McCallum Quintuplets (12 page)

He nodded.

“Caleb was a true hero, marrying April so she could get custody of the quads.” She sighed, and her eyes went dreamy.

“That's why they got married? I thought it was a love match.” He had no business encouraging her. He couldn't seem to help himself.

“Oh, it is. Definitely. We found out a while back, though, that in the beginning, they'd both tried to convince themselves it was merely an arrangement. When Caleb's sister, Briana, married Hunter Callaghan and had the triplets, Jackson started pressuring Caleb to do the same—marry, that is. Not necessarily have the triplets. Caleb figured he'd get his dad off his back and do April a favor in the bargain—it looked better to the social workers if there were two parents to adopt the quads. Neither one of them counted on falling head over heels in love.”

“That seems to be in the air,” he mumbled. “Or in the water.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Zach realized that in addition to Annabelle's ability to talk with hardly a pause, she was also a good listener, because she knew practically everyone's life history—some of which surprised him. He wasn't sure he wanted to know this much about his co-workers.

She wasn't a gossip, though. Despite the green daggers she'd shot at him when he'd teased her, he
did
know that.
The information she'd imparted was common knowledge. He'd just steered clear of it as much as possible.

Contrary to her insistence otherwise, he still felt it wasn't wise to get personally involved in people's lives. He worried that soft feelings would cause him to lose his edge.

Because at the bottom of his soul, hidden by a front, ran a deep well of compassion. He hoarded that self-knowledge like a squirrel in a secret acorn patch.

Caught up in his thoughts, it was a moment before he realized the laughter he heard was coming from beside their table.

Flushed from dancing, April and Madeline hovered over them.

“Okay, you two,” Madeline said. “You're having too much fun over here hiding in the corner. Get your tushes out on the dance floor.”

Before he could object, April had him by the hand, dragging him and Annabelle in her wake and turning them to face each other.

Annabelle laughed and gyrated that sexy body in the too-tight jeans. “If we don't go with the flow, we'll cause a scene.”

He'd barely picked up the steps of the fast tune when the music ended. Saved, he thought, then realized he was doomed when a slow, dreamy ballad started immediately.

Everyone on the dance floor took their partners into their arms, each having eyes for only their spouses. Nothing he could do but draw Annabelle close. He couldn't just leave her standing here.

The minute her body eased up against his, he knew he was in trouble. Big trouble.

But did he stop? Hell, no. Instinctively, he pressed
against the small of her back, brought her so close a written prescription couldn't have squeezed between them.

He suppressed a groan, rested his cheek against her hair. It smelled like fresh apples, made him hungry. Hungry for the woman, not food.

He felt her warm breath against his neck, her rapid pulse beneath his fingers. She was as turned on as he was. He knew the way a woman's body worked. And this woman's was working overtime.

As was his.

She leaned back to look at him. That pressed the lower half of her body harder against his. But she didn't ease up on the pressure.

She gazed at him with the innocence of a lamb, unknowing that she was about to be led off by the wolf.

Surely she wasn't that innocent. Yes, she was young. He kept forgetting that.

But no woman as sexy as Annabelle Reardon could remain chaste for this long. The aura of sensuality in her movements would drive men wild.

Come to think of it, he didn't know that much about her personal life.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“Hard to see anyone else in the room when I'm lookin' at you, sugar.”

“I meant, do you have a boyfriend or something.”

“No. If I did, I wouldn't be plastered up against you.”

No, she wouldn't. “Why don't you have a boyfriend?”

She held her body slightly away, stiffened a bit in his arms, shrugged. “I was engaged once. He decided I wasn't right for him.”

“Why the hell not?”

Her smile was soft, knocked him right in the solar plexus.

“Thank you for that. At the time I was crushed. Then I realized he was right. We wouldn't have suited. He's married now, with two kids. This is really mean of me to say, but he dropped out of college and went to work at a fast-food chain, never really made anything of himself. His wife supports them.”

“Then he did you a favor.” He pulled her close again, knowing he shouldn't, unable to help himself. The feel of her body against his was becoming like a drug he craved. He told himself he was offering comfort—she really was better off without the jerk of a fiancé.

Zach had little respect for anyone who didn't have goals, didn't pursue them. If working his way up the ladder in a fast-food chain was a person's goal, then that was different. He could respect that, respect the hard work. But to put the burden onto a wife instead of making every effort to better oneself, well, that was pretty low.

“Definitely better off without him,” he murmured into her apple-scented hair.

He lost count of how many tunes they'd danced to. The band had taken a break, and the jukebox played slow ballads.

Zach looked around, noticed that most of their party had left.

