Baby, Don't Go Page 19

  She was beginning to suspect she’d been doing him an injustice. True, he was totally at home in the midst of San Francisco’s society scene, and he dressed like a GQ model most of the time. But he appeared equally comfortable cooking in his kitchen, guzzling beer, and wearing old jeans. And his place was undeniably homey and obviously well lived-in.

  He started messing with her before the movie ended, fingering the curve of her ear, sliding his hands beneath her sweater. Engrossed in the video, she hunched her ear to her shoulder and fended him off with an elbow.

  But he managed to get her fully primed all the same, and the instant the credits started rolling across the screen, she swung around to straddle his lap. She gave him a fiercely carnal kiss, and the next thing she knew, she was lying spent and limp against his chest with a smile on her face, her jeans on the floor, and her sweater shoved up to her armpits. Nick was in an similar state, except his jeans had only made it to his knees.

  He stretched hugely, and she rode the swell of his chest as his arms reached for the sky. Then he brought his hands down and rubbed them slowly up and down the bare curve of her rear. He tucked his chin into his neck and smiled down at her. “I love you, Daisy.”

  Her relaxed state vanished and, feeling awkward and gawky, she disengaged herself and climbed to her feet. She bent for her jeans and discovered her panties dangling from one ankle. Straightening them out, she stepped into the other side and pulled them up, then grabbed for her jeans, looking up at him. “You don’t have to say that.” And she really, really wished he wouldn’t. The words came much too easily to him and hearing them was too painful, when he’d taught her that the next step was watching the door swing shut behind his back. “You’re going to get laid either way, so please don’t, okay?” She tugged down her sweater. “You hungry? Why don’t I go throw together a couple of sandwiches.”

  He didn’t say anything and she escaped to the kitchen, furiously aware that she felt like crying. She sucked air in through her nose, gritted her teeth, and stared with hot eyes into the bread drawer until the feeling passed. She pulled out a loaf of twelve-grain and turned to slap it on the counter.

  Nick stood on the other side. She hadn’t heard him approach, but there he was. Hoping that if she ignored him he’d let it drop, she reached for the little plastic clip holding the bread bag closed.

  She should have known better. His hand flashed across the counter to clamp over hers, and she knew fighting him for possession of it would only delay the inevitable. Standing very still, she met his gaze and heaved a long-suffering sigh.

  He gave her a tender smile and released her. “Look, ma, no hard-on,” he said and stepped back to spread his arms wide, inviting her to make her own inspection. When she did precisely that, one corner of his mouth kicked up. He gave her a moment, then said, “You think we can both agree that I’m not looking to get lucky right this minute?”

  She shrugged.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Okay, then read my lips, cupcake, because this isn’t my dick talking. This is straight from here.” He slapped his hands over his heart. “I love you.”

  She threw the loaf of bread at him. “Stop saying that!”

  “I can’t.” He vaulted the breakfast bar and landed in front of her. He stroked his fingertips down her cheek and smiled crookedly when she slapped them away. “I love you.”

  A secret part of her thrilled to hear it, and she backed away from him in horror. No, dammit. She was not going down that road again. She had a bad, bad feeling that this time it would be even harder to recover than the last time they’d played this scene. She welcomed the hot rush of anger that suffused her from head to toe; it enabled her to face him coolly. “Wait five minutes,” she advised him flatly. “I’m sure it will pass. Isn’t that the way you usually operate?”

  He took a step forward for every backward one she took. “You think I didn’t fight this? The last thing I want is to be in love—you and I know better than most what the odds are of a relationship panning out.”

  “I also know better than anyone that you can say, ‘I love you,’ with a perfectly straight face one minute and then turn around and say, ‘Just kidding,’ the next.”

  “I never said, ‘Just kidding’!”

  “Close enough.” Her butt hit the counter and she angled her chin up at him. “You said not to be naive, that it was just hormones talking. Then you turned around and walked right out the door.”

  “I was so freakin’ shook,” he said hoarsely. “I felt like I’d set off an atom bomb when all I’d thought I had my hands on was a cherry bomb.”

