Yesterday's Love (10 page)

Suddenly it was all more than she could deal with. She wanted romance, candlelight and roses, impetuous adventures, laughter-filled days and passion-filled nights. She also wanted Tate, who promised no more than passion. She couldn't reconcile the two.

“I think I'd better go.”

“Why?”

“This wasn't such a good idea.”

“But we haven't danced yet,” Tate said urgently, not wanting her to leave until he had at least held her in his arms. Surely he could keep himself under rigid control. He always had before. It wasn't until he had met Victoria that his control had snapped. Recently he'd found his temper flaring unexpectedly and his desires raging with such urgent abandon that it stunned him. Maybe if he burned an image of a disapproving Pete Harrison into his mind, he could regain his sense of balance, at least until he finished the audit.

“Danced?” she repeated blankly.

“You remember that quaint old custom,” he teased lightly. “It's what we came here to do.”

No, Victoria wanted to say. No matter what we said, we came here to make love and we both know it. But she knew she could never force those bluntly honest words past her suddenly quivering lips. Tate didn't see the tremor. He was walking to his stereo, selecting a tape and putting it on, as thought she had agreed to stay. When the soft strains of a ballad filled the air, he held out his arms. He looked so hopeful standing there that she couldn't refuse. Admit it, she chided herself, you don't even want to refuse. Her eyes locked with his, and she moved into his embrace, sighing softly just as he did when his arms closed securely around her.

The music surrounded them, drew them into its slow, provocative tempo. Victoria closed her eyes and gave herself up to the melody, to the wondrous sensation of feeling Tate's heart throbbing next to hers. She was captivated by that sure, steady beat, awed by her ability to alter it with a delicate touch of her fingers along the warm curve of his spine. Held by Tate, she knew the truly magical spell of romance for the first time and wondered again if she'd been wrong, if it could possibly work. She felt beautiful and graceful, as though she were floating on air.

“You're trying to lead,” Tate murmured in her ear, the whisper of warm breath delicately tantalizing, even though his words startled her.

“I am not,” she retorted indignantly, moving back to scowl up at him. He gave her an infuriating, crooked grin.

“Oh, yes, you are. What's the matter? Are you afraid I'm going to step on your toes?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you don't trust me enough to follow me,” he said flatly.

Victoria suddenly had a feeling he was talking about far more than dancing. “How can you say I don't trust you? I stayed here, didn't I?”

His gaze softened, and he touched a finger to her cheek, leaving behind a trail of fire and a blush of pink. “So you did. Are you sorry?”

She stared up at him solemnly. “No. I want to be here.”

“In my arms?”

“In your arms.”

He grinned again and her heart flipped over. “Then how about letting me lead?”

Victoria groaned. “Is your masculine ego being threatened?”

“Hardly. It's just easier if only one of us is in charge.”

“Are we still talking about dancing?” Victoria asked dryly.

“I am.” His expression was all innocence, though she had a feeling his comment was about as innocent as a million-dollar lawsuit.

“Are you sure you don't still have designs on straightening out my life?” she inquired edgily.

His eyes brightened, and he suddenly tilted her backward in an unexpected and breathtaking dip. “You're admitting it could do with a little reorganizing?”

“Let me up.”

“First, admit it.”

“I'll admit no such thing. My life is fine, Tate McAndrews!” It was impossibly difficult to say anything with conviction from this crazy angle, but she tried. He didn't seem to believe her.

“That's why you're in trouble with the IRS, why your business is haphazard at best, why your parents want to marry you off and why your house is tumbling down—because your life is under such perfect control?”

“You're being smug again.”

“I am?”

“I hate it when you're smug.”

“You hate it when I'm right.”

“Leave me alone.”

Tate put her solidly back on her feet and dropped his arms. He shrugged. “If that's what you want.”

“It's what I want,” she said, glaring at him defiantly, the spell broken. The man, she decided, had about as much romance in his soul as the author of a math textbook. He certainly didn't know how to pull off a seduction.