When the song ended, he stepped back, his ego soaring when he noticed the dazed look on Annabelle's face. She'd been as caught up in the body contact as he, and unaware of their surroundings.

“Everyone's leaving. We probably should, too.”

“Yes. Good thing I walked. That beer's gone straight to my head.” She laughed. “Either the beer or it's you. Oh, Lord. Did I say that out loud?”

He grinned. “'Fraid so.”

“Guess I can't take it back, then.”

“Guess not. Did you say you walked?”

“Uh-huh. I live less than a mile from here. I like to get the exercise.”

“Not in the middle of the night, you don't. I'll drive you home.”

“Zach, that's not necessary—”

He put a finger on her lips, watched her green eyes widen. “It's absolutely necessary.”

And probably a big mistake. Because if he drove her home, he'd want to come in. And if he went in, he wasn't one hundred percent sure he could keep his hands to himself, wasn't sure he could remember that they worked together.

He had a personal rule about dating co-workers. It didn't work. And he didn't do it.

The battle waging inside him over breaking that rule was fierce.

Hell. He ought to be running in the other direction.

But he was too much of a gentleman to let a lady walk the streets alone at night.

 

A
NNABELLE HAD ADAPTED
a mode of bluffing around Zach. She joked with him, tried to make him believe she was tough and sophisticated. Inside, she was a mass of hormones and nerves.

And now she was in his luxury car, which smelled of leather and wealth, and he was taking her home. Should she invite him in for coffee?

Oh, Lord, her education truly was lacking in this area. And she didn't want him to know.

Especially after that dance. His body had stirred up her insides, scaring her with the force of her need. She'd never reacted this way when she'd danced with Peter.

What was the proper etiquette in a situation like this
when a man nearly knocked a woman's socks off, then offered to drive her home? Were there expectations?

Did she want there to be?
Yes. Absolutely.

Oh, dear. She was a nervous wreck. But, by dog, she wouldn't show it. This was her chance to find out what Zachary Beaumont was made of. Heck, she might even decide she didn't like him in that way after all.

Uh-huh. And Earl Frankle's prize pig was going to hop a ride to the moon on the next space shuttle.

“Um, do you want to come in?”

Zach stared at her for a moment, then shut off the car. It wasn't a conscious decision. He'd already decided he was going to drop her off and leave well enough alone.

Before he could change his mind, tell
her
he'd changed his mind, she was hopping out of the car, waiting for him on the small patio leading to her apartment.

“Big mistake, Beaumont,” he muttered, but got out of the car, pocketed the keys and followed.

“Oh, this weather is murder on my poor plants,” she commented as she unlocked the door and flipped on the light.

A profusion of flowers spilled out of colorful pots in her little courtyard. Inside, lush, thriving houseplants were everywhere. Rather than feeling cluttered, the apartment felt restful. Welcoming. His immediate impression was that this was the type of home where you could put your feet up, rest and regroup. Yet, in direct contradiction, it vibrated with energy.

“How about coffee?” she called as she made her way to the kitchen, flipping on lights as she went.

“Sounds good to me.” He promised himself he'd only stay for one cup. The jolt of caffeine would get him
through the Web site e-mails he needed to read and respond to tonight.

“Cookies?” she offered, holding out a plate. He'd noticed that she always brought in goodies for the other nurses and doctors. Everyone looked forward to her treats.

He also noticed that she was nervous, didn't quite know where to look.

“Annabelle?” He took the plate of cookies from her, set them aside.

“What?”

“Relax, okay? I'm not going to jump your bones.”

She let out a sigh. “Even if I asked you to?”

He knew she hadn't meant to verbalize that, could tell by the swift intake of her breath.

He closed his eyes, unwilling to let loose the images created by her simple, sensually packed words.

“I think we should change the subject.” Dammit, he'd never been so tongue-tied—or off balance—with a woman before.

“You're right. I'm sorry. I have a habit of blurting whatever's on the tip of my tongue. Let's blame it on the beer.”

He grinned. “That single beer you nursed all evening is taking an awfully big rap.”

“I guess it doesn't take much to loosen my tongue.”

“That's because you're such a little thing.” He gazed at her, deliberately crowding her, unsure of what devil had gotten into him all of a sudden.

“I'm not little!” She tilted her head back to meet his gaze. “I'm five foot five. It's just that you tall guys are so used to looking over the tops of our heads, you
think
we're little. And I have it on good authority that my body's a pear.”

“A pear?” He stepped back, gave her room and gave himself a better view.

“You know, little on top and bigger on the bottom. My friends and I were just discussing this the other week.”

