panic and excitement. How could she fight the first and give in to the second? “Chase, please.”

He had to draw himself back, inch by painful inch. He hadn't meant to take either of them so far, so fast. Yet perhaps he had, he thought as he ran a hand down her hair. Perhaps he had wanted to push them both toward an answer that still seemed just out of reach.

“The sun's going down.” His hands weren't quite steady when he turned her toward the window again. “Before long, the light will change.”

She could only be grateful that he was giving her time to regain her composure. Later she would realize how much it probably had cost him.

They stood a moment in silence, watching the first tints of rose spread above the mountains. A loud, rasping cough had her already-tense nerves jolting.

“S'cuze me.”

The man in the doorway had a grizzled beard that trailed down to the first button of his red checked shirt. Though he was hardly taller than Eden, his bulk gave the impression of power. The folds and lines in his face all but obscured his dark eyes. Then he grinned, and she caught the glint of a gold tooth.

So this was the little lady who had the boss running around in circles. Deciding she was prettier than a barrelful of prime apples, he nodded to her by way of greeting. “Supper's ready. Unless you want to eat it cold, you best be moving along.”

“Eden Carlbough, Delaney.” Chase only lifted a brow, knowing Delaney had already sized up the situation. “He cooks and I don't, which is why I haven't fired him yet.”

This brought on a cackle. “He hasn't fired me because I wiped his nose and tied his shoes.”

“We could add that that was close to thirty years ago.”

She recognized both affection and exasperation. It pleased her to know someone could exasperate Chase Elliot. “It's nice to meet you, Mr. Delaney.”

“Delaney, ma'am. Just Delaney.” Still grinning, he pulled on his beard. “Mighty pretty,” he said to Chase. “It's smarter to think of settling down with someone who isn't an eyesore at breakfast. Supper's going to get cold,” he added. Then he was gone.

Though Eden had remained politely silent during Delaney's statement, it took only one look at Chase's face to engender a stream of laughter. The sound made Chase think more seriously about gagging Delaney with his own beard.

“I'm glad you're amused.”

“Delighted. It's the first time I've ever seen you speechless. And I can't help being pleased not to be considered an eyesore.” Then she disarmed him by offering him her hand. “Supper's going to get cold.”

Instead of the dining room, Chase led her out to a jalousied porch. Two paddle fans circled overhead, making the most of the breeze that crept in the slanted windows. A wind chime jingled cheerfully between baskets of fuchsia.

“Your home is one surprise after another,” Eden commented as she studied the plump love seats and the glass-and-wicker table. “Every room seems fashioned for relaxation and stunning views.”

The table was set with colorful stoneware. Though the sun had yet to drop behind the peaks, two tapers were already burning. There was a single wild rose beside her plate.

Romance, she thought. This was the romance she had once dreamed of. This was the romance she must now be very wary of. But, wary or not, she picked up the flower and smiled at him. “Thank you.”

“Did you want one, too?” As she laughed, Chase drew back her chair.

“Sit down. Sit down. Eat while it's hot.” Despite his bulk, Delaney bustled into the room. In his large hands was an enormous tray. Because she realized how easily she could be mowed down, Eden obeyed. “Hope you got an appetite. You could use a little plumping up, missy. Then, I've always preferred a bit of healthy meat on female bones.”

As he spoke, he began to serve an exquisite seafood salad. “Made my special, Chicken Delaney. It'll keep under the covers if you two don't dawdle over the salad. Apple pie's on the hot plate, biscuits in the warmer.” He stuck a bottle of wine unceremoniously in an ice bucket. “That's the fancy wine you wanted.” Standing back, he took a narrowed-eyed glance around before snorting with satisfaction. “I'm going home. Don't let my chicken get cold.” Wiping his hands on his jeans, he marched to the door and let it swing shut behind him.

“Delaney has amazing style, doesn't he?” Chase took the wine from the bucket to pour two glasses.

“Amazing,” Eden agreed, finding it amazing enough that those gnarled hands had created anything as lovely as the salad in front of her.

“He makes the best biscuits in Pennsylvania.” Chase lifted his glass and toasted her. “And I'd put his Beef Wellington up against anyone's.”

“Beef Wellington?” With a shake of her head, Eden sipped her wine. It was cool, just a shade tart. “I hope you'll take it the right way when I say he looks more like the type who could charcoal a steak over a backyard grill.” She dipped her fork in the salad and sampled it. “But . . .”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Chase finished for her, pleased with the way her eyes half shut as she tasted. “Delaney's been cooking here as long as I can remember. He lives in a little cottage my grandfather helped him build about forty years ago. Nose-wiping and shoe-tying aside, he's part of the family.”

She only nodded, looking down at her plate for a moment as she remembered how difficult it had been to tell her longtime servants she was selling out. Perhaps they had never been as familiar or as informal as Chase's Delaney, but they, too, had been part of the family.

It was there again, that dim candle glow of grief he'd seen in her eyes before. Wanting only to help, he reached over to touch her hand. “Eden?”

Quickly, almost too quickly, she moved her hand and began to eat again. “This is wonderful. I have an aunt back home who would shanghai your Delaney after the first forkful.”

Home, he thought, backing off automatically. Philadelphia was still home.

