Love Letters, Inc. (16 page)

She stopped so abruptly he almost heard the words collide with the back of her teeth. When it looked as though she might cry again, he decided not to press.

"Come on, Red. Let's go home."

On the way to the car, Rosie was unusually quiet. Either weary to her core, or totally shell-shocked by her exposure to the Summerton regiments, Kent figured. He hoped it was the latter.

* * *

Rosie was so busy thinking about the wonders of her day, it took her a while before she realized that Kent was heading in the opposite direction from her farmhouse.

"Hey, what's the plan here? I thought you were taking me home?"

"I am. My home."

"Oh." Rosie didn't know whether to bop him for assuming she'd go to his place, or give in to her curiosity about what kind of place the perfect Summerton lived in. It didn't take long for curiosity to win out. "Okay," she said. "But absolutely no sex." Might as well get the rules right up front. Until some facts fed that small hope lingering in her chest, she wasn't going to risk another mind-numbing sexual encounter. Her heart couldn't take the risk.

Kent laughed. "Coffee and conversation, then."

"Okay, but no passes. Not even one," she stated firmly.

"Cross my heart," he said, but she noticed he didn't actually make the cross. No sense talking to the man. None at all. She gave him a stern glare and looked out her window. They were heading downtown. Please, please, don't let him live in a penthouse with plastic plants, she prayed. That would be the end, the absolute end. And spoil one of the most perfect days of her life.

Her mind went back to the Summerton barbecue, flicking through the day's images as though they were Polaroids. Zach's solemn handshake when they were introduced. Emma's exuberant good-bye kiss. Corey's bright blue eyes when he showed her the ladybug he'd found. Kent was so lucky to have them in his life. Couldn't he see that? See the
immense
importance of it? She thought of Jayne. She'd told Rosie, that she was pregnant again, and when Rosie had asked if Kent knew he was going to be an uncle once more, Jayne had laughed. She'd said she wouldn't tell Kent until she was prepared to hear his usual lecture on family planning and financial responsibility. Rosie frowned. Kent was such a Grinch.

She glanced up when they passed through a gate that led to a cluster of low-rise, luxury condos about a block from the waterfront. Posh. Just what she'd expected—but at least there was no elevator.

"This is it," Kent said, pushing a button on the remote control clipped to the car's sun visor. He pulled into the two-car garage and turned off the car.
It was carpeted. The damn garage was carpeted.
Rosie straightened. It could only get worse from here on.

He was putting his key in the lock when she remembered. She slapped her forehead, and the clip holding her hair up on one side fell out.

"Kent, I forgot to tell you! I found Gardenia. And I was right. She was in my dream. Not exactly the same, of course, but near enough."

Kent bent to pick up the fallen clip and handed it to her. She stuffed it back in her hair.

"Does that mean what I think it means?" he asked, turning the key and opening the door for her. She stepped in and he took her elbow, leading her the few steps to the kitchen, then flicked on some soft, indirect lighting.

"I don't know. What do you think it means?"

"That she works for Beachline."

Rosie smiled. "She does."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And, as in who
is
it?" he asked.

Rosie pursed her lips. She'd known he was going to ask, and she'd already decided not to tell him. The matter was resolved. She reached into her tote bag and pulled out the remaining letters. They were wrapped in green silk with a darker green ribbon. The color of Kent's eyes, Gardenia had said. She was right.

"Here." She handed him the letters.

"What's this?" He turned the silk-wrapped package over in his hand.

"The rest of the letters. Gardenia and I had a long talk. She was pretty scared at being found out and promised you won't be hearing from her again. And just to put your mind at rest, she's no threat. Kind of nice, really. She just let her, uh, admiration for you get a bit out of hand, is all." Rosie looked into his intense eyes and empathized completely.

He eyed her with male wariness. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"Nope." She crossed her arms and leaned against a counter clad in a coat of shining stainless steel. "I'm going to leave you with the mystery, the possibility that every woman currently working at Beachline is in love with you. It'll do wonders for that malnourished ego of yours," she quipped.
And I'll be keeping my word to Gardenia,
she added mentally.

He seemed to consider this, then tossed the letters casually onto the smooth laminated table occupying the middle of the room. Briefly, he rubbed at his chin, but he didn't smile.

Finally, he gazed down at her. "I don't want every woman at Beachline to be in love with me. I only want you." He cradled her neck in his strong hand and pulled her to his chest. "I want
you
to love me, Rosie."

She gaped at him, wondering what had happened to all the air in the room. There'd been plenty moments ago. "Don't say that," she instructed him lamely.

He wanted her to love him, the foolish man. Didn't he know she already did? Okay, maybe she hadn't admitted it, even to herself, but after last night—and today—what else could it be except love? She was flaming-nuts about him. But she needed to understand why he'd gone to so much trouble to get her to the barbecue and meet his family. She'd wanted to believe it was a change of heart, a softening to the idea of a big family. But she couldn't be sure. And until she was, love was out of the question.

His hand heated her neck. His face was far too close to hers. Kissing distance. His lips seemed to soften as she looked at them, subtly prepared to meet hers.

No.

If she kissed him she was road-kill! She jerked back and the comb fell out of her hair again. This time they both bent to pick it up and they bumped heads.

Kent let out a breath, massaged the crash site, then shook his head. "Okay, Rosie. How about that coffee? We'll save the hard stuff for later."

"I don't drink liquor."

"I meant conversation. After what happened last night, you and I need to talk."

She amazed herself. Her face didn't heat. Finally, the pilot light on her blush furnace had burned itself out. About time. She'd been hot-faced since this man had walked into her messy life.

