Yesterday's Love (11 page)

Wrapping a robe tightly around her, she ran to the window and peered out. The sight that greeted her was so unexpected, so ridiculously out of character, that it was all she could do to keep from laughing. Tate was lying on the ground his long legs tangled in a ladder, surrounded by scattered boards that resembled a giant's game of pick up sticks. His scowl as he tried to disengage himself was impressive and more than enough to convince her to save her laughter for later.

She ran down the stairs and threw open the door, her eyes widening in dismay as she noted the ladder protruding through the living room window. She knelt down and surveyed Tate quickly, looking for signs of blood, her hand brushing lightly over a bump on his forehead.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Tate said tightly.

She sat back on her heels then and regarded him quizzically, noting idly that he apparently did own one pair of jeans and that they fit like a well-worn glove. Instinctively her gaze surveyed the faded fabric, starting with its revelation of the hard muscles of his thighs, then moving upward to its taut stretch over his abdomen. She realized suddenly exactly where she was staring and blushed furiously. Fortunately, Tate didn't even seem to notice.

“Not that I'm not glad to see you, but exactly what do you think you're doing?” she said at last.

“I've come to help.”

“With what? Demolishing my house?”

“No. Fixing it up,” he explained, fighting to regain his sense of humor. He probably did look pretty ridiculous.

“You're off to a wonderful start,” she said, glancing significantly at the shattered window. She sighed. “Tate, you really don't need to help. I thought we settled this the other night. I can do things for myself.”

“I know you can,” he agreed soothingly. Too soothingly. Victoria's suspicions flared to life. “I just thought maybe I could help. It'll go much faster if two of us work on it.”

“Why does it matter so much to you how fast it goes?”

This was the tricky part. Tate knew he couldn't very well admit that he wanted to get her off his mind once and for all, so he settled for a half-truth. “I'm worried about your living like this. I'll feel better when you're settled.”

It probably wouldn't do to analyze why he was worried about the way she lived in the first place. He just had to keep telling himself that once he stopped worrying, he would also stop thinking about her at all. He looked up, and his gaze met eyes that were filled with skepticism.

“Don't say it,” he said.

“Don't say what?”

“Don't tell me again that it's none of my business how you live.”

“It isn't.”

“Maybe not, but I feel responsible.”

“That's absurd.”

He nodded. “I know it.”

Suddenly Victoria grinned as she realized exactly how Tate must feel about finding himself in this position. He had probably never before done something that made as little sense as this. She could see from the confusion in his eyes that he didn't quite know what to make of it all now, either.

“As long as you're here, why don't you come on inside and have some breakfast?” she suggested.

“I have to finish unloading the car.”

Victoria cringed. She couldn't afford too many more broken windows. “Leave it for now. I'll help you later.”

Maybe it would be a good idea to have some coffee first, Tate decided. Not that this accident had been his fault. If that fool cat hadn't gotten in his way, Victoria would still be upstairs sleeping peacefully in her brass bed, her tousled red hair spread over the pillow, a sheet barely covering the curve of her breasts. He choked back a moan of pure frustration. He suddenly wanted, more than anything, to be in that bed with her.

Instead, he followed her docilely into the kitchen, trying not to notice the way her silk robe draped provocatively over her rounded rear. So far this was not exactly working out the way he'd intended. Instead of killing his interest, it was fanning it until he felt as though flames were shooting through his body.

“Why don't you go on and get dressed?” he suggested in a husky whisper. At her odd look, he cleared his throat and added, “I could start on breakfast, if you'll tell me what you want.”

“I want everything,” she said. “Breakfast on the weekend is my favorite meal. I want eggs and bacon and pancakes with maple syrup.”

Tate stared at her blankly. “Umm, how about if I get the coffee started?” he offered.

Victoria grinned knowingly. “Terrific. I'll be back in a minute.”

