Dear Diary (22 page)

It was seven thirty by the time Rory arrived back at her apartment. Her mind was on stall. Nick had asked her to be at his place by eight. She would never make it in time. She shouldn’t go anyway. Oh, hell. She wanted to be with him. She did.

Hurrying inside the door, Rory barely took time to rip off her clothes before dashing into the shower. She scrubbed hard and fast, working the soap into a lather. She felt frustrated, and it wasn’t all because of Nick. Michelle’s husband, James, had arrived home in a foul mood. He and Michelle had barely spoken six words while Rory had been there, and she felt a prickling sense of déjà vu. Her own parents had acted much the same way during the worst moments of their marriage. It made her scared for Michelle. Scared for Michelle’s children. Something was very wrong.

She toweled dry her hair, then blasted it with a blow dryer. After tossing on her chenille robe, she padded out to the kitchen. Seven-fifty. She had to text Nick and tell him she’d be late.

She picked up her cell phone to see she had already had a missed call and two texts from him:

I’m outside where are u?

Assume you’re in the shower. Be back at 8. Don’t take too long getting pretty ;)

“Oh, God,” Rory muttered, but she recognized a spark of desire starting to smolder. Damn it all. What was she going to do?

With a growl of self-disgust she raced to the bedroom, brushing her still damp hair. In the middle of applying some light makeup she noticed her hand was shaking. Swearing beneath her breath, she laid her palms flat on her dresser.
Calm down. Count to ten. Don’t be such an idiot.

But glancing at her reflection she saw the light dancing in her eyes, turning ordinary blue into something mysterious and inviting. Her cheeks were tinted a faint pink. Her mouth looked full and tremulous. Rory pressed her lips together, appalled.
Oh, my God. I’m crazy. I’m completely out of my mind.

The doorbell chimed and she gasped.

“Just a minute! Oh, holy—” She bit off the epithet and hurried to the door.

Tugging her bathrobe close to her throat, she threw open the door. “I’m not ready,” she told Nick. “You’ll have to give me a few minutes.”

“Whatever you say.”

He was in faded jeans and a soft cotton blue shirt with the sleeves pushed up. The collar was open and offered Rory an unrestrained view of his tanned throat and a hint of his chest hairs.

“Just a minute,” she muttered, hurrying back to the bedroom. She felt rushed and strange. It’s just Nick, she reminded herself as she pulled on a pair of white jeans. Just Nick.

Tossing on an aqua tank top over her head, she covered it with a sheer gray over-shirt. Then she slipped on sandals, grabbed her bag and returned to the living room. Nick was standing in the center of the room. Though she didn’t want to, she noticed the way his jeans hung low on his hips, the breadth of his shoulders, and the thickness of his hair.

“What are you frowning about?” he asked.

“You’d never understand.” Rory headed for the door. “Okay, Mr. Shard. Let’s eat.”

He took her to his condo on the southeast shore of Lake Washington. Fleetingly Rory thought about how successful Nick had become. He’d received a substantial inheritance when his father died, but Rory suspected he’d never touched that capital. His business had already been flourishing.

“You know, you could have been a terrible snob,” she remarked as they walked up the front steps of his townhouse.

“Where’d that come from?” He produced a set of keys and unlocked the door.

“I was just remembering high school. All the girls chased after you because you were rich and good looking.”

“I wasn’t rich.” He swallowed back a laugh. “But I’ve always been good looking.”

“And humble,” she added dryly. “Your family was upper-middle-class. Close enough.” Rory threw him a smile. “
Now
you’re rich. And successful, too. It must be a terrible burden.”

Nick studied her for a moment. “It’s never cut any ice with you, though, has it?”

His condo was elegant and personified. Dark wood furniture gleamed. Frosted-glass cylinder sconces were scattered along the entry hall and lighted the short corridor to the kitchen. A mahogany staircase curved to a gallery that surrounded the upper floor completely.

Rory’s gaze lifted to the sparkling silver and glass chandelier lit by at least fifty flame-shaped bulbs. “Now that’s subtle.”

