Simply Irresistible

Chapter Eight

Muscle and bone and gritty determination collided, hockey sticks slapped the ice, and the roar of thousands of frenzied fans filled John’s living room. On the big-screen television, the “Russian Rocket,” Pavel Bure, high-sticked Ranger defenseman Jay Wells in the face, dropping the bigger New York player to the ice.

“Damn, you’ve got to admire a guy Bure’s size mixing it up with Wells.” A smile of admiration tilted John’s lips as he cast a glance at his three guests: Hugh “The Caveman” Miner, Dmitri “Tree” Ulanov, and Claude “The Undertaker” Dupre.

His three teammates had originally dropped by John’s houseboat to watch the Dodgers play the Atlanta Braves on his huge television. The game had lasted two innings before they’d shaken their collective heads as if to say, “And they make more money than I do for that!” and had slipped a tape of the 1994 Stanley Cup Championships into the VCR.

“Have you seen Bure’s ears?” Hugh asked. “He’s got great big goddamn ears.”

As blood ran from Jay Wells’s broken nose, Pavel, with his shoulders slumped, skated from the rink, ejected on a game misconduct.

“And girly curls,” added Claude in his soft French-Canadian accent. “But not as bad as Jagr. He’s a sissy.”

Dmitri tore his eyes from the television screen as his fellow countryman, Pavel Bure, was escorted to the locker room. “Jaromir Jagr iz sissy?” he asked, referring to the Pittsburgh Penguin’s star winger.

Hugh shook his head with a grin, then paused and looked at John. “What do you think, Wall?”

“Nah, Jagr hits too hard to be a sissy,” he answered with a shrug. “He’s no pansy-ass.”

“Yeah, but he does wear all those gold chains around his neck,” argued Hugh, who was famous for talking trash just to get a reaction. “Either Jagr is a sissy-man or a fan of Mr. T.”

Dmitri bristled and pointed to the three gold necklaces around his neck. “Chains does not mean sissy.”

“Who’s Mr. T?” Claude wanted to know.

“Didn’t you ever watch The A-Team on television? Mr. T is the big black dude with the Mohawk and all the gold jewelry,” Hugh explained. “He and George Peppard worked for the government and blew up stuff.”

“Chains does not mean sissy,” Dmitri insisted.

“Maybe not,” Hugh conceded. “But I know for a fact that wearing a lot of chains has something to do with the size of a guy’s dick.”

“Bullsheet,” Dmitri scoffed.

John chuckled and stretched his arm along the back of the beige leather couch. “How do you know, Hugh? Have you been peeking?”

Hugh rose to his feet and pointed an empty Coke can at John. His eyes narrowed and a smile curved his mouth. John knew that look. He’d seen it hundreds of times just before “The Caveman” went for the kill and verbally kicked the guts out of any opposing player who dared to skate too close to the goalie crease. “I’ve showered with guys all my life, and I don’t have to peek to know that the guys who are weighed down with gold are compensating for lack of dick.”

Claude laughed and Dmitri shook his head. “Not true,” he said.

“Yes it is, Tree,” Hugh assured him as he walked toward the kitchen. “In Russia lots of gold chains might mean you’re a real stud, but you’re in America now and you can’t just walk around advertising something like a small dick. You have to learn our ways if you’re not going to embarrass yourself.”

“Or if you want to date American women,” John added.

The doorbell rang as Hugh passed the entry. “Do you want me to get that?” he asked.

“Sure. It’s probably Heisler,” John answered, referring to the Chinooks’ newest forward. “He said he might drop by.”

“John.” Dmitri got John’s attention and scooted to the edge of the leather chair in which he sat. “Iz true? American woman think chains mean no deek?”

John fought to hold back his laughter. “Yes, Tree. It’s true. Have you been having trouble finding dates?”

Dmitri looked perplexed and scooted back into his chair again.

Losing the fight, John burst into laughter. He glanced at Claude, who found Dmitri’s confusion hilarious.

“Ahh, Wall. It’s not Heisler.”

John glanced over his shoulder, and his laugher died instantly when he saw Georgeanne standing in the entry to his living room.

“If I’m interrupting y’all, I could come back another time.” Her gaze darted from one male face to the next, and she took several steps backward toward the door.

“No.” John quickly jumped to his feet, shocked by her sudden appearance. He reached for the remote control on the coffee table, then cut the power to the television. “No. Don’t go,” he said as he tossed the remote on the couch.

