Lana's Lawman (12 page)

“I, um, what—”

He eyed her hausfrau outfit. “Your date here yet?”

She could have lied yet again, but he'd already guessed that her plans for the evening were a fabrication. Instead, feeling suddenly brazen, she eyed him up and down as flagrantly as he'd done her. “I guess he is—depending on what's in the grocery bags.”

“Just the basics. A couple of steaks for grilling, some twice-baked potatoes from the deli—all you have to do is heat them in the microwave. A wedge of Brie and some crackers for an appetizer. A bottle of wine—hope you like a good Bordeaux.”

Her mouth watered. She hadn't so much as tasted a decent wine since the divorce. It was one of those luxuries she'd done without.

“All right, fine. You win.” She ushered him inside. A cool breeze followed him, along with a couple of crunchy oak leaves. The weather was changing. “Shall I make a salad?”

He flashed her one of his heart-melting smiles as he strode toward the kitchen as if he owned the place. “Sounds great.”

“There's a hibachi and some charcoal on the patio out back if you want to get that started.” And give her a few more minutes to compose herself.

She hadn't been this nervous around Sloan since she was eighteen. Even then she hadn't realized how
truly dangerous he was. A lot was at stake—but only if she let it be, she thought. If she kept her head, kept in control, made wise decisions—

She nearly had a head-on collision with him as she entered the kitchen, gasping and jumping as if he were a tarantula instead of a desirable man.

“Lana, is something wrong?”

“Uh, no. Why?”

“You seem preoccupied.”

Was she that obvious? Sloan stepped nearer. She shied away, not wanting him to study her that closely. But he came forward again and grasped her chin, forcing her to look at him.

“You're not afraid of me, are you?” he asked softly.

“N-no.”

“I'm sworn to serve and protect, you know. Who could be safer to bring into your home than a cop?”

“It's not like I'm worried you're an ax murderer. But you could be hazardous in other … ways.” She almost didn't get the last word out as his mouth descended on hers. She didn't resist, didn't have even one second thought. She suddenly wanted the kiss with every ounce of her being. Without a thought for the consequences, she threw herself into the embrace, just like the young girl she'd once been, full of optimism and brimming with out-of-control emotions and hormones.

It felt the same, yet different. She would have known, even in a blind taste test, that the man she was kissing was Sloan Bennett. But the slight rasp of his beard against her skin was different, reminding her
that he was indeed a full-grown man, not the boy she remembered. His shoulders and neck were more firmly muscled than she recalled, probably from those years he'd mentioned spent working construction. And he was a couple of inches taller.

She stood on her toes, her arms around his neck, to achieve a more comfortable angle. He tightened his hold on her, sliding one hand down and under her sweater to cup her bottom. He was bold, as he'd always been, but there was a new confidence to the way he held her.

She liked it. A lot. Her only genuine fear was of her own lack of control.

He deepened the kiss for a brief time, teasing her tongue with his, burying his fingers in her hair. Then abruptly he pulled back, gasping for air.

“Damn, Lana. For a minute there I was eighteen again, all hormones and no sense.”

She nodded, unable to form words. She was breathing heavily too.

“I didn't mean to do that, not
that
, anyway. It wasn't supposed to be so …”

She nodded again. Despite his lack of specificity, she understood exactly what he meant. He'd only been flirting, teasing. But once he'd touched her, a strong force had taken over, like being swept up into the middle of a storm cloud. And she'd felt better than she had in years. If he apologized for it or said it was a mistake, she would burst out crying.

“I was just checking, to be sure I wasn't imagining the physical thing between us. Obviously I wasn't.”

She nodded her agreement.

“Then why don't you want me around? If I'm just not good enough for you—”

“Oh, stop it! You know it's not that.”

“Then what?”

“You just said it. Hormones and no sense. I thought things had changed a lot since I was a teenager, but maybe not.”

He studied her a moment, finally offering no comment, no insight. She didn't know if he believed her, agreed with her, or thought she was crazy.

“The charcoal's out back, you say?”

“Y-yes. On the patio, in a storage bin.” She pointed out the kitchen door and through the living room, to a sliding glass door. “By the hibachi. You'll see it. The starter fluid is in there too. And matches, you'll need those.” She was babbling.

“Okay. One expert charcoal cooking fire coming up.”

Just like that, the moment was ended, so abruptly that Lana almost wondered if she'd daydreamed it—except for the lingering goose bumps on her arms and the slightly swollen feel of her lips. If she closed her eyes, she could still taste him.

Get a grip
, she scolded herself. It was a kiss, not a religious experience. He'd probably forgotten all about it by now. Furious with herself for letting it happen in the first place, she set about making the salad, tearing lettuce and chopping carrots with more force than was necessary. Her one goal when she'd gotten divorced was to take control of her life. She'd made so much
progress over the last year, and she wasn't about to let fate or whimsy or serendipity take over.

Thinking about fate made her think of Theodora, which in turn made her think about the tin policeman's badge in her jewelry box, and a shiver ran up her spine. It would be so easy to let herself believe that the Gypsy fortune-teller had known all along that she and Sloan were meant to be together. Then she could just fall into his arms and pretend that they would live happily ever after.

But she'd learned all about “happily-ever-afters” the hard way. They didn't just fall into your lap. Maybe they were possible; she certainly believed her friends Callie and Sam were happy—and would continue to be—and living proof. But then there was Millicent Whitney Jones, pregnant with her fourth child and widowed at the age of twenty-eight.

Certainly Lana's own marriage tended to make her pessimistic about the lasting qualities of love.

So, for now, she couldn't believe in fate, despite Theodora's lofty predictions. She had to keep her priorities straight—first Rob's welfare, then her own independence and stability, both financial and emotional. Only when those priorities were secure could she afford to think about allying herself with a man.