“Ostentation is the prerogative of the nouveau riche.” He tossed his keys on a tiny, ornate table near the foot of the stairs.

“Who said that?” demanded Rory, following Nick as he headed for the kitchen.

“I did. You should’ve seen my place in San Francisco. It was a hovel. I decided to live it up.”

“Oh, my God. This is enough to make every proletarian hair on my body stand on end.” Rory gazed out the windows to the sweeping view of Lake Washington. In the dying twilight the purple water moved, stretching toward the horizon. Faintly, against the opposite shore, she could see a ragged skyline of trees and lovely waterfront homes against the fading blue sky.

“Proletarian, eh?” Nick pulled a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator and uncorked it with two deft twists. He filled two glasses nearly to the brim and balanced them carefully in one hand as he swept up the bottle with his other hand. He walked to the dining room where Rory stood transfixed, her gaze on the vast lake. “You look pretty successful and upper crust to me.”

She gently took one glass from his strong fingers. Champagne again. Her chest tightened involuntarily. “I’ve already had a glass of wine today. My headache’s sure to start as soon as I take another sip.”

“As long as you keep drinking, you’re okay. It’s when you stop that it hurts.” He clinked his glass against hers. The soft musical pings sounded loud in the quiet room.

“If that’s an excuse to get drunk, forget it. I’ve got too much to do tomorrow.”

“Like what?”

“Like appease my new boss. He gave me a new account a few weeks ago, and it’s hard to keep up.”

Nick stopped, his glass halfway to his lips. “Is that right?”

“I’m not complaining, or anything,” Rory said hastily. “But some other people might be.” Rory tipped up her champagne glass to her lips her eyes travelling up the wall to the crown molding along the ceiling.

“Don.” Nick grimaced. “Don’t worry, I’m taking care of him.”

Rory didn’t like the sound of that. “I was half joking, Nick. What do you mean?”

“Forget it. Come on. I personally prepared a terrific meal for us and I want to serve it on the balcony before it gets completely dark.”

Rory was instantly distracted. “You cooked it?”

“I haven’t lived alone all these years without learning a thing or two.”

“You’re putting me on.”

“You told me not to laugh at your cooking skills, don’t laugh at mine. Sit down out there,” he ordered, pointing toward the French doors and the balcony beyond. “I’ll bring it to you.”

Rory managed to close her mouth and do as she was told. Her pulse raced. Her lungs felt tight. This was how it had been with Ryan, she remembered with a pang. Every minute had seemed so important. Only this,
this
, was a thousand times worse.

Her hands shook slightly as she sat down at the glass-topped table in front of the straw placemat. Gleaming silver flatware with an engraved S was laid out. She’d seen that flatware when she’d had dinner with Nick and his parents eons ago.

She heard the soft chime of the microwave timer and smelled luscious, tangy scents. “So you’re into Lean Cuisine, too,” she called. “Quick, nutritious and microwavable.”

“Didn’t I say I made this myself?” he threw back.

A minute later he brought out a large wooden tray with hammered silver handles. A glass bowl filled with a familiar looking asparagus salad sat on one side, two china plates on the other. Rory frowned. Wasn’t this just like the asparagus salad she’d ordered last week? The one the caterers had delivered?

Nick brought out two more bowls, a smug smile on his face. Rory’s eyes widened in disbelief. There was the chicken and apple dish. And that one was just like the vegetable medley she’d ordered.

“Well?” Nick asked, raising innocent brows as he refilled her champagne glass and sat down across from her.

A brisk gust off the water tossed her hair in front of her eyes. Rory’s eyes danced and she stared down at her plate, fighting back laughter.

“What do you think of my cooking?”

She thought of Michelle’s insistence that she have dinner with Nick. Michelle had talked to Nick last week. She’d probably recommended the same caterer.

“You… really made… all this?” she managed to choke out.

“Every last calorie.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Is there something wrong?” Nick demanded, growing wise.