“Are you planning a dramatic exit?” he inquired, his lips twitching in a perfectly infuriating way.

“Now that you mention it, I don't think I'll give you the satisfaction.” She walked to the door, turned back and gave him a haughty look of disapproval. “Good night, Mr. McAndrews,” she said with prim politeness and shut the door softly behind her.

Tate stood and counted to ten. The doorbell rang. He opened it and found her standing there, her eyes flashing angrily.

“I'd like to call a cab, if you don't mind,” she said stiffly.

His lips had stopped twitching and formed a full-blown, smug smile. “I'll drive you back to your car.”

“That's not necessary.”

“It is necessary,” he said decisively, taking her arm and steering her from the apartment.

They drove across town in a silence so thick Tate felt like screaming. A few days ago that raging feeling of pure frustration would have been totally unfamiliar, but all of a sudden it was becoming a way of life. He didn't feel the least bit thrilled about it either. He had the oddest desire to shake Victoria until she agreed to shape up her life. The image of those hazardous stairs and peeling wallpaper sent shivers of fear and dismay along his spine. He had a feeling, though, she'd never admit to needing a bloody thing, least of all his help. She was the most stubborn, infuriating woman he'd ever met, and she obviously didn't know what was good for her.

Her parents were right. She needed him in her life. The only thing wrong with that theory was the very distinct probability that she'd drive him crazy in the bargain. He gazed over at her and discovered that she was staring straight ahead, her shoulders stiff, her mouth settled into a stern line. Perversely, he wanted to kiss her until her mouth curved into a sensual, lazy, satisfied smile again. He had a feeling if he tried, though, she'd slap him…and rightly so.

Victoria might be even wiser than her parents on this one, he decided reluctantly. It would be better if they never saw each other again and preserved their sanity. He could send her the outcome of the audit in the mail. Ironically, the minute he admitted to himself that she was absolutely wrong for him, that it would be wise to let her vanish from his life, he wanted her more than ever.

“Where's your car?”

“Near your office.”

“Where near my office?” he said with more patience than he'd ever thought he was capable of.

“I don't know. In some lot. How many parking lots can there be around there?”

Tate groaned. There were half a dozen or more. Thank God she hadn't parked in a high-rise garage. They'd be driving up and down ramps the rest of the night.

“Couldn't you think of this as an adventure?” Victoria asked plaintively.

“Afraid not,” he muttered as he circled the blocks in the vicinity of the IRS offices. Fortunately, at this hour it wasn't difficult to spot a dented blue Volkswagen sitting forlornly in the middle of a virtually empty lot. It reminded him of the sad expression in Victoria's eyes.

Don't start thinking like that, McAndrews, or you'll be right back where you started, he warned himself. He managed to keep his expression stern and unforgiving as Victoria climbed out hurriedly, dashed into her car and drove away with barely a wave. It wasn't until she'd gone out of sight that he began to experience something that was totally foreign to him. Finally, he realized it was sheer, heart-wrenching loneliness. He didn't like the feeling one bit.

F
or the next ten days Tate suffered, agonizing over the separation from Victoria and, for the first time in his life, turning introspective. He analyzed the attraction he felt for her from every possible angle, dismissing it as sheer folly one minute, only to seize on the memory of her delightful laugh and beguiling smile the next. He was behaving in such an uncharacteristically sloppy, withdrawn way that his friends began asking first subtle, and then more pointed questions. They worried about an illness, a family problem, a financial reversal. No one seemed to suspect that a woman was involved. They all knew that Tate McAndrews would never allow a woman to disrupt his life so dramatically.

And his orderly life was most definitely being disrupted. In fact, it was in an unbelievable state of chaos. While he daydreamed, work piled up on his desk until even Pete commented on the disorganized clutter. At home he left unwashed coffee cups in the sink and clothes scattered on the floor. He didn't even seem to notice. One plant suddenly wilted and died, its bedraggled remains ignored. He opened magazines, stared uncomprehendingly at the pages and then dropped them. They stayed wherever they fell.

