The Stud (10 page)

Gasping, she pressed a hand to her heart. "I didn't hear you. "

He was standing barefooted in the doorway, wearing an old sweatshirt and sweatpants. A dark stubble covered his jaw, lessening the effect of his scar. He looked sleepy and mussed and thoroughly endearing. He also looked unabashedly masculine—so that even if she hadn't smelled him on her sheets, even if she hadn't thought of him during her shower, even if she
hadn't
been thoroughly intimate with him the night before, she would have felt his pull. It helped some that his eyes were half-lidded; if those electric blues had been open wide, she might have melted on the spot. Her cheeks were heated enough as it was.

In an attempt to buy time to calm down, she tugged open the refrigerator and peered inside. She had gone to the market on Saturday and was well stocked.

"Would you like an omelet? I have some terrific Vermont cheddar to put in it. Or ham. Or onions. Or all of the above. " She straightened, took a half step back and bumped into him. Her head shot around, eyes up to his. "Sorry. I didn't hear you come over. " She ducked into the refrigerator. "If you'd rather have bagels and cream cheese, I have those, or you can have an omelet
and
a bagel—"

"Jenna. "

She set a carton of orange juice on the counter. "Hmm?"

"Look at me, Jenna. "

She darted him another quick glance before going back for the butter. "Pancakes, maybe?"

He put his hands on her shoulders and physically turned her. "Jenna,
look
at me. "

That was the last thing she wanted to do. Looking at him would bring back the image of what they'd done in bed, and that image made her squirm. But she wasn't a coward. Mustering the composure that stood her well as president and chairman of the board of McCue's, she tipped up her chin and met his gaze.

"You're still embarrassed, " he accused.

"A little. "

"But why?"

She knew he was mystified. What was a little sex to him? He had made love to more women in his day than she had
dated
men. He was freer with his body, and more confident in it than she would ever be in hers. He wouldn't understand the discomfort she felt knowing he was Caroline's big brother, the awe she felt knowing he was a world-renowned adventurer and author. He was larger than life, and though she was successful and sophisticated within her own sphere, that sphere was narrow. His was not.

But she didn't want to go into all that. So she said, "The husband of one of my good friends is a gynecologist. Sharon can't understand why I don't use him, but there's no way I could. Some things demand detachment. If Don were my doctor, each and every time I saw him, whether it was at a cookout here, at a party somewhere else, at the movies, the post office or the supermarket, I'd know—we'd
both
know— what he'd seen and touched. I'd be mortified. " She paused, then added, "Having sex with you is a little like that. You're not my lover. You're my... my... I don't know
what
to call you. "

Spencer scowled. "I didn't see a hell of a lot. It was dark. "

"You touched. "

"And enjoyed. " He gave her small shake. "So there's no cause for mortification. You should be proud, Jenna. What we did last night felt really good!"

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that he wasn't just saying that to keep her spirits up. He was capable of it, she knew. She had seen the way he had buoyed Caroline when, soon after her wedding, she was convinced that her marriage was on the rocks. Ironic, given that he was against marriage for himself, but he had argued a wonderful case for patience, understanding and compromise. Caroline had listened and stuck with it Her marriage had survived that rocky start and grown strong.

Oh, yes, Spencer could be convincing. Jenna wanted to believe every last word he said. Somehow, though, she didn't think it would be wise. A woman could become addicted to praise like that, and Spencer would soon be gone.

With that in mind, she said, "I'm really grateful for all you're doing, Spencer. I hope you know how much. My baby is going to be so wonderful, and I have you to thank. "

His blue eyes scolded her for trying to change the subject. "You can thank me by relaxing when I'm around. You can also thank me by looking a little messy once in a while. You didn't have to get all spiffed up. "

"I'm not all spiffed up. "

He looked her over. "Silk blouse? Hair in a twist? Makeup?" He challenged her with an arched brow. "On a Sunday morning?"

She was silent in her guilt.