“I can see that you’re busy and I should have called.” She glanced at Hugh, who stood beside her, then she looked back at John. “I did call actually, but you didn’t pick up. Then I remembered that you said you never answer your phone, so I took the chance and drove here, and… well, what I wanted to say was…” Her hand fluttered at her side and she took a deep breath. “I know that arriving uninvited is incredibly rude, but may I have a few moments of your time?”

She was obviously rattled at finding herself the object of four big hockey players’ interest. John almost felt sorry for Georgeanne. Almost. But he couldn’t forget what she’d done. “No problem,” he said as he rounded the couch and walked toward her. “We can go upstairs to the loft or outside on the deck.”

Once again Georgeanne looked at the other men in the room. “I think the deck would be best.”

“Fine.” John motioned to a pair of French doors across the room. “After you,” he said, and as she walked past, he let his gaze take a slow journey down her body. Her sleeveless red dress buttoned around her throat, exposed her smooth shoulders, and hugged her breasts. The dress brushed her knees, and wasn’t especially tight, or revealing. But she still managed to look like his favorite selection of sins all wrapped up in one convenient snack pack. Annoyed that he should notice her appearance at all, he shifted his gaze from the big, soft curls touching her shoulders to Hugh. The goalie stared at Georgeanne as if he knew her but just couldn’t recall when they’d met. Even though Hugh sometimes played as if he were dense, he wasn’t, and it wouldn’t take long before he remembered her as Virgil Duffy’s runaway bride. Claude and Dmitri hadn’t played for the Chinooks seven years ago and hadn’t been at the wedding, but they’d probably heard the story.

John moved to the doors and opened one side for Georgeanne. When she walked outside, he turned back to the room. “Make yourselves at home,” he told his teammates.

Claude stared after Georgeanne with a smile twisting one corner of his mouth. “Take your time,” he said.

Dmitri didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to. The conspicuous absence of his gold chains spoke louder than the dopey look on his young Russian face.

“I shouldn’t be long,” John said through a frown, then stepped outside and shut the door behind him. A slight breeze ruffled the blue and green whale banner hanging from the rear balcony while waves softly slapped the side of John’s twenty-three-foot runabout tied to the deck. The bright evening sun shimmered on the ripples cut from a sailboat slicing peacefully through the water. The people on the boat called to John, and he waved automatically, but his attention was focused on the woman who stood near the water’s edge with one hand raised to her brow, gazing out onto the lake.

“Is that Gas Works Park?” she asked, and pointed across to the other shore.

Georgeanne was beautiful and seductive and so malicious that he had visions of tossing her into the water. “Did you come to see my view of the lake?”

She dropped her hand and looked over her shoulder. “No,” she answered, then turned to face him. “I wanted to talk to you about Lexie.”

“Sit down.” He pointed to a pair of Adirondack chairs, and when she sat, he took the chair facing her.

With his feet spread wide, his hands on the armrests, he waited for her to begin.

“I really did try to call you.” She glanced at him briefly, then slid her gaze to his chest. “But your answering machine picked up and I didn’t want to leave a message. What I want to say is too important to leave on an answering machine, and I didn’t want to wait until you returned from your trip to talk to you. So I took a chance that you might be home and I drove here.” Again she glanced at him, then looked over his left shoulder. “I really am sorry if I’m interrupting something important.”

At the moment John couldn’t think of anything more important than what Georgeanne had to say to him. Because whether or not he would like what she had to say, it would have a big effect on his life. “You aren’t interrupting anything.”

“Good.” She finally looked at him as a tiny smile flitted across her lips. “I don’t suppose you would reconsider leaving Lexie and me alone?”

“No,” he answered flatly.

“I didn’t think so.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I want what is best for my daughter.”

“Then we want the same thing. Only I don’t think we will agree on exactly what is best for Lexie.”

Georgeanne looked down at her lap and took a deep breath. She felt jumpy and as nervous as a cat looking at a big Doberman pinscher. She hoped John hadn’t noticed her anxiety. She needed to take command, not only of her emotions but of the situation as well. She couldn’t allow John and his lawyers to control her life or dictate what was best for Lexie. She couldn’t let things get that far. Georgeanne, not John, wanted to dictate terms. “You mentioned this morning that you planned to contact an attorney,” she began, and moved her gaze up his gray Nike T-shirt, over his strong chin darkened by a five-o’clock shadow, and into his deep blue eyes. “I think we can come to a reasonable compromise without involving lawyers. A court battle would hurt Lexie, and I don’t want that. I don’t want lawyers involved.”