His eyes traveled over her body. “Sorry. I can't quite see a pear.” Her breasts, molded by the tight tank top, were a nice handful. Her hips, encased in tight jeans, were a siren's call for any red-blooded man with a set of eyes. She wasn't skinny like the anorexics he usually dated. She was healthy and incredibly sexy.

Now, he could certainly imagine she might
taste
like a pear—sweet and juicy. But look like one? No way.

“Trust me,” she said. “I know what I'm talking about.”

He dragged his gaze from her body lest he get himself in trouble. Best to drop that particular subject, too.

Flowers bloomed in pots over the sink, on the dinette table, and spilled off a baker's rack in the corner.

“Did you have aspirations of being a horticulturist or florist?”

She laughed and reached for mugs to pour their coffee. “Actually my mother ran a nursery when she and my father met. Dad, wanting to impress her, studied up on the romantic language of flowers. After their first date, he sent her lilacs, which means ‘I'm falling in love with you.' When he took her to dinner with a diamond ring in his pocket, he gave her two roses that were joined to form a single stem. She knew instantly that meant, ‘Will you marry me?' The flowers spoke for him. She was touched that he cared enough to research her world. She said yes, and he gave her the ring.”

“A romantic man.”

“Very. Let's take our coffee in the living room. These chairs are too hard to relax in.”

He picked up his mug and followed her to the sofa. She kicked off her shoes, then sat next to him on the couch, curling one leg beneath her and turning so she could face him.

“My mom was the love of Dad's life,” she continued as though there hadn't been a break in the conversation.

“Was?”

“She was killed in an automobile accident. Dad was driving, I was in the back seat. Dad and I ended up in the hospital, but Mom died at the scene. Dad recovered physically, but not emotionally. He was a pharmaceutical salesman and he started traveling extensively to try to outrun his grief. That left me at thirteen to raise my brother and sisters.”

“That's a lot of responsibility for a thirteen-year-old. Especially since you'd just lost your mother. How old were your brother and sisters?”

“Carrie Anne was nine, Lori was seven and the twins, Stevie and Sabra, were four.”

“A baby raising babies.”

“We did all right. I think I was always an old soul. Some of the kids in high school called me a Goody Two-shoes, and I have to admit that hurt. My mom was gone, and I had responsibilities that they didn't. While they were going to dances and parties and proms, I was cooking meals, driving the girls to ballet lessons and cheering at soccer games.”

She shrugged, shifted on the couch and set her coffee mug on the table. “I didn't mind, though. We were close. And doing for my family gave me a sense of satisfaction and fulfillment.”

He studied her for a long moment. “That's all well and good. But what about you? If you always put others first, who takes care of you?”

“I do.” She bristled a bit, and he reached out to finger a strand of her hair, gave it a gentle tug, let her know he wasn't challenging her independence.

She smiled at him then. “I like it when your eyes speak like that.”

“Like what?”

“Now don't go frowning and spoiling it. You have this way of smiling with just your eyes. It's a sort of tenderness.”

He snorted a laugh. “I'm the least tender person you'd ever meet.”

“Ah, Dr. B. likes to lie to himself.”

“I do not.”

She patted his cheek, leaned forward and pressed her lips briefly where her palm had been. The caress was over before he'd even gotten the signal from his heart to his brain that his pulse had risen.

“Anyway, Dad remarried when I was eighteen. Jolene is a fabulous person. She's taken over now, and she's the best thing that's come into our lives since the accident. She's the mom we missed having all those years.”

“That's a nice thing to say about a stepparent. Most kids don't welcome the intrusion.” He could still feel the heat from where her lips had touched his cheek, leaving behind the slick residue of gloss.

“You'd have to meet Jolene. You talk to her for five minutes and you fall in love with her.” She made herself a little more comfortable on the couch, inched a bit closer to him.

“So, now I've told you my life history, why don't you tell me yours.”

“I doubt you've told me your
whole
life history.”

“The major highlights. Don't stall. Do you have sib
lings? Parents? What made you go into maternal-fetal medicine?”

“Whoa, that's a lot of questions at once.”

“You're a multi-task kind of guy. I think you can handle it.”

It constantly took him off guard the way she read him so well. And he didn't think she'd let up until she got her way. It'd be easier to comply than to fight it.

“I have an older sister, Mitzy, who's married to an investment banker. They have three girls, nine-year-old triplets, Rachael, Ashley and Michelle.”

“Triplets? Oh, my gosh, how wonderful.”

“Yes, they are. When I was a third-year resident, Mitzy got pregnant. She's a diabetic, so that made the high-risk pregnancy even more complicated. Watching the team of perinatologists take over her care and deliver healthy triplets is what motivated me to take the extra two-year subspecialty training program in maternal-fetal medicine. It's a specialty, as you know, that can be heartbreaking or incredibly joyful.”

