When Somebody Loves You (7 page)

“In spite of your enthusiasm,” January said drily, “I think I’ll buy it.”

She also ended up buying a pair of black heels to go with it.

An hour later it was Helen’s turn to model sun clothes.

“Well, what do you think?” Helen asked, smiling expectantly as she emerged from the dressing room wearing knee-high hose, heels, and a chartreuse-and-purple floral swimsuit with a plunging neckline and a ruffled skirt.

It was all January could do to keep her jaw off the floor. “It’s . . . it’s . . .”

“A stunner, huh?” Helen said brightly.

Over a bottle of wine several years ago, Helen had confided to January that she lived in horror of becoming a dull, blue-haired little old lady. Loving her for fighting that fear, January smiled broadly. “That’s the word, all right.”

Six thirty Saturday night found January calm, collected, and in complete control. At least that was the appearance the woman in her dressing table mirror projected.

With robotlike motions, she dabbed perfume behind each ear. Untying her robe, she applied the same scent between her breasts, then, after a moment’s hesitation, to the insides of her thighs. She stood stiffly and slipped out of her robe. As she stared stonily at the body she’d soaked and oiled like a sacrificial offering, she reaffirmed what she planned to do.

Living in a constant state of quandary was Helen’s style, not hers. So she’d pulled herself together and reached a decision midweek. No man was worth the mental anguish she’d put herself through since the day she’d succumbed to the charm of a bushy brown dog named George and his outlaw owner.

Therefore, January no longer looked upon the evening to come as a date, but rather as a life experience she’d put off too long. It was time to find out what all the fuss was about.

Michael was a player. He played at life, he played at loving. And he played the game well. Why he’d decided she was someone he wanted to play with, she wasn’t quite sure. She strongly suspected, however, that despite his single-minded attempt at seduction, once he’d won, he’d be ready to move on to a new sport.

If it hurt a little to accept that, it was the price she paid for giving in to his charm. But she’d also decided that since she was going to be a participant in this event, she was going to reap a few of the rewards as well. She was a thirty-two-year-old virgin. A dirigible in the jet age. What better man to choose for her first lover than the wise and worldly Michael Hayward?

Besides, she’d come to believe Helen was right. Evading Michael wasn’t the answer. He was by nature an investigator, and although he’d quit pushing about the article, she was convinced that if she continued to elude him, he’d start digging into her past until he found out everything he wanted to know. It wasn’t worth the risk. The sooner she got him out of her life, the better. And as soon as he found out about her inexperience, he’d get bored and be gone.

She turned stoically to the underthings she’d laid out with surgical precision on her bed—Helen’s gifts for her date.

“You can’t wear white cotton panties beneath a dress that shouts black lace, sweetie,” Helen had said, and shoved the box of goodies into January’s hands. “It just wouldn’t do.”

Looking at the “goodies” now, January decided they’d look great on a model smiling provocatively from the glossy pages of a men’s magazine, inviting the reader to “Dial a date, darlin
’
.
”

Determined to see this through, she picked up the lacy black garter belt, swallowed hard, and slipped it up and over her bare hips. Careful to keep the seams straight, she eased into the sheer black stockings and inexpertly fastened them front and back, liking the retro look. The black lace camisole came next, squeezing snugly across her ribs and cupping her breasts so that they spilled over the top of the underwire bra cups. Last came the thong. Indulging, just a little, in the fantasy, she watched in the mirror as she stepped into the skimpy scrap of silk. Uninvited, a sensual, sultry picture developed of Michael slipping it off with great pleasure.

She shivered despite a sudden heat that ignited in her breast and radiated through her body like a slow-moving flame. The delicious warmth surprised her . . . and frightened her. She wasn’t prepared for the force of it. Or for the anticipation of how this evening would end.

A glance at her bedside clock confirmed that Michael would be there any minute. She carefully removed the black dress from its padded hanger and slipped into it and her heels. A lengthy appraisal in the mirror told her that the silver ear bobs and matching choker Helen had loaned her were a stunning complement to the dress.

The ringing of the doorbell told her she wasn’t as ready for this as she’d thought.

Her first inclination was to walk directly into the closet, shut the door behind her, and stay there until he went away. But the tongue-lashing she’d get from Helen if she took the coward’s way out coaxed her out of the bedroom.

Like a prisoner heading down death row, she went to answer the door.

Michael had reached a decision midweek. The lady didn’t know it yet, he thought as he waited for her to answer the door, but she needed him. He could see it in her eyes every time she let herself look at him, could see a raw, aching loneliness. A hunger. Not just a physical hunger, but the soul-deep, heart-knotting hunger a good woman feels for a good man. He wanted to be that man. He wanted to feed that hunger. But if he scared her off before she understood how good he was for her, she’d bolt again, and he’d have no one to blame but himself. And they’d both be losers.

So his word for the day was “cool.” He’d been cool when his contact from Denver had called to tell him he still hadn’t had any luck tracking down a history on January Stewart. He’d been cool when he’d come home from a quick trip to the dry cleaners to find that George had eaten his favorite racquetball racket. And he was going to be cool tonight and keep his hands to himself if he had to kick himself in the shins to do it.