“Then give me an alternative.”

“Okay,” Georgeanne said slowly. “I think Lexie should get to know you as a family friend.”

One dark brow lifted up his forehead. “And?”

“And you can get to know her, too.”

John looked at her for several long seconds before he asked, “That’s it? That’s your ‘reasonable compromise’?”

Georgeanne didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to say it, and she hated John for forcing her. “When Lexie knows you well, and is comfortable with you, and when I think the time is right, I’ll tell her you are her father.” And my child will probably hate me for the lie, she thought.

John tilted his head slightly to one side. He didn’t look real happy with her proposition. “So,” he said. “I’m supposed to wait until you think it’s the right time to tell Lexie about me?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me why I should wait, Georgie.”

“No one calls me Georgie anymore.” She didn’t tease and flirt to get what she wanted these days. She wasn’t Georgie Howard now. “I would prefer that you call me Georgeanne.”

“I don’t care what you prefer.” He folded his arms across his wide chest. “Now, why don’t you tell my why I should wait, Georgeanne.”

“This is bound to be a great shock to her, and I think it should be done as gently as possible. My daughter is only six, and I’m sure a custody battle would hurt and confuse her. I don’t want my daughter hurt by a court-”

“First of all,” John interrupted, “the little girl you keep referring to as your daughter is in fact just as much mine as she is yours. Second, don’t make me out to be the bad guy here. I wouldn’t have mentioned lawyers if you hadn’t made it very clear to me that you weren’t going to let me see Lexie again.”

Georgeanne felt her resentment stir and took a deep breath. “Well, I’ve changed my mind.” She couldn’t afford a fight with him, not yet anyway. Not until she got a few concessions.

John sank farther down in his chair and hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. His gaze narrowed and distrust pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“Don’t you believe me?”

“Frankly, no.”

On the drive over this evening, she’d run through several if-he-says-this-then-I’ll-say-that scenarios in her mind, but she’d never thought he wouldn’t believe her. “You don’t trust me?”

He looked at her as if she were crazy. “Not for a second.”

Georgeanne figured they were even then, because she didn’t trust him either. “Fine. We don’t have to trust each other as long as we both want what is best for Lexie.”

“I don’t want to hurt her, but as I said before, I don’t think we will agree on what is best. I’m sure it would please you clear down to your southern toes if I died tomorrow. However, that wouldn’t please me. I want to get to know Lexie, and I want her to know me. If you think I should wait to tell her that I’m her father, then okay, I’ll wait. You know her better than I do.”

“I have to be the one to tell her, John.” She expected an argument and was surprised when she didn’t get one.

“Fine.”

“I have to insist that you give me your word on this,” she persisted, because she wasn’t convinced that a few months down the road, John wouldn’t change his mind and decide that being a daddy cramped his style. If he abandoned Lexie, after she knew he was her father, it would break her heart. And Georgeanne knew from experience that the pain of abandonment from a parent was worse than not knowing at all. “The truth has to come from me.”

“I thought we didn’t trust each other. What good is my word?”

He had a point. Georgeanne thought about it, and having no other alternative, she said, “I’ll trust you if you give me your word.”

“You have it, but just don’t expect me to wait a long time. Don’t jerk me around,” he warned. “I want to see her when I get back into town.”

“That’s another reason I came here tonight,” Georgeanne said as she rose from the chair. “Next Sunday Lexie and I are planning a picnic at Marymoor Park. You are welcome to join us if you don’t have plans.”

“What time?”

“Noon.”

“What should I bring?”

“Lexie and I are providing everything except alcoholic beverages. If you want beer, you’ll have to bring it yourself, although I’d prefer you didn’t.”

“That’s not a problem,” he said as he stood also.

Georgeanne looked up at him, always a little surprised by his height and the width of his shoulders. “I’m bringing a friend along, so you’re welcome to include one of your friends also.” Then she smiled sweetly and added, “Although I would prefer that your friend wasn’t a hockey groupie.”

John shifted his weight to one foot and scowled at her. “That’s not a problem either.”

“Great.” She turned to go, but stopped and looked back at him. “Oh, and we have to pretend to like each other.”