"Okay," she said. "I'm up for some coffee—and talk." She searched out the coffeepot, wanting to make herself useful and to get out from under Kent's speculative gaze. No use pushing her luck on the blush business.

She glanced around his spotless kitchen, its steel, laminate, and chrome surfaces all gleaming coolly under the indirect lighting. Not a basket, a spice, or a mismatched mug in the place. Or a dog hair. "Where's Lacy?" she asked. "I thought
you
had an Irish wolfhound." She spotted a black coffeepot tucked away in a corner and headed for it.

Kent took the coffeepot from her hands. "I'll do that," he said. "And Lacy's at kennel care."

"Kennel care? Is that like daycare for dogs?"

"Uh-huh." He filled the coffeepot's well with water and measured coffee into the filter. "I drop her off every morning before I go to work and pick her up on my way home. She needs the exercise. I never leave her cooped up here all day. I made special arrangements for them to keep her tonight, because of the barbecue."

"Why do you have her if she can't be with you?"

He stroked his cheek with an index finger, then shrugged. "She's good company."

And you can't face this ice palace without her,
Rosie finished for him. Her heart smiled. Anyone who
needed
a dog wasn't completely irredeemable.

Kent finished with the coffee-making and reached for her hand. "Let's go into the living room."

Leather, of course, the color of wet sand. She didn't like leather much; it always made her bottom cold. She sat down and wriggled deep into the sofa to get some warmth. "Nice," she fibbed, running her hand over the smooth, luxurious leather. It felt surprisingly sensuous, like healthy skin over relaxed muscle. Kent after lovemaking. Sex. All she could think about was sex. Maybe she should enter a treatment program.

"Glad you like it. Jayne took care of the decorating for me." He looked around, then looked puzzled. "She said this room captured me perfectly."

Rosie caressed the edge of her cushion again. "She was right."

Kent sat beside her and put his feet up on the oak and iron coffee table. He draped an arm around the back of the sofa, which placed his hand perilously close to her ear, but he didn't touch her.

"Rosie, I know you're tired, but about today—" He stopped as though he were looking for a sign, telling him which way to go. "I know I wasn't exactly honest in the way I got you there, but I wanted you to meet my family."

"Why?"

"Good question." He stopped as if to sort through his thoughts. "I thought it was all about making you change your mind."

"Run that by me again."

"I figured if you saw what living, breathing chaos, looked like, you'd reconsider the size of your proposed contribution to the nation's birthrate. Then..."

The thin flame of hope in Rosie's heart sputtered but held. "Then?"

He shifted closer, lifted the hair from her nape, and let it sift through his fingers until it settled back against her shoulders. She tingled like crystal tapped by a silver spoon.

"Then," he whispered against her throat. "It got complicated." His breath against her skin came in small, hot gusts and his voice was husky. Come to think of it, her own breathing was a bit on the restless side.

He kissed her cheek, just under her jaw, then her throat. "No sex, remember?" she said, arching her neck so he had more room.
So, what's this, O'Hanlon, a cooking lesson?
Lady Brain intoned.

"I remember," he murmured, pushing her top aside and kissing that delightfully tender spot between shoulder and neck. "You have the most incredible skin. Have I told you that?" He drew one finger along the front edge of her scooped-necked tee, then bent to kiss her just above the cleft between her breasts. "Incredible."

His lips skimmed the top of her breasts, kissing here softly, there more firmly. His hand clasped her waist, pulled her closer. Damned if her body wasn't going on auto pilot. Damned if her breasts weren't heaving with enough thrust to power an outboard. Damned if she wasn't the craziest woman on five continents. "No sex." She croaked with conviction forged from spider webs and cotton candy.

Kent went still. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked, his lips a hair's-breadth from her nipple.

Her body thrumming with need, Rosie lifted his head, and looked into his silky green eyes. He meant it, she could see that. He'd stop if she wanted him to, and, of course, it made her love him even more, want him even more. She grinned. "If you do, Summerton, I won't be held responsible for the consequences."

His eyes gleamed. He stood and pulled her to her feet. "Come on, Red. Tonight we'll test-drive my bed." He looked at the couch. "I'm not a big fan of leather."

Chapter 11

Kent woke up guilty.

He looked at his bedside clock. Already after seven. He'd meant to talk to Rosie last night, get some kind of consensus, or, better yet, a compromise on this big family thing. Instead, they'd made love until they were both exhausted.

The only serious discussion had been some inconclusive pillow talk about whether to spay Lacy or pair her up with Font. What the hell they'd do with a litter of Irish wolfhounds, Kent had no idea, but the idea seemed to set Rosie on fire. Looked like the woman wanted as many dogs as she did kids. Things were going from bad to worse, and he hadn't even broached the subject of the two of them becoming a serious
us.

He looked at the woman snuggled into the pillow next to him, and his chest constricted. And it was more than lust, it was love. Suddenly, he couldn't imagine his life without her. Trouble was he didn't know where to go from here, or even if there was a place to go. But somehow he had to keep Rosie O'Hanlon in his life.

He got up and padded toward the bathroom. He'd shower and think about it. There had to be a way. The differences between him and Rosie had to be sorted out—and soon. And, much as he'd like to ignore it and pretend it didn't matter, the issue of how many kids a couple wanted was incredibly important—and thorny as hell. Not only did he not want a zillion kids, he didn't have time for them. For the next few years, running Beachline was going to take all the energy he had.

He turned on the shower. He was fortunate that Rosie occasionally changed her mind. His lips twitched to a smile. Like last night.

By the time the water was streaming down his back, he was optimistic. By the time he'd shaved and dressed, he was enthusiastic. They'd talk it through, he'd take her to the family brunch, and they'd work it out. No problem. All it took was compromise. Rosie would just have to understand his work schedule.