But when January opened her door and gave him that long, slow blink that was sexier than any blatant come-on he’d ever fielded, cool flew out the window and he damn near went up in flames.

“Hi,” she said, her husky voice revealing her nervousness.

“Hi, yourself,” he managed to say, and, regaining a small measure of his presence of mind, added a hoarse, “You look sensational.”

What she looked was absolutely edible! She’d whipped her hair into a soft, sassy froth of curls that showcased her delicate features, emphasizing her aristocratic cheekbones and her pert little nose. Her eyes seemed as black as the dress she was wearing, a dress that was designed, he was sure, to make a man fantasize about the feel of the soft, full breasts beneath it, and the endless, endless length of legs disappearing above the hem of the skirt.

She smiled self-consciously and stepped back from the door. “Please, come in.”

Slipping inside and closing the door behind him, Michael extended a package. “A peace offering from George,” he said. Chucking his edict to keep his hands to himself, he tugged her slowly but forcefully toward him. “And this,” he whispered, lowering his head, “is from me.”

The eyes that looked questioningly into his were startled but not afraid. Promising himself he’d do nothing to reignite her fear, he touched his mouth to hers with a featherlight pressure. When she didn’t resist, when in fact she hesitantly slipped her arms around his waist, he felt something akin to an explosion rumble through his chest. The aftershocks spread at the speed of light to every extremity of his body. With a groan, he pulled her tighter against him and deepened the kiss.

Her lips softened, then parted beneath his, with an arresting innocence. He felt a sensual urgency in the way she cautiously accepted the first touch of his tongue, the first deep stroke.

Shaken by the intensity of his physical reactions and by the speed with which she’d aroused him, he lifted his head and set her a step away before he lost complete control.

Clearing his throat, he gazed into her slightly dazed eyes and spoke with a lightness he was far from feeling.

“George’s feelings will be hurt if you don’t open that.”

For a moment she looked confused, then she remembered the package in her hand. “Oh . . . oh, Michael, really, this isn’t necessary.”

He held out his hands, palms up. “I told him that, but he insisted. Go ahead. Open it.”

With a wary but pleased little smile, she carefully unwrapped the package. A swift and strong flash of insight told him she wasn’t used to receiving presents. He was still analyzing that impression and deciding how he was going to rectify it when she pulled out the pale pink sweatshirt. She sliced him a puzzled look before studying the logo on the front of the shirt. A huge, comically daffy dog grinned back at her. The dog, bearing an uncanny resemblance to George, was wearing his own sweatshirt, which boasted the words: “I brake for trees” in big black letters.

Michael watched her eyes light up in totally spontaneous, totally unguarded amusement, and he decided it would be a good idea for him to make love to her right then and there. It might just teach her that it wasn’t nice to mess with a man’s cool with a smile that generated megawatts of crackling sensual heat.

Reluctantly, he controlled his urges. “I told him it was silly,” he said, “that if he really wanted to square things with you he should have sent flowers or candy, but he insisted you’d look pretty in pink.”

“You tell George,” she said as she avoided meeting his eyes and worked overhard in placing the shirt back in the box, “that it’s a very special gift, and I like it better than any flowers or candy he could have sent me.” After sending him a brief look of thanks, she excused herself to get her purse.

Michael took advantage of her absence to cool himself down and to familiarize himself with her home. The one and only time he’d been inside, he’d been too angry and then too stunned to appreciate what she’d done to convert a modest, predictable suburban cottage into a unique, stylish home.

His little lawyer loved color. He wasn’t surprised about that, or that he’d started thinking of her as his little anything. Somehow he’d known that beneath all those stoic power suits of navy and gray, she had a passion for pretty things. For some reason, though, she seemed to think she didn’t dare let anyone know it. But at home, on her own turf, she could use whatever splashes of color she chose, and she chose well. From the dramatic jade and silver in her foyer to the southwestern pastels in her living room, he was impressed with her sense of taste and style. Just thinking about what she might have done in her bedroom had his head spinning.

Yet this was no decorator’s layout of clinical perfection. Michael felt a certain warmth, a certain love, that no professional could have achieved in January’s eclectic mix of old and new, bargain basement and home crafted. And everywhere, everywhere, were thriving green plants.

He’d just made out the initials on a particularly stunning watercolor when he heard her come back into the living room. “You did this?” he asked over his shoulder as she walked up behind him.

She nodded.

He moved to study the other pieces around the room. “You did all of these,” he said, impressed. “They’re wonderful.”

She shrugged off the compliment. “I minored in art prior to law school. It’s still an outlet for me.”

It was the first piece of information about her private self that she’d ever offered voluntarily. He felt like she’d dropped a big fat piece of pie in his lap. He loved pie. He was going to love cracking the protective armor on this lady even more.

Sensing, however, that now was not the time to push with questions, he helped her on with her coat. “I hope you like the Flagstaff House.”

“I’ve never been there.”

“Then, dear lady, prepare to be pampered, placated, and pleasured with one of the finest dining experiences of your life.”

“That nice?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s nice, but I was talking about my company.”

He raised his eyebrows suggestively and was rewarded with another unguarded smile. He could get used to those smiles. He
planned
on getting used to them.