Yesterday's Love (9 page)

“Victoria,” Tate said warningly.

She scowled, but went on. “Anyway, she wanted to help out Children's Hospital up in Columbus, only she didn't have any money. So I bought one of her pitchers, and she gave the money to the hospital,” she concluded, gazing at him with eyes that seemed to expect him to understand how the leap from that transaction to her tax return made perfect sense. He supposed in her convoluted mind it did.

“Since the money went to the hospital, even though you gave it to Jeannie, you figured it was tax deductible,” he said, trying not to scream.

“Exactly.”

He shook his head. “Sorry.”

“But the hospital qualifies as a charity,” she protested vehemently.

“Jeannie doesn't.”

“You don't know Jeannie,” she mumbled.

“What does that mean?”

Her flashing gaze met his. “She's barely making ends meet, and she wanted to do something nice. I was only helping her out.”

“And it was a wonderful gesture, but you can't deduct it,” he said firmly.

“Oh, okay,” she said, her voice edged with disgust. “Lordy, you people are picky.”

“We're just following the rules.”

Victoria sniffed and looked at him as though she'd like to tell him exactly what he could do with those rules. Tate promptly felt like an absolute rat and wished he'd gone into another profession. By the time the interview ended, he was worn out, and he knew his report to Pete Harrison was going to read like something from an anthology of science fiction.

Pete is never going to understand this, he thought, absolutely dazed and more intrigued than ever by this latest encounter with Victoria's logic. Something was happening to him and, for the life of him, he couldn't understand it. A sheer physical attraction he could deal with, but it was more than that. He was actually beginning to look forward to Victoria's slightly twisted train of thought. She was like the first crisp breeze of fall after a long, hot summer, a refreshing change that he'd never realized how much he'd longed for. Other women suddenly seemed so…ordinary. He grinned as he realized that he'd never before thought of that as an insult. He gazed at Victoria and something inside him seemed to snap. It was as though a belt that had been restricting the flow of blood had been suddenly loosened. He felt freer, happier than he'd felt in ages.

“Are we finished?” she asked him at last, blushing under his intense inspection.

“For now.”

“And I can go?”

He stared at her, his expression clearly reflecting his disappointment. “Do you have to? I promised you a dinner.”

Victoria's eyes widened. “You still want to take me?”

“Of course. I've been counting on it,” he admitted, realizing it was true. He'd been thinking of nothing else all day long, and that was a first. Any woman who could get him to forget about his work, forget about business protocol for that matter, was a woman he needed to know better.

Or, he thought more rationally, one from whom he ought to be running like crazy.

He looked at Victoria, sitting across from him in her bright blue dress edged with black, her thick, red hair swept up in a Gibson girl style that emphasized her delicate features, and his breath came more rapidly…as though he'd already run a very long, very important race. And lost.

S
eated across from Tate in a lovely old restaurant where the lighting was seductively dim, the service impeccable and the food outrageously expensive, Victoria found herself relaxing and forgetting all about how totally inappropriate Tate was for her. The ambiance encouraged thoughts of romance. In fact, she had a feeling the tuxedo-clad waiters would escort anyone who seemed to be interested in anything else from the premises. Responding to the atmosphere, Tate's questions had lost the harsh edge of an inquisition and turned to more personal topics. It was as though he finally wanted to get to know her, not her tax status. He was going out of his way to be charming, displaying a surprising sense of humor and a willingness to poke fun at himself that she'd never suspected existed under the straitlaced exterior.

For the first time she had an idea of what it might be like to really date him, to feel his eyes sweep over her in a lingering visual caress, to hear his low voice whisper to her in a romantic undertone, to have him want her…and admit it. The idea intrigued her and a trembling responsiveness swept through her as she surveyed him in this new light.