“Yes. And the fact that you recognize that tells me you're not as gruff as you want to believe.”

He gave her a pointed look. “Do you want to hear this or psychoanalyze me?”

She gave him a sassy grin. “I'll hush.”

“Ha! That'll be the day. My mom lives on the outskirts of Austin—she owns a flower shop.”

“You're kidding! Both our moms had the same passion.”

“Seems so. My dad died just before I went to college.”

“Oh, Zach. I'm sorry.” She leaned forward again, rubbed her palm over his arm, his shoulder, stroking, soothing.

She was a toucher, an innate habit—or quality—that
came second nature to her. He didn't think she was deliberately radiating sensuality, but it was there nonetheless.

Her face was so close to his. He could smell the apple scent of her hair, see the shiny gloss on her lips. He wanted to kiss those lips, taste the gloss. Ever since she'd gotten him thinking about the sweet nectar of a pear, his mouth had been watering.

He circled her wrist with his hand, went utterly still.

Annabelle froze, her hand on Zach's neck. She'd only meant to offer comfort. But the intense look in his chocolate brown eyes suggested he was feeling discomfort. The sexual kind.

Oh, she didn't have any experience in the actual act, but she knew enough to recognize when a man was aroused.

Her heart began to pump. She was on her knees beside him, her breasts practically brushing his face.

“Zach?”

“I told myself I wouldn't do this. I don't think I can stop it now.”

He released her wrist, slid his hands to her waist and drew her forward. Off balance, she sprawled ungracefully onto his lap, felt a moment of embarrassment that he would notice her inexperience and run like the wind before she had a chance to experience him.

He didn't dump her and run. He slid his hand along her hip, positioned her on his lap, laid her over his arm and kissed her with a skill that made her see stars.

He came by his reputation as a ladies' man rightly. This guy knew what to do with a set of lips. He nibbled, toyed, teased and aroused. He didn't demand entrance, didn't rush for the prize.

Seduction. That's what he was doing to her.

She reached for the back of his head, drew him more firmly into the kiss, turned in his lap and poured every drop of emotion and need and wanting into that kiss.

Her forwardness was like releasing a dam. Where before his mouth had been gentle, now it demanded. And she gave. Freely, willingly.

She felt his palm against the bare skin of her stomach, smoothing over her bra. The front clasp popped open and he was cupping her.

Annabelle moaned, arched into him.

“You are so responsive,” he murmured, shifting them, pulling her shirt over her head, laying her down on the sofa cushions and fitting his body over hers.

She tore at his shirt, snatched it off his shoulders, reveled in the feel of his wide chest pressing against her bare skin.

When his hand slid down her belly to unsnap her jeans, to touch her where she ached, she arched against him, unable to draw in enough air. She felt dizzy, out of control.

“I've never…I mean…” She didn't know how to say what needed to be said. As aroused as she was, she was still scared. This man was worldly. She wasn't anywhere near matching him. She didn't think it would be fair to continue her bluff.

He raised up, pressing their groins more snugly together. Annabelle nearly lost her train of thought.

“You've never what?”

Her face flamed.

“Are you saying you're a virgin?”

All she could do was nod. She wanted him to show her what making love was all about, put out this fire burning in her belly and between her thighs.

Before she knew what was happening, he sat up, reached for his shirt.

Feeling vulnerable lying sprawled on the couch without her tank top, she made a grab for it, tugged it over her head, not bothering with her bra. Her nipples showed through the white cotton, but there was nothing to be done about it.

“Dammit, Annabelle, I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“I should never have started that. I'm too old for you, anyway.”

“What?” She had an urge to smack him, but controlled it. “You're joking, right?”

“You're twenty-three. I'm thirty-six.”

“And your point?”

He stared at her, speechless.

“Age is merely a number, Zach. It's the person inside that counts.” And that was the man Annabelle wanted. How in the world could he consider himself older? He was young, athletic, handsome, fun.

“Do you find me immature?”

“No. But you've just admitted you have no experience with men. You should find a younger man to discover each new day life brings, not some workaholic who's already been there and done that.”

“You're starting to make me mad. I think I can make up my mind for myself. I was the boss in my family for a whole lot of years. For your information, I got along just fine making decisions without mucking up my life too bad.”

“Look, I'm trying to be a good guy here.”

“Who the heck asked you to be?” She fired the words back. In a minute she'd have the good sense to be embarrassed by her bold arguing. Right now, she was simply
annoyed—never mind that she'd already decided earlier today the man had three strikes against him from the get-go. That he wasn't right for her.