"I know what you're doing, Jenna. You're trying to keep this thing businesslike, but some things don't have anything to do with business, and this is one. Sure, what we're doing is unconventional. It's an arrangement something we agreed to for a specific purpose, but that doesn't mean it has to be cold or matter-of-fact You can't be detached when it comes to something like this. There are feelings and emotions involved. " He gave her another gentle shake. "I won't have you stifling them, do you hear?"

"I can't help but hear, " she said softly.

"But will you
listen?"

"I'll try. "

He stared at her for another minute before raising his hands in concession. "Okay. That sounds okay. "

She hadn't expected him to let her off the hook so easily. The fact that he had, gave her a boost. "So what do you want for breakfast?"

Without a moment's thought, he reeled off, "One omelet loaded, plus a bagel, but no pancakes, and I can help make the omelet. I've been cooking for myself for years. "

She wasn't surprised. Spencer was the most independent man she knew. "That may be, but you're in my house, as my guest, doing me a monumental favor. You wouldn't let me pay for dinner last night. The least I can do is to make you breakfast. Besides, if you don't let me do it, you'll never know what kind of a cook I'll be for your child. "

She knew she'd made her point when he raised his hands again, this time in surrender. "Make me breakfast. I'll take a shower while you do. As soon as I eat, I have to work. "

Jenna wasn't sure what she'd expected, but it certainly wasn't the doggedness with which Spencer sat in her office and worked on his book. She had thought he'd take breaks. She had thought he'd keep tabs on what she was doing. She had thought he would pace the floor, brooding over one passage or another. But he sat still, pencil in hand, barely moving from his chair all morning.

At first, she sat on the back patio reading the Sunday paper, expecting him to join her at any minute. She made sure that her blouse didn't bunch at the waist, that she wasn't caught reading the funnies, that her legs were gracefully arranged. When minutes became hours and she realized her efforts were wasted, she began doing the things she would normally do on a Sunday. She changed the sheets and put the old ones in the wash. She went through her closet for clothes to be dropped off at the dry cleaner the next day. She caught up on personal correspondence. She called her marketing director to discuss an upcoming advertising program.

She waited for Spencer to emerge at lunchtime. When he didn't, she brought him a large turkey sandwich and a soda. He finished both in record time, refused seconds, and left the office only long enough to use the bathroom before going back to work.

He did take time off for dinner, but not until eight o'clock that night and then only for pizza in the kitchen. Jenna was oddly disappointed. She had wanted to cook, but he argued that he was too preoccupied to appreciate the effort and that pizza would do just fine. So she called in an order and brought it home, then, while he ate, asked questions about his book. It was about a trek he had made through the rain forests of the Amazon in search of a tribe of Indians that was reportedly using medicinal plants to cure certain cancers. While the efficacy of those plants had yet to be proven, the core of Spencer's story consisted of the Indians' way of life.

"When can I read it?" Jenna asked. His enthusiasm, so rich in his tone and expression, was contagious.

"When it's published next spring. "

"Not before?"

He shook his head. "No one reads it before, except my editor. " He made a face. "Not that he's ever gonna like this one. " He carried his plate to the sink. "I have a feeling he'll fight me all the way. He was looking for a treasure hunt. I gave him an anthropological study. He can say he doesn't like the way the story's organized, but that's just an excuse. "

"What does he have against an anthropological study?"

"It's not a treasure hunt. "

"But it could be fascinating. "

"It
is
fascinating—" Spencer snorted "—but to convince him of that is something else. " He added her plate to the dishwasher and closed the door. "Okay, I'm back to work. "

"You've never done an anthropological study before, " Jenna said, turning to let her voice follow him as he left the room.

"Yeah, well, it's time, " he called back before he disappeared from sight.

She wanted to ask him more, but the office swallowed him up. So she brought him coffee and kept his cup refilled, then baked brownies and offered him those. By eleven, realizing that there wasn't much more she could do for him, she decided to go to bed. Going to the office door, she waited until he reached a break point and looked up. "I think I'll turn in. Should I put on a fresh pot of coffee?"