Actually, she reminded herself, it wasn't so new. It was the way she had first viewed him from that tree and during those brief, tantalizing moments in his arms…right before they'd settled into their preassigned roles as righteous government worker and presumed tax evader. He had felt absolutely wonderful then, his body firm and solid and reassuring, his masculine muscles unyielding against her feminine softness. Just last night, his kisses had been the shattering, knee-weakening stuff of a torrid big screen love scene. A quiver of excitement flared at the memory, and suddenly she wanted more than anything to know that unique, bone-melting feeling again.

At first she hadn't the faintest idea of how to accomplish this without simply throwing herself into his arms. She could imagine his reaction to that. He wouldn't recover from the shock for days. Actually, the idea of startling Tate appealed to her, but she resisted it. Instead, she settled for a more traditional approach, a very feminine appeal. Tilting her head provocatively, she gazed unblinkingly into his eyes until she knew she had his undivided and, judging from the flush on his neck above his collar, slightly nervous attention. It turned out flirting wasn't quite as difficult as she'd thought it would be, and even without much practice her technique certainly seemed to be working fine.

“Tate,” she began softly.

He cleared his throat and blinked, his brown eyes cautious. “Yes.”

“Could we go someplace and dance?” She reached over and touched his hand beguilingly. “Please.”

He regarded her incredulously. “You want to go to a disco?” he asked, sounding as shocked as if she'd declared a desire to have a fling in one of those adult motels with mirrors on the ceiling and king-size waterbeds.

“Of course not,” Victoria replied indignantly. A disco was the last place she wanted to go. She wanted to be in the man's arms swaying to soft, romantic music, not twirling around under some blinding, flashing lights trying to find him in a crowd. “Isn't there someplace we can waltz?”

“Waltz?” His expression was bemused, as if he'd never heard the word before.

“Surely you're old enough to recall what that is. Ballroom dancing may be old-fashioned, but it hasn't vanished from the face of the earth. Can't you remember how to take a woman in your arms and move slowly around a room in time to the music?” Victoria teased.

“Of course, I remember,” he retorted indignantly. “We had lessons in junior high. The boys all stood on one side of the room with sweaty palms and giggled, and the girls stood on the other side in their party dresses trying not to look desperate.”

“You don't seem to remember much about the dancing part.”

He shuddered. “I've blocked it from my mind.”

“Well, unblock it and let's go someplace where I can prove to you that there's a very good reason for such an antiquated custom.”

He paused thoughtfully, then shook his head. “I don't think there have been places like that in Cincinnati since the turn of the century.”

“Of course there have. You just don't know where to find them,” she charged.

“You may be right,” he admitted, taking a deep breath. “Would you rather drive around and look for one or would you be willing to try my apartment instead?”

Actually, Tate thought, Victoria couldn't have given him a better opening. He'd been wondering all evening how he could entice her to come home with him so they could be alone. Blatantly suggesting that she stop by for a drink, with its implicit hint of a bedroom romp to follow, somehow bothered him. He felt as though he'd be betraying her parents' trust, which for him was an entirely new and not particularly welcome reaction. Even now, when Victoria was staring at him with come-hither eyes, he felt guilty as hell. He ought to be taking her out for a strawberry ice-cream soda, not trying to figure out how he could taste the strawberry pink of her lips in the privacy of his living room.

“That's certainly a better line than suggesting I stop by to see your etchings,” she said, and he flinched as the all-too-perceptive dart struck home. But when he studied her expression more closely, he realized she actually seemed amused. She certainly didn't seem to be offended.

“Well then?” he prodded, ignoring the little voice that told him he was begging for trouble with a capital
T
.

Victoria took a deep breath. This was what she wanted, wasn't it? No man had ever made her feel quite as giddy as Tate McAndrews, and she wanted to explore that sensation, to discover what all the fuss was about. Tonight was as good a time as any. Once this tax audit was over with she might never see him again. Every true romantic deserved one wild night of explosive passion, and that was what Tate seemed to promise, if her thundering heartbeat was any indication.