  “No pun intended, I’m sure.”

  “I’m not kidding around, Blondie. I felt everything too keenly that night, and I tell you true, it scared the shit out of me. I wanted it to be just sex talk. Because if it wasn’t, I was pretty damn sure I’d end up living my dad’s life.”

  The intensity in his voice and eyes made her heart beat so furiously she half expected to see its imprint against her sweater. But she stiffened her spine and met his gaze head-on. “I have to hand it to you—you’re quite the spin doctor. It takes real talent to rewrite history.”

  “Yeah, and talk’s cheap. So I guess I’m just going to have to prove it to you over time.”

  “There is no ‘over time,’ Coltrane. Not for you and me. There’s only this assignment.”

  “There’s today, Parker. I’ll start with that.” He cupped her face with butterfly gentleness. Daisy grasped his wrists to tug them away, but without any seeming effort his hands remained exactly where they were. He gave her a crooked smile, then lowered his head and bestowed upon her lips the softest, tenderest kiss she had ever received. All the starch left her backbone and she wilted against the counter.

  She kissed him back with unchecked ardor. But somewhere in a hazy corner of her mind she assured herself she wasn’t falling for his blarney hook, line, and sinker. No, sir.

  She was simply taking a tiny time-out.

  18

  friday

  NICK slept like the dead and awakened disoriented, but strangely content. It was still dark, and for a moment he couldn’t tell what day it was or even where he was. Fuzzy-minded and inert, feeling as if someone had snuck in during the night and stolen his skeletal system right out from under his skin, it took him a while to become aware of the heat that burned against his back, the arm that lay heavy over his waist. He rolled carefully onto his back and looked down on Daisy. Contentment blossomed into full-bloomed happiness.

  She’d flopped half onto her face with the removal of his back’s support, and even in her sleep she didn’t take kindly to the treatment. Her eyebrows drew together and her soft mouth pursed in disgruntlement. She shivered as the blankets he’d displaced allowed the chill morning air to reach her bare skin, and then her hand swept across the mattress in search of him. The moment her fingers came into contact with his hip, she squirmed across the sheet until she was snuggled up against his side. Her cheek found itself a resting place in the hollow beneath his collarbone, and she cuddled closer yet, wedging a thigh between his.

  Nick lifted his head and tucked in his chin to watch her, enjoying the smooth slide of her legs, the press of her breasts, as she shifted in search of the perfect position. Her hand left a trail of prickling awareness as it slid up his chest, over his collarbone, and along his neck, to finally tangle in his hair. A smile curled her lips and she made a sound of satisfaction deep in her throat. Then she went boneless and heavy as she sank back into a deeper sleep.

  He wrapped an arm around her and grinned in the dark. Who would’ve thought that someone who could be so prickly when she was awake would turn out to be such a cuddler? Although, once he thought about it, he realized it shouldn’t come as a surprise. Daisy was an extremely tactile woman. God knew she had never hesitated to lay hands on him—be it with friendly intentions or hostile.

  But the real question was, who would’ve thought he’d turn out to be such a fool for love? And he was i
n love, despite the lengths he’d gone to deny it.

  It had hit him like a club upside the head when they’d stood in that video store with his hand over her mouth to keep her from disparaging the size of the Big Guy. He’d felt like hell up until that moment, sick with an impotent fury that had churned his gut over the destruction of his car. Every other woman he knew would have poor-babied him until he got a handle on the situation. Although Daisy had been supportive and sympathetic when they’d first seen the car, she hadn’t given him any special consideration. Then he’d embarrassed her with that ruining comment. Not one to take such things lying down, she’d angled that stubborn chin up at him, gave him her usual rash of shit, and POW! Just like that, he’d felt happy, when he had absolutely no reason to be. It was beyond rationality, and he’d known in that instant he was a goner. He simply couldn’t pretend anymore that he wasn’t.