He sat back in his chair and regarded her with tired eyes. "Nah. I've had enough to keep me up for a while. What time do you leave tomorrow?"

"Seven-fifteen. I have an appointment at eight. Will you be working here all day?"

With a despairing glance at the papers that covered the desk in clumps, he nodded. "When will you be back?"

A buzzing started in the pit of her stomach. Tomorrow night was the night. Again. "Five-thirty. Would you like to eat in or out?"

"Out. I'll be stir-crazy by then. But I don't want to bump into my parents or Caroline—" He interrupted himself to ask, "Does Caroline know I'm here?"

"I didn't tell her. I thought you would if you wanted to. "

"That would have made you more uncomfortable. Has she asked you what I decided to do?"

"Yes, but I told her we were still discussing it. "

"Once you're pregnant, will you tell her the truth?"

"I'm not sure, " Jenna said, then added softly, "probably not. That might be easier all the way around. " She went on before he could comment. "So where would you like to go to dinner?"

"Someplace where we won't bump into anyone who will want to talk for three hours. And I don't want to dress up. Any suggestions?"

"I'll think of a place, " she promised, and raised a casual hand. "'Night. " She slipped away from the door.

"Jenna?" She leaned back in to find his eyes suddenly less tired-looking than they had been moments earlier. They were warmer, more direct and penetrating. They sent an unmistakable message, which he followed up with "I'll look forward to it"

Keeping her poise, she simply nodded and left, but she thought about his words all the way back to her room. She thought of them later, when she lay in bed ignoring the book on her lap. They were the last things she thought about before she fell asleep and the first things she thought about when she woke up in the morning. When her thermometer told her that she was ovulating, the words took on a more practical meaning. Even that, though, she pushed from her mind when she set off for work.

She was busy all morning, going from one meeting to the next. When she had a break at noontime, she found herself wondering how Spencer was doing. The telephone beckoned, but she resisted. Theirs was a business relationship, she reminded herself, and she didn't call business associates to see if they'd eaten lunch.

So she didn't call Spencer, but went back to work, and for a while, she successfully immersed herself in studying the company's latest spreadsheets. As the afternoon wore on, however, her mind began to wander, and always in the same direction. She thought of Spencer coming to her again, of his touching her, of the heat of his skin and the heaviness of his sex. She grew warm inside, then trembly. She actually left the office early and drove around for an hour to relax before going home.

Spencer was sound asleep when she arrived. After searching the house for him, she found him on the patio, sprawled facedown on the chaise longue. His bare feet hung over the end. One arm was tucked under him, the other bent to the flagstone, long fingers loosely splayed. She debated waking him, but didn't have the heart. So she called the restaurant—a dark, quiet place in Providence where neither of them would have been recognized—and canceled their reservations. Then she changed into a casual sun dress and, leaving a note on the counter lest he wake up while she was gone, went to the local market for a pound of fresh shrimp.

Spencer was still sleeping when she returned, which pleased her tremendously. She liked the idea that he was getting the rest that he needed. She also liked the idea of making dinner, which was amusing in that she was a businesswoman, not a cook—but understandable given the maternal instincts that had taken her over in recent days. Granted, Spencer wasn't a child, but the urge to nurture was there. She looked on what she was doing as practice.

With three separate cookbooks open on the counter, she made shrimp curry, saffron rice and a cucumber salad. When Spencer slept on, she took out a fourth cookbook and whipped up a cold strawberry soup, and when she still had time to spare, she made an apple crunch for dessert. By then the sun had set, and she was wondering whether he was all right. So she went out to the darkened patio and knelt beside him. Only one eye was in sight, and it was closed. The scar running along his jaw was masked by the night and less threatening than usual. In fact, the whole of him looked less threatening than usual. He actually looked vulnerable.

Not sure whether she liked the vulnerable Spencer over the one who was in full command, she finger-combed the hair from his brow and rested a hand on his back. His skin was warm through his T-shirt, his muscles firm to the touch. "Spencer?" she called softly. "Spencer?"