“Why not?” she said boldly, ignoring the little tremor of trepidation that made her pulse lurch erratically. She also diligently silenced her ornery conscience which was reminding her that Tate McAndrews was not the right man to use for her romantic experimenting. If she happened to fall head over heels in love with him in the process, it could only lead to disaster. He was so completely unsuitable.

But he was also damnably attractive, she argued right back. Besides, she was too old to be meandering hesitantly through life as an untouched virgin. If Tate McAndrews could stir her hormones out of their previously dormant existence—and Lord knows he had—then she'd better find out why.

When they reached Tate's apartment, Victoria's mouth dropped open impolitely, and she stared around her in a sort of dazed wonder. For a moment she felt as though she were suffering from culture shock. His furniture had absolutely no character. It was upholstered in dull, serviceable colors, no doubt chosen because they wouldn't show dirt if anyone had the audacity to spill something. His paintings were formless splashes of hideous colors hung against plain white walls. The tables were all glass and chrome, and not a one of them had so much as a water mark to spoil the shiny surface. His plants were so full and green and healthy; it seemed as though they wouldn't dare to droop. In fact, everything was so disgustingly tidy, so perfectly placed and so horribly sterile, Victoria was convinced he must have a filing system for his trash. She would have given anything to find a speck of dust anywhere or one wilting leaf on a philodendron.

“Don't you ever feel like dropping your clothes on the floor?” she asked, her expression dismayed.

Tate grinned at her, his brown eyes flashing wickedly, as he removed his jacket with taunting deliberation. “Sure,” he said softly, his gaze locking with hers. She felt as though she'd been frozen in the midst of a dream and couldn't wake up. The jacket fell to the floor and her eyes followed it, widening with disbelief. “Right now, for instance.”

Suddenly her heart began drumming wildly in her chest, and she stared up at him in confusion. “That's not what I meant,” she said, the words coming out as a choked whisper as passionate images of two nude bodies—hers and his—flickered to life in her brain. Liar, a little voice nagged. Judging from the Technicolor intensity of those images, it was exactly what she'd meant.

“Are you sure?” he taunted softly, taking a step toward her. He'd meant only to tease her, but all of a sudden the moment had turned breathlessly serious. He did want to undress, first Victoria and then himself, taking time to explore her body as she learned his. He wanted to know the feel of that creamy white skin under his fingers, to fill his hands with her breasts, to arouse the nipples into tight buds with his tongue, to feel her surrounding him with her moist femininity. He wanted her with a savage urgency that stunned him into immobility. He was afraid that if he took her in his arms, if he so much as kissed her, he wouldn't be able to stop until he knew every inch of her. And he could see from the half-frightened, half-hopeful expression in her blue eyes that she wasn't ready for that.

Victoria was shaking her head, reading the expression in Tate's eyes with unerring accuracy. But although she was telling him no, her pulse rate was definitely shouting yes, telling her to take all that he had to offer, to discover the hidden, untapped part of her own womanliness, to learn his masculine secrets. Confusing, contradictory thoughts roared through her head, warring for control of her actions.

How could her body yearn with such heated longing for someone her mind knew would be so wrong for her? Yet was he really wrong for her? He was strong, obviously dependable, sure of himself, in short the perfect balance for her zaniness. His instinctive protectiveness of her, even when he was most impatient, was certainly the stuff of romantic heroes, even though it tended to drive her crazy. Even now, she could tell that he was willing to follow her lead. He wanted her, but would take her only if she agreed, only if she came to him willingly and without reservations.

Lord knows, she had reservations. Why couldn't Tate have been someone else, someone more like herself? Then there would be no doubts at all. Even if he would unbend just a little, she thought, it would make all of this more understandable. For the first time in her life, her impulsive nature seemed to have abandoned her. With her first lover she would want much more than a fling, and with Tate that would be an absurd expectation. Even she knew better than to enter into a relationship with the hope of changing the other person. She'd heard enough accounts of marriages that had faltered because one partner suddenly realized those traits that had been merely bothersome during courtship were absolute hell to live with and that they weren't going to go away.