  His feelings for her were so powerful, they scared the bejesus out of him. But everything was sharper, clearer, brighter when Blondie was around—reams more vibrant and worlds more exciting. He had a perfectly acceptable life without her, but ah, God—with her he felt a hundred times more alive.

  So, yeah, he’d be a fool not to be scared. Daisy had the power to hurt him in ways he wasn’t sure he even fully comprehended. But he was through trying to delude himself. It wasn’t merely lust, or affection, or friendship. The truth was, he’d probably been in love with her nine years ago. He just hadn’t been ready to acknowledge it.

  He was fascinated by every aspect of her, but particularly by the contradictions in her personality. The way she could be so physically fearless and yet so emotionally shy. She could take a hit from a man twice her size without a blink…then turn around and blush like a schoolgirl at a little sex talk.

  Then she could turn around yet again and participate in the act itself with all the enthusiasm—if not the practiced moves—of a courtesan trained from birth for that express purpose.

  She could be tactful; she could be blunt to the point of abrasiveness. He’d seen her display phenomenal patience one moment and be downright temperamental the next. She could be brusque or charming. He never knew quite what to expect from her…except that she would always be honest with him. Daisy didn’t have a pretentious bone in her body and her bullshit quotient was pretty much nil.

  He also knew that he had his work cut out for him if he hoped to have her return his love. She had given it to him freely once, and he’d thrown it back in her face. It wouldn’t be a stroll down the Embarcadero to win it back.

  What was needed here was some serious courting. But how was he supposed to pull that off when he and Daisy lived in each other’s pocket? It wasn’t as if he could show up on her doorstep with a fistful of posies, or serenade her beneath her window, or whisk her off for a night of candlelit dining and slow dancing.

  Still…it wasn’t impossible. There were always things that could be done. Kissing Daisy’s brow, he eased her off of him and onto the mattress. She muttered a protest, but he slid a pillow beneath her head and tucked the blankets around her, and she settled in. Then he climbed from the bed and reached for his jeans.

  Time was in limited supply, and he had a lot to do.

  The distinct click of the front door closing awakened Daisy, and she sat straight up in bed. Nick was not beside her, and she didn’t pause to think twice. She tossed back the covers and shot out of bed, stark naked. Heart pounding, she grabbed her gun and ran for the living room, fully expecting to see Nick in the goon squad’s clutches.

  Instead she found him sauntering alone down the short hallway that led from the front door, his eyebrows drawn together as he studied something inside a cardboard folder in his hands. She skidded to a halt, anticlimax causing her gun hand to drop limply to her side.

  The commotion of her entrance made him look up, and he stopped dead. “Whoa,” he said with a crooked smile. “Am I dreaming? ’Cause this is the embodiment of a running fantasy of mine.” He gave her that eyebrow-lifted, wry look he was so good at. “Except for the gun part. Usually the naked women in my fantasies have one of those French white baking dishes in their hands, or a sautéeing pan or something—symbols that signify they’re whipping up goodies to fulfill my second greatest desire.” He gave her a slow up-and-down perusal, his gaze lingering on her breasts. “You look cold, cupcake.”

  She felt cold. The shock of brisk morning air against her sleep-warmed skin had raised a fine crop of goosebumps from ankles to throat and had shrunken her nipples to achy little points. When she went to rub her hands up and down her arms to restore a bit of warmth, she was reminded of the gun in her hand, and she activated its safety catch and set the weapon down. “I heard the front door, and I thought for sure the goons had arrived.”

  “So you came racing out in your birthday suit to save my hide. Ah, Daisy, you are the best.” He tugged his sweater off over his head and tossed it to her.

  Catching it in both hands, she stared at the folder he’d clamped between his knees to free up his hands. Gesturing at it, she demanded, “What have you got there?” She pulled on his sweater, shivering in appreciation of its retained body heat. Pushing up the sleeves, she reached for the folder, which was back in his hand. “Did somebody leave that out on the landing? You shouldn’t have opened the door without backup, you know.” She made another grab for it when he held it out of her reach. “Coltrane, do you mind? Let me check it out.”