He stared at her, his eyes narrowed, his mouth in a straight line. “Now, that,” he said dryly, “might be a problem.”

Georgeanne tucked the floral-print comforter around Lexie’s shoulders and looked into her sleepy eyes. Lexie’s dark hair fanned over her pillow, and her cheeks were pale from exhaustion. As a baby, she’d always reminded Georgeanne of a wind-up toy. One moment she’d be crawling across the floor, and in the next she’d lie down and fall asleep in the middle of the kitchen. Even now, when Lexie was tired, she went out fairly fast, which Georgeanne considered a blessing. “Tomorrow we’ll have our tea after we watch General Hospital,” she said. It had been over a week since they’d found the time to catch an episode of their favorite soap opera together.

“Okay,” Lexie yawned.

“Give me some sugar,” Georgeanne ordered, and when Lexie puckered her lips, she bent to kiss her daughter good night. “I’m a sucker for your pretty face,” she said, then stood.

“Me, too. Is Mae coming to tea tomorrow?” Lexie wiggled onto her side and rubbed her face against the Muppet blanket she’d had since she’d been a baby.

“I’ll ask her.” Georgeanne walked across the floor, stepped over a Barbie camper and a pile of naked dolls. “Cryin‘ all night, this room’s a pigsty,” she declared as she tripped over a baton with purple streamers hanging from the ends. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Lexie’s eyes were closed. She reached for the switch by the door, turned out the light, and headed down the hall.

Before Georgeanne entered the living room, she could feel Mae impatiently waiting for her. Earlier when Mae had come to sit with Lexie, Georgeanne had briefly explained the situation with John to her friend and business partner. And while they’d sat around waiting for Lexie’s bedtime, Mae had seemed ready to burst with questions.

“Is she asleep?” Mae asked barely above a whisper as Georgeanne entered the room.

Georgeanne nodded and sat on the opposite end of the couch from Mae. She reached for a pillow embroidered with flowers and her monogram, then she dropped it on her lap.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Mae began as she turned to face Georgeanne. “And a lot of things make sense now.”

“What things?” she asked, thinking that with Mae’s new shorter haircut, she looked a little like Meg Ryan.

“Like how we both hate men who are athletes. You know that I hate jocks because they used to beat up my brother. And I always assumed you didn’t like them because of your boobs,” she said as she cupped her palms in front of her chest as if she were holding a pair of cantaloupes. “I always figured you must have been groped by the football team, or something equally hellish, and just never wanted to talk about it.” She dropped her hands to her thighs, bare below her jean shorts. “I never imagined Lexie’s father was a jock. But now that makes sense, too, because she’s a lot more athletic than you.”

“Yes, she is,” Georgeanne agreed. “But that’s not saying much.”

“Remember when she was four and we took the training wheels off of her bike?”

“I didn’t take them off, you did.” Georgeanne looked into Mae’s brown eyes and reminded her friend, “I wanted them left on in case she fell.”

“I know, but they were all bent upward and didn’t even touch the ground anyway. They wouldn’t have helped her.” Mae dismissed Georgeanne’s concern with a wave of her hand. “I remember thinking then that Lexie must have inherited coordination from her daddy’s gene pool, because she didn’t get it from you.”

“Hey, that’s not nice,” Georgeanne complained, but she really didn’t take offense; it was the truth.

“But never in a million years would I have guessed John Kowalsky. My God, Georgeanne, the man is a hockey player!” She pronounced the last two word with the same horrified disdain usually reserved for serial killers or used-car salesmen.

“I know that.”

“Have you ever seen him play?”

“No.” She looked down at the pillow in her lap and frowned at a brown smudge on one corner. “Although occasionally I have seen sports clips on the evening news.”

“Well, I’ve seen him play! Do you remember Don Rogers?”

“Of course,” she said as she picked at the spot on the linen pillow. “You dated him for a few months last year, but you dumped him because you thought the amount of affection he afforded his Labrador was very peculiar.” She paused and looked back up at Mae. “Did you let Lexie eat in the living room tonight? I believe there is chocolate on this pillow.”

“Forget about the pillow,” Mae sighed, and ran her fingers through the sides of her short blond hair. “Don was this incredible Chinooks fanatic, so I went to a game with him. I couldn’t believe how hard those guys hit each other, and no one hit harder than John Kowalsky. He sent one guy somersaulting through the air. Then he just kind of shrugged and skated off.”