Only one image seemed to register fully in his mind—Victoria's. He pictured her as he'd first seen her, dangling precariously upside down from a tree branch. It was an enchanting, unforgettable image. He recalled the half-astonished, half-temptress look in her blue eyes when he'd kissed her for the first time, and his body began behaving like a teenager's, turning hot and ready at the mere memory of the way she'd felt in his arms. He was not used to having absolutely no control over his life, his thoughts or his body. Much more of this and he'd go stark raving bonkers, he thought desperately.

You can either forget her or do something, he told himself in the middle of Friday night as he tossed and turned restlessly amid a tangle of sheets. Since forgetting her seemed unlikely, he decided to accept the inevitable. He was going to have to kill this ridiculous obsession through overexposure. Every sensible bone in his body told him that spending more than a few hours with Victoria would drive him to distraction. He would be forced to acknowledge that she was absolutely wrong for him, and that would be the end of it. He could go back to doing his dishes and his work.

When the do-it-yourself home repair shop in his neighborhood opened Saturday morning, Tate was waiting. He selected lumber first, then hesitated about paint. Every conservative instinct in him shouted that he should buy white. He always bought white. It went with everything. Finally, he took a deep breath and pointed to what he considered to be an outrageous shade of blue…for a wall. It matched Victoria's eyes exactly. His hand shook, but he didn't back down. Since he wasn't about to leave anything to chance, he also bought a ladder, paintbrushes, rollers, turpentine and a complete assortment of nails and screws. At the checkout counter, he eyed the collection of items carefully, then went back for a hammer, a screwdriver and a saw.

“Gonna do a little work around the house?” the clerk said dryly.

“No, I'm going to build one,” Tate replied grumpily, flinching at the figure that popped up on the cash register. Victoria was turning out to be a costly obsession in more ways than one. He handed over his credit card and wondered for the hundredth time if it made any sense at all for him to be doing this. Victoria wouldn't appreciate it. In fact, she was probably going to resent it and throw him and his blue paint right back out the door.

“Too bad,” he muttered under his breath. “You're not doing this for Victoria. You're doing it to save your sanity.”

“What's that, mister?”

“Nothing.”

Once everything was loaded into his car, he headed for Victoria's, his determination mounting. He was going to fix up that place of hers so he could stop worrying about it and get her out of his system in the process. It was going to be a wonderful, satisfying weekend.

By the time he arrived in her driveway, he was whistling cheerfully, envisioning the serenity that would return to his life in a few short days. It was worth the price of a little paint and lumber and the hard work.

At first he was surprised that Victoria didn't come out of her house as soon as his car stopped, but then he decided it was better that she hadn't noticed his arrival. It gave him time to get everything unloaded before she threw a fit. By the time he'd be ready to knock on the door and surprise her, it would be too late to send him packing.

He was about to lean the ladder against the side of the house when Lancelot suddenly wove between his legs, meowing a friendly greeting. Tate tripped over the cat and tumbled forward, the ladder crashing through a window. Lancelot's howl of protest was almost as loud as Tate's.

Victoria heard the noisy crash just as she rolled over and prepared to snuggle back under the covers to finish a perfectly delightful dream about a man who knew exactly how to win her heart, a man who was nothing in the world like Tate McAndrews. She had taken the day off and promised herself a few extra hours of sleep to make up for all of the restless nights she'd had since she and Tate had parted. She'd been furious at him, but that hadn't kept her from missing him terribly, and she hated herself for even noticing his absence.

“What in heaven's name was that?” she mumbled, suddenly wide awake. She waited for another crash, but heard only screeches that clearly came from Lancelot and mutterings that reminded her of Tate's colorful carrying on when he fell through her stairs. Tate? She sat straight up in bed and listened more closely. No doubt about it. It was definitely Tate. She'd never heard such a wide vocabulary of expletives from anyone else. What on earth was he doing here at the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning? In fact, what was he doing here at all?