  He fended her off. “Nobody left it, Blondie, so you don’t have to worry about it being a letter bomb or anything. I just got done developing it.”

  She stilled, one hand braced on his chest, the other halted midreach. “You what?”

  “Just developed it. It’s a photograph.”

  “You went down to the darkroom without me?”

  “Yeah, I wanted to surprise—”

  “Without me? Dammit, Nick!” She thumped him on the chest. “Are you out of your mind? What will it take before you realize that these guys are serious? They don’t like you.”

  “And I’m not wild about them, either.” He grabbed the hand she’d hit him with and kissed her knuckles. “Which is why I was extra, super careful. Caution is my middle name.”

  “Sloan is your middle name, Coltrane. Or is that Stupid? I know it’s one of those S words.”

  “You’re so cute when you’re worried.”

  That really made her see red, but he took a swift step back from her, his hands held wide. He turned in a full circle. “See? I’m all in one piece.”

  Fear was so much easier to deal with than rage. Taking a deep breath, though, Daisy sucked up both emotions.

  Like the man said, he was still in one piece. Yelling at him for what could have been would be satisfying, but ultimately it would only make her look like a girlfriend or something. She raised her chin. “You hired me to keep you safe. I can’t do that if you persist in running off without me.”

  “What ‘persist,’ Blondie? It was one time.” He swept her up in his arms, but she held herself stiffly, refusing to be charmed. Stepping abreast of the small hall table, he dipped his knees. “Grab your gun. I know you don’t like to get too far away from it.”

  She picked it up. “What’s in that folder, anyway?” she demanded. She made a grab for it, then clutched at his neck when he spun in a fast circle. “Put me down, you fool.”

  “I don’t think so. I like the way you feel in my arms.”

  Man, she wished he wouldn’t say stuff like that. It made her feel way too high-school-girlish inside.

  He collapsed onto the couch with her in his lap, and she was aware of the worn texture of his jeans beneath her bare legs. “So,” he said. “You want to see what this is, huh?” He wiggled the folder in front of her nose.

  “Yeah. I would really like to see what you consider important enough to risk your neck over.”

  He handed it to her without comment.

  Shooting him a curious glance, she unwound the string that looped in a figure eight between t
wo flat buttons, opened both flaps of the folder, and found herself looking at a five-by-seven black and white photograph of—“Oh!”

  Her. It was a head shot of her. And not a pose that showed her all made-up and glamorous, the way she’d looked last night, but one depicting her everyday self—only better. It was a she who was all shadows and eyes, killer cheekbones and mystery, a she who looked so much more interesting than she knew was actually the case. Even her nose, which occasionally gave her fits of self-consciousness, looked just as it should be—and not too large at all.

  “Oh, Nick. This is so…” At a loss, she lightly traced a finger over the planes and hollows of her image. It was so lifelike she found it difficult to believe the photo could possibly be only two-dimensional. Then, becoming aware of Nick’s stillness beneath her, of the rigidity of his bare arm supporting her back, she met his eyes. “Fabulous. This is just so utterly fabulous.”

  “Yeah?” He let out a breath as if he’d actually worried about her reaction. “That shot was my favorite of the lot, but I never know for sure which one a subject might like and which one she’ll hate.”

  She was touched by his uncertainty, for he had to know how special this was. “Well, I love it. Thank you.” She tilted her head to bestow a kiss of appreciation upon his lips. She lingered for a moment, then pulled back. “It was a wonderful surprise,” she admitted, then narrowed her eyes at him. “But don’t go down to your darkroom without me again.” Reopening the folder, she admired the photograph anew.

  He slid his hand up her bare thigh and beneath the hem of his sweater. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She grabbed his wrist to put a halt to the encroachment before it touched upon some very personal territory. “For heaven’s sake, Coltrane,” she demanded, “don’t you ever think about anything else?”

  “When I’ve got a half-naked blond in my arms?” He made a derisive noise. “Yeah, right—let’s talk mathematical theory.”