Rory collapsed into laughter. She pressed her hand to her mouth and fought back choking gasps. Tears burned her eyes. She glanced at Nick.

Twisting his glass between his fingers, Nick slowly grinned, “You know, don’t you?”

“Nick,” She gasped. “This is what I was going to serve
you
!”

His gaze was utterly blank.

“Did Michelle suggest your caterer?”

His jaw dropped. “Michelle,” he growled in betrayal.

Rory laughed harder, shaking.

“Your sister talked me into this caterer,” he bellowed. “She said he was the best in the business.”

“And told you to fob it off as your own cooking,” Rory gasped. “That’s what I was going to do until you got sick.”

“You were?”

“Yes!” Rory laughed in delight.

Nick started to chuckle. The more he thought about it, the funnier it was. Finally he threw back his head and roared with laughter. “That does it. We’ve got to pay Michelle back.”

Remembering her sister’s problems, Rory slowly sobered. “Let’s wait on that. She’s so worn out by the twins she probably wouldn’t appreciate it.” Forking up some of the chicken dish, Rory added around a mouthful of food, “This is good, though. I should know. I’ve eaten enough of it.”

“Serves you right for trying to trick me.”

The corners of his eyes creased with humor. He lifted his glass to her in a salute, and Rory noticed the sensual curve of his mouth. Her throat tightened uncomfortably. There were qualities Nick possessed that she truly loved. He was the kind of man who was easy to fall in love with. If she were willing to risk her heart, she would do as Michelle suggested and leap into a relationship with him with her eyes wide open.

He met her gaze, his expression turning serious. In the flash of a heartbeat the mood changed. Goosebumps rose on Rory’s flesh. She attacked the meal with an energy and appetite she didn’t feel, then ended up pushing her plate aside, barely touched.

“More champagne?” Nick asked casually.

“No. Thanks.”

A yellow-jacket buzzed threateningly above the table. Nick swatted it away, then thrust his own plate to one side. “I think I need something stronger.”

“Like what?” Rory shoved back her chair and followed him into the kitchen. The last thing she wanted was another drink, but she felt nervous and restless. Afraid.

It was ridiculous.

Nick was reaching to a high cupboard above the granite counter, his shirt straining against his shoulders. “How about brandy?”

The pesky yellow-jacket shot into the kitchen, buzzing between Nick and Rory. Rory involuntarily stepped backward, then clamped her hand to her mouth in horror as the bee landed on Nick’s shoulder and walked toward his collar.

“Don’t move.” she commanded. “The bee’s on your collar.”

Nick turned to stone. Rory swept her hand across his collar, then shrieked, “Oh, my God. Nick, I knocked him inside your shirt.”

“What?”

Nick was unbuttoning the front of his shirt as fast as he could. Without thinking, Rory yanked the sleeves down his shoulders, turning back the fabric. The yellow-jacket appeared, struggling in the folds of cloth. Rory jerked her head backward as the bee zoomed toward her, before zigzagging toward the other room.

“Well,” Nick said, twisting his neck. His back was frozen, his arms, still entrapped in his sleeves, were at his sides. Every muscle in his back was taught and rigid. Rory stared at the smooth plane of his skin. There was strength in the definition of each muscle, a sinewy power that was fascinating, irresistible.

“Damn it all, Rory,” he said with forced patience. “Where’s the yellow-jacket?”

She let go of his shirt, suddenly aware of how warm and smooth his skin was.

“It’s gone. It’s okay.”

Nick slowly turned to face her. “You’re sure?” he asked suspiciously.

She nodded, gesturing vaguely toward the French doors, feeling slightly faint. “It headed that way.”

The hair on his chest arrowed downward, dark but not heavy. Rory fixed her gaze on the base of his throat. She swallowed hard.

At first Nick was too distracted to notice Rory’s awed silence. But when he looked into her eyes they shone with a naked need. Desire flamed through him even though he didn’t trust what he saw. He’d wanted her too long and too badly to believe the truth even when it stared out at him from the shadowed depths of her wide blue eyes.