Georgeanne wondered where this was going. “What does that have to do with me?”

“You slept with him! I can’t believe it. Not only is he a jock, but he’s a jerk!”

Secretly Georgeanne agreed, but she was becoming slightly ticked off. “It was a long time ago. And besides, being that you reside in a glass house, let’s not throw stones at each other, shall we?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that any woman who slept with Bruce Nelson has no right to judge anyone else.”

Mae crossed her arms over her chest and sank back farther into the couch. “He wasn’t that bad,” she grumbled.

“Really? He was a wormy little mama’s boy, and you only dated him because you could push him around-like all the guys you go out with.”

“At least I have a normal sex life.”

They’d had this same conversation many times. Mae considered Georgeanne’s lack of sex unhealthy, while Georgeanne felt that Mae should practice saying the word “no” a bit more often.

“You know, Georgeanne, abstinence isn’t normal, and one of these days you’re just going to explode,” she predicted. “And Bruce wasn’t wormy, he was cute.”

“Cute? He was thirty-eight years old and still lived at home with his mother. He reminded me of my third cousin Billy Earl down in San Antonio. Billy Earl lived with his mama until she took her final journey, and believe you me, he was as twisted as a piece of taffy. He used to steal reading glasses just in case he developed astigmatism. Which, of course, he never did, because all my people have perfect twenty-twenty vision. My grandmother used to say we should pray for him. We should pray he never developed a fear of cavities in his teeth or people with dentures wouldn’t be safe around Billy Earl.”

Mae Laughed. “You’re full of it.”

Georgeanne raised her right hand. “My lips to God’s ear. Billy Earl was a nut ball.” She looked back down at the pillow in her lap and ran her fingers over the white embroidered flowers. “Anyway, you obviously cared for Bruce or you wouldn’t have slept with him. Sometimes our hearts do the choosing.”

“Hey.” Mae patted the back of the couch with her hand to get Georgeanne’s attention. When she looked up, Mae said, “I didn’t care for Bruce. I felt sorry for him, and I hadn’t had sex in a while, which is a really bad reason to go to bed with a man. I wouldn’t recommend it. If I sounded like I was judging you, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I swear.”

“I know,” Georgeanne said easily.

“Good. Now, tell me. How did you first meet John Kowalsky?”

“Do you want the whole story?”

“Yep.”

“Okay. Do you remember when I first met you, I was wearing a little pink dress?”

“Yes. You were supposed to marry Virgil Duffy in that dress.”

“That’s right.” Years ago Georgeanne had told Mae of her botched wedding plans to Virgil, but she’d left out the part about John. She told Mae now. She told her all of it. All except the private details. She’d never been a person to talk openly and freely about sex. Her grandmother had certainly never discussed it, and everything she’d learned, she’d learned from a health class at school, or from inept boyfriends who either hadn’t known or hadn’t cared about giving pleasure.

Then she’d met John, and he’d taught her things she hadn’t thought were physically possible until that night. He’d set her ablaze with his hot hands and hungry mouth, and she’d touched him in ways she’d only heard whispered about. He’d made her want him so much, she’d done everything he’d suggested and then some.

Now she didn’t even like to think of that night. She no longer recognized the young woman who’d given her body and her love so easily. That woman didn’t exist anymore, and she didn’t feel there was any reason to discuss her.

She skipped over the lurid details, then told Mae of the conversation she’d had with John that morning and of the agreement they’d reached at his houseboat. “I don’t know how things are going to work out, I just pray Lexie doesn’t get hurt,” she concluded, suddenly feeling exhausted.

“Are you going to tell Charles?” Mae asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered as she hugged the pillow to her chest, leaned her head against the back of the couch, and stared up at the ceiling. “I’ve only been out with him twice.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

Georgeanne thought of the man she’d dated for the past month. She’d met him when he’d hired Heron’s to cater his daughter’s tenth birthday. He’d called the next day and they’d met for dinner at The Four Seasons. Georgeanne smiled. “I hope so.”

“Then you better tell him.”

Charles Monroe was divorced and one of the nicest men Georgeanne had ever known. He owned a local cable station, was wealthy, and had a wonderful smile that lit up his gray eyes. He didn’t dress flashy. He wasn’t GQ gorgeous, and his kisses didn’t set her eyebrows on fire. They were more like a warm breeze. Nice. Relaxing.