She topped the salad with some cherry tomatoes, covered it with plastic, and put it in the fridge. After setting the table—in the dining room this time—she steeled herself and set out for the patio to see how the fire was coming along. When she opened the sliding
glass door she was surprised at how cool the wind had turned.

She shivered and her teeth chattered from the sudden gust of cold air.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Sloan said, rubbing his hands together. “It's a little warmer here by the fire.”

She wasn't stepping one inch closer. “I wanted to see if there was time for me to marinate the steaks. I should have thought of it earlier.”

“The fire is about fifteen minutes to perfect grilling temperature,” Sloan pronounced. “But I usually just throw the meat on there naked.”

Had he used that word on purpose? she wondered. “Fine with me,” Lana said with a nod, biting back a quick retort only with supreme effort. “The marinade makes a big mess anyway.” She looked up at the darkening sky. “I didn't realize a blue norther' was coming through, but that's sure what it feels like. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees since I got home.”

“More like twenty. Nice night for a fire in the fireplace.”

“We'll have to settle for an electric furnace, I'm afraid. The chimney doesn't draw.”

“That's a shame. Have you had it checked?”

“No, I never bothered. All I know is I tried to light a fire and the house filled up with smoke. I gave up pretty quick.”

“Well, let's go have a look.” Ignoring her protests that it wasn't something she wanted to worry about right then, Sloan charged into the living room and
before she knew it he had his head in her fireplace. “Got a flashlight?”

“I'll get one,” she said, wishing she could rewind the past couple of minutes and reinvent them. Why did men always have to bulldoze their way through her life? She was not a weak woman, yet both times she'd become intimate with a man, he'd quickly dominated every aspect of her existence—physical, emotional, and in Bart's case, financial.

Was it that she became obsessed? She did tend to throw herself into things whole hog, whether it was a flower arrangement or a relationship. With Bart it had started innocently enough, with daydreams and fantasies and a gentle preoccupation. But pretty soon her every waking thought had been connected to Bart Gaston. She'd wanted so badly to please him, and pretty soon she'd been unable to make a move without seeking his approval.

She would not ever get into that state again. She might or might not be starting something with Sloan. Whichever, she had to guard her autonomy.

Still, she brought Sloan the flashlight.

“Let's see,” he said. “Your flue is open, so that's not—ah, there's the problem. There's a wad of insulation stuck up inside your chimney. You're lucky you didn't do worse than fill the house up with smoke. I'll get it out for you.”

“No,” she said a little more sharply than she meant to.

Sloan pulled his head out from the fireplace. “What?”

“Leave the insulation where it is, please.”

“Why?” he asked, bewildered.

“Because it must've been put there to save energy, so I'd rather leave it. I do whatever I can to save on my utility bills. Anyway, I don't have any firewood, so while your idea of a fire is nice, it's not going to happen tonight.”

She didn't want the romantic atmosphere a crackling fire might suggest anyway. Her head was already filled with ideas pouring in from everywhere. X-rated ideas.

Sloan rubbed his hands together, still contemplating her explanation. “I'm not sure that's really it,” he said slowly. “I think maybe you just don't like people doing you favors.”

She stared for several moments in silent shock. Her immediate instinct was to argue. What was he talking about? Just because she didn't want him messing with her fireplace didn't mean she was … or maybe it did.

“You're right,” she said. “I get very uncomfortable when anyone starts giving me things or help or advice, especially when I haven't asked for it. When someone does you a favor, they usually expect something in return.”

Sloan shook his head. “Such a cynical attitude.”

“Realistic.”

“Does this have to do with your ex?”

“Partly, I guess.” But how could she ever explain what her relationship to Bart had been like? Every favor, every slight, every piece of advice he gave, and
every failure on her part were kept on a score card in Bart's head. If she asked for something, she was made to feel guilty. If he gave her something, she'd better show gratitude. If something needed repair, she'd probably done something to break it. If the repair cost too much, she hadn't shopped around enough.

But Bart was only part of her past. Her first experience with love—with Sloan—had made her scared ever to commit her heart so deeply again. Then Bart had done a number on her with his mind games, adding to the fears she'd developed with Sloan, instilling in her a deep, clawing need for independence from any man. She knew she carried it to extremes. She also knew she couldn't help herself.

If Sloan could understand that … but how could he? She could tell him Bart stories from now till Sunday, and still she wouldn't be able to communicate the horror she felt at the idea of losing control.

“Some people do favors because they like to help, did you ever think of that?” Sloan said as he headed to the kitchen to wash the soot from his hands. “Or maybe because … they're trying to … connect. Connect on some level besides the physical, that is.”

He kept soaping his hands, refusing to look at her.

She was touched by his admission and suddenly felt like a fool for making such a big deal over a little fireplace. “You and I connect in a lot of ways,” she said.

“How? Do we really have anything in common?”

“We could find things in common,” she insisted. “If we both wanted to.” To give herself something to
do, she began spreading some of the soft Brie on a cracker.

He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. He nuzzled her neck. She inhaled deeply in response, frozen by his simple gesture. “Then why does it always come back to this?” he whispered. “Is this the only way I can get through to you?”

Lana struggled for her next words. “When two people want to … well, whatever it is we're wanting to do, they need to be on equal footing. I worry that I'll come to depend on you, to need you too much—maybe more than you need me—and that's what frightens me.”

He rubbed her upper arms. “Not that I'm wanting to start an argument here, but what would be so wrong with us, you and me, depending on each other? Even needing each other. That's what friends—and couples—generally do.”

“What could you possibly need me for? Besides that,” she cautioned, because she knew exactly what his devilish mind had come up with. “That's always a two-way proposition.”

“All right, I can't think of anything this second that I need, but something will come along. I'll ask you for help first thing.”