While she was gone, Tate tried not to imagine her slipping out of that robe, stepping into a hot shower and then slowly drying herself before dressing in skimpy little bikini pants and a lacy bra. He didn't succeed. He could visualize with breathtaking clarity every sensual movement. He nearly scooped the instant coffee into the pitcher of orange juice he'd found in the refrigerator. Forcing himself to concentrate, he got out the eggs, bacon and milk and set them carefully in a precise row on the counter. He found the dishes and neatly set the table. After first searching every cupboard, he finally retrieved the frying pan from the oven. He looked at the eggs and the pan, considered making an attempt to fix the eggs and shook his head.

“She wants breakfast, not a scientific experiment,” he muttered and sat down to wait.

When Victoria came back into the kitchen a few minutes later, she was wearing a pair of paint-splattered cutoff jeans that barely covered her all-too-enticing bottom and a shirt that she seemed to have forgotten to button. It was tied around her middle, leaving an expanse of bare flesh that he wanted desperately to caress. He fought to focus his gaze elsewhere. It traveled to the silky curve of her neck. He wanted to touch his lips to that tender spot. His breath was coming in increasingly ragged gulps as he ripped his eyes away from that provocative sight. He told himself he should be staring out the window at the lilacs or checking out the fine job Victoria had done repairing the tiles, but he couldn't seem to move his gaze farther than the red plaid of her shirt as it fit snugly over the curve of her breast.

“I thought you were going to get dressed,” he mumbled in a hoarse whisper, then could have kicked himself for virtually admitting that he was bothered by her appearance.

“I am dressed,” she said, looking at him oddly.

“Barely.”

“Did you want me to wear a formal gown while I work on the house?”

“No, but you could have put on…I don't know, something more…something less….”

Suddenly Victoria chuckled. “Which do you want?” she teased softly. “More or less?”

Tate glared at her. “Never mind. Wear whatever the hell you want.”

“If I'm bothering you, I'll go back upstairs and change.”

“You're not bothering me,” he denied.

She took a step closer to him. “Are you sure?”

She smelled like a summer garden, Tate thought idly, his senses reeling. Troubled brown eyes looked up at her.

“Damn you,” he muttered helplessly. “Come here.”

Victoria stood perfectly still. The laughter that had filled her eyes only a moment before had died, replaced with a smoky desire. She shook her head slowly, a soft, knowing, entirely feminine smile tilting the corners of her mouth.

“You come here,” she taunted.

Suddenly, with an agonized groan, Tate was out of his chair and pulling her into his arms. His lips burned against hers, demanding that they part, his tongue urgent in its quest for the tender, tentative touch of hers. His hands sought the bare skin at her waist and molded her body into his, relishing the way silk had turned to fire under his touch. Her hips instinctively tilted forward into the cradle of his, driving him nearly mad with longing. He wanted to take her right here in the middle of her kitchen. He wanted to rip that ridiculous outfit away from her body and expose every inch of flesh beneath it to his passion-sharpened gaze, to his hungry lips. He wanted to know that she was as crazy with this driving need as he was, to feel her responding to his lightest touch, crying out when the white-hot urgency of her arousal and desire matched his. He wanted…. Oh, Lord, he thought with a shuddering moan, he wanted her. He needed her.

“Victoria.” Her name was uttered as half groan, half sigh as his lips burned against her neck, his tongue a moist brand that seared her. Her fingers danced through the thickness of his hair, skimmed the tight, muscled flesh of his shoulders, setting off a trembling in him that excited her beyond belief. Gone was Tate's intimidating self-control. Gone was that awesome straitlaced creature of habit, who seemed so far beyond her reach, so rigidly superhuman. This Tate was yielding, touchable and very, very human. In his arms, Victoria felt every inch a woman, a sensual, attractive woman who was all softness to his strength, all silk to his rougher denim.

Her skin was alive and tingling where his touch had branded her. Her lips burned against the hard, hair-roughened wall of his chest, and her tongue tentatively tasted flesh that was hot and damp from the fever of a passion she still couldn't quite believe. Her probing fingers, her thrusting hips, her thirsting mouth urgently sought to bring him beyond the point of denying her what she wanted so desperately. She knew instinctively that there might come a point when reason would return, when Tate's sensible nature would again seize control, and he would push her away, fighting against the pleasure they both wanted. She had to keep that from happening.