Charles never pushed or grabbed, and given more time, Georgeanne could see herself becoming involved in an intimate relationship with him. She liked him a lot, and just as important, Lexie had met him once, and she liked him, too. “I guess I’ll tell him.”

“I don’t think he’s going to like this news one bit,” Mae predicted.

Georgeanne rolled her head to the left and looked at her friend. “Why?”

“Because even though I abhor violent men, John Kowalsky is a stud boy, and Charles is bound to be jealous. He might worry that there is still something between you and the hockey jock.”

She figured that Charles might get upset with her because she’d told him her standard lie about Lexie’s father, but she wasn’t worried he’d be jealous. “Charles has nothing to worry about,” she said with the certainty of a woman who knew for a fact that there wasn’t even a remote possibility she would ever become romantically involved with John again. “And besides, even if I were so delusional as to fall for John, he hates me. He doesn’t even like to look at me.” The idea of a reunion between herself and John was so absurd that she didn’t waste any brain power giving it a second thought. “I’ll tell Charles when I have lunch with him on Thursday.”

But four days later, when she met Charles at a bistro on Madison Street, she didn’t get a chance to tell him anything. Before she could explain what had happened with John, Charles hit her with a proposal that left her speechless.

“What do you think about hosting your own live television show?” he asked over pastrami sandwiches and coleslaw. “A kind of Martha Stewart of the Northwest. We’d slip you into the Saturday twelve-thirty-to-one time slot. That’s just after Margie’s Garage and right before our afternoon sports programming. You’d have the freedom to do what you wanted. You could cook one show, and the next you could arrange dried flowers or retile a kitchen.”

“I can’t retile a kitchen,” she whispered, shocked clear down to her beige pumps.

“I just threw that out as an idea. I trust you. You’ve got natural talent, and you’d look great on television.”

Georgeanne placed a hand on her chest, and her voice squeaked when she said, “Me?”

“Yes, you. When I talked it over with my station manager, she thought it was a great idea.” Charles gave her an encouraging smile, and she almost believed she could go in front of a television camera and host her own show. Charles’s offer did appeal to the creative side of her, but reality interceded. Georgeanne was dyslexic. She’d learned to compensate, but if she wasn’t careful, she still read the words wrong. If she was flustered, she still had to stop and think about which way was left and which was right. And then there was her weight. A camera was supposed to add five pounds to a person. Well, Georgeanne was already several pounds overweight, add five pounds to that, and not only would she appear on TV reading words that didn’t exist, but she’d look fat. Plus there was Lexie to consider. Georgeanne already felt horrible for the amount of time her daughter spent in day care or with sitters.

She looked into Charles’s gray eyes and said, “No, thank you.”

“Aren’t you going to think it over?”

“I have,” she said as she picked up her fork and speared her coleslaw. She didn’t want to think about it any longer. She didn’t want to think of the possibilities or the opportunity she’d just turned down.

“Don’t you want to know how much it pays?”

“Nope.” The government would take half, and she’d be left looking like a fat idiot for half of what she was worth.

“Will you think about it a little longer?”

He seemed so disappointed that she said, “I’ll think about it.” But she knew she wouldn’t change her mind.

After lunch he walked her to her car, and once they stood beside her maroon Hyundai, he took the key from her hand and fit it into the lock.

“When can I see you again?”

“This weekend is impossible,” she said, feeling a little guilty that she’d never gotten around to mentioning John. “Why don’t you and Amber come over next Tuesday night and have dinner with me and Lexie?”

Charles reached for her wrist and placed her keys in her palm. “That sounds nice,” he said as he moved his hand up her arm to the back of her neck. “But I want to see you alone more often.” Then he touched his lips to hers, and his kiss was like a nice pause in a busy day. A relaxing ahh, or a dip in a warm pool. So what if his kisses didn’t make her crazy? She didn’t want a man who made her lose control. She didn’t want any man’s touch to turn her into a raving nymphomaniac ever again. She’d been there, done that, and she’d been burned big time.

She touched her tongue to his and felt his quick intake of breath. His free hand found her waist, and he pulled her closer into his chest. His grip tightened. He wanted more. If they hadn’t been standing in a parking lot in downtown Seattle, she might have given him what he wanted.

She cared for Charles, and in time, she could see herself maybe falling in love with him. It had been years since she’d made love. Years since she’d given herself to a man. When she stepped back and looked into Charles’s heavy eyes, she thought it might be time to change that. It might be time to try again.