The Chicken Delaney lived up to its name. As the sun set, the meal passed easily, even though they disagreed on almost every subject.

She read Keats and he read Christie. She preferred Bach and he Haggard, but it didn't seem to matter as the glass walls filtered the rosy light of approaching twilight. The candles burned lower. The wine shimmered in crystal, inviting one more sip. Close and clear and quick came the two-tone call of a quail.

“That's a lovely sound.” Her sigh was easy and content. “If things are quiet at camp, we can hear the birds in the evening. There's a whippoorwill who's taken to singing right outside the cabin window. You can almost set your watch by her.”

“Most of us are creatures of habit,” he murmured. He wondered about her, what habits she had, what habits she had changed. Taking her hand, he turned it up. The ridge of callus had hardened. “You didn't take my advice.”

“About what?”

“Wearing gloves.”

“It didn't seem worth it. Besides . . .” Letting the words trail off, she lifted her wine.

“Besides?”

“Having calluses means I did something to earn them.” She blurted it out, then sat swearing at herself and waiting for him to laugh.

He didn't. Instead he sat silently, passing his thumb over the toughened skin and watching her. “Will you go back?”

“Go back?”

“To Philadelphia.”

It was foolish to tell him how hard she'd tried not to think about that. Instead, she answered as the practical Eden was supposed to. “The camp closes down the last week in August. Where else would I go?”

“Where else?” he agreed, but when he released her hand she felt a sense of loss rather than relief. “Maybe there comes a time in everyone's life when they have to take a hard look at the options.” He rose, and her hands balled into fists. He took a step toward her, and her heart rose up to her throat. “I'll be back.”

Alone, she let out a long, shaky breath. What had she been expecting? she asked herself. What had she been hoping for? Her legs weren't quite steady when she rose, but it could have been the wine. But wine would have made her warm, and she felt a chill. To ward it off, she rubbed her arms with her hands. The sky was a quiet, deepening blue but for a halo of scarlet along the horizon. She concentrated on that, trying not to imagine how it would look when the stars came out.

Maybe they would look at the stars together again. They could look, picking out the patterns, and she would again feel that click that meant her needs and dreams were meshing. With his.

Pressing a hand to her lips, she struggled to block off that train of thought. It was only that the evening had been lovelier than she had imagined. It was only that they had more in common than she had believed possible. It was only that he had a gentleness inside him that softened parts of her when she least expected it. And when he kissed her, she felt as though she had the world pulsing in the palm of her hand.

No. Uneasy, she wrapped her hands around her forearms and squeezed. She was romanticizing again, spinning daydreams when she had no business dreaming at all. She was just beginning to sort out her life, to make her own place. It wasn't possible that she was looking to him to be any part of it.

She heard the music then, something low and unfamiliar that nonetheless had tiny shivers working their way up her spine. She had to leave, she thought quickly. And right away. She had let the atmosphere get to her. The house, the sunset, the wine. Him. Hearing his footsteps, she turned. She would tell him she had to get back. She would thank him for the evening, and . . . escape.

When he came back into the room, she was standing beside the table so that the candlelight flickered over her skin. Dusk swirled behind her with its smoky magic. The scent of wild roses from the bush outside the window seemed to sigh into the room. He wondered, if he touched her now, if she would simply dissolve in his hands.

“Chase, I think I'd better—”

“Shh.” She wouldn't dissolve, he told himself as he went to her. She was real, and so was he. One hand captured hers, the other slipping around her waist. After one moment of resistance, she began to move with him. “One of the pleasures of country music is dancing to it.”

“I, ah, I don't know the song.” But it felt so good, so very good, to sway with him while darkness fell.

“It's about a man, a woman and passion. The best songs are.”

She shut her eyes. She could feel the brush of his jacket against her cheek, the firm press of his hand at her waist. He smelled of soap, but nothing a woman would use. This had a tang that was essentially masculine. Wanting to taste, she moved her head so that her lips rested against his neck.

His pulse beat there, quick, surprising her. Forgetting caution, she nestled closer and felt its sudden rise in speed. As her own raced to match it, she gave a murmur of pleasure and traced it with the tip of her tongue.

He started to draw her away. He meant to. When he'd left her, he'd promised himself that he would slow the pace to one they could both handle. But now she was cuddled against him, her body swaying, her fingers straying to his neck, and her mouth . . . With an oath, Chase dragged her closer and gave in to hunger.

The kiss was instantly torrid, instantly urgent. And somehow, though she had never experienced anything like it, instantly familiar. Her head tilted back in surrender. Her lips parted. Here and now, she wanted the fire and passion that had only been hinted at.

Perhaps he lowered her to the love seat, perhaps she drew him to it, but they were wrapped together, pressed against the cushions. An owl hooted once, then twice, then gave them silence.

He'd wanted to believe she could be this generous. He'd wanted to believe his lips would touch hers and find unrestricted sweetness. Now his mind spun with it. Whatever he had wanted, whatever he had dreamed of, was less, so much less than what he now held in his arms.

He stroked a hand down her body and met trembling response. With a moan, she arched against him. Through the sheer fabric of her blouse, he could feel the heat rising to her skin, enticing him to touch again and yet again.