In the days they had been apart, she had made her decision. She knew that, if given another chance, she would take all that Tate had to offer for however long it lasted. She had forged a new strength to withstand any attempt he might make to change her. She believed with all her heart that she could have Tate, if she wanted him, without losing herself. If she wanted him…the words echoed distantly in her mind. Oh, yes, she wanted him, with every fiber of her being.

Her bare legs brushed against his thighs, against the hard evidence of his desire for her. She had worried that she might be a little frightened, a little tentative, when this moment finally came, but she wasn't. She was ecstatic, aggressive. Her heart was filled with so much joy, she thought she might burst, and she seemed to know exactly what to do, exactly how to excite him.

“Tate…”

“Hmmm.” The low murmur barely interrupted the nearly unbearable, utterly sweet assault of his tongue on her aroused breast.

“Let's go upstairs.”

“What's upstairs?” he mumbled from a daze of sensual delight.

Victoria smiled softly at his bemused state. “The bedroom.”

“Bedroom?” He raised his head and his eyes widened, as though he had just realized where all of this was leading.

Sensing his slow return to sanity, Victoria stood on tiptoe and kissed him, dueling his tongue with her own, battling his sudden resistance. For a woman who'd never before seduced or been seduced—at least not successfully—she knew precisely how to work her will on him. In a matter of seconds, he was again moaning softly, holding her so tightly that her breasts crushed against his chest, her hips firmly in place against his seeking manhood. Even through two layers of clothing, hers and his, she could feel the heat, the throbbing need. There was no possible way he could pull away from her now.

Then the phone rang, and rang again, splintering the thick, passion-filled silence, shattering the moment of breathless insanity.

T
he phone is
not
ringing,” Tate mumbled determinedly, nibbling on Victoria's ear.

She gasped as the moist, feather-light touch sent a series of shock waves tripping along her spine. She'd never before realized that an ear was sensitive to anything more than sound. To her utter amazement and delight, it turned out that hers seemed to be a highly excitable erogenous zone. Unfortunately, it could also still enable her to hear the phone ringing.

“Yes, it is,” Victoria countered, unable to keep a sigh of disappointment out of her voice. She'd been hoping to discover if her other ear was nearly as responsive as this one, and now she wouldn't find out…at least not this morning. She might be a romantic, but she could also be realistic. Tate's eyes might be glazed with passion right now, but his innate good sense was probably fluttering back to life. Passion could not stand up to a ringing phone, not after the fifth or sixth ring.

“Don't answer it,” he urged, though his voice contained more hope than conviction.

Victoria gazed at him in feigned astonishment. “You actually want me to allow the phone to go on ringing? Shouldn't you be lecturing me on being responsible? It might be a problem at the shop. It could be your office. Someone might be sick. I might have won a sweepstakes. The sky might be falling.”

“Or it could be your father has ESP.”

She patted his hand consolingly. “If he did, he'd be offering up a prayer of thanksgiving right now. You're falling right in with his plans.”

“I doubt that. Unless he's anxious to try out his shotgun.” Tate muttered, running his fingers through his hair. “Oh, answer the damn thing. The ringing is getting on my nerves.”

“Don't get testy. I'm sure it's not anything personal. Whoever's calling couldn't possibly know that we were about to,” her voice faltered and she blushed. “Do whatever it was we were about to do.”

He chuckled at her sudden confusion.

“Don't laugh at me,” she grumbled, as she snatched up the receiver. “I'm not in the habit of doing this.”

“Thank goodness,” he said fervently, sighing and pulling her back into his arms.

Victoria scowled at him as she muttered into the phone, “Hello.” She winced at her tone; it was not her most pleasant. Not that it seemed to faze her caller, who hit her with a barrage of interested questions, then didn't even pause long enough for answers. It was just as well. With Tate's fingers now doing an erotic little dance across her stomach, Victoria was swept right back into a sensual daze that excluded the world and more mundane sensations. She barely heard the questions.