2000 Kisses (33 page)

T.J. plowed a hand through his hair. He had quite a few ideas of how he'd relax her. The problem was that it would probably be a mistake. Honor demanded that he try to put some distance between them until they sorted out where this relationship was headed. And of course there was the matter of her safety. Too often when things became personal, security became lax.

No matter how he looked at things, it was time to back off.

Sunlight slanted through the high windows as T.J. strolled toward the kitchen, stopping to watch Tess in silence from the doorway. There was an odd pain in his chest, and as he watched her pad barefoot in Ids kitchen, he almost forgot his good intentions.

“Am I interrupting something?”

She spun in a rush and TJ.'s breath caught at the
sight of her long, slim dress of purple linen. A simple silver chain decorated her wrist, and he thought he had never seen a woman half so beautiful.

Not that her radiance was going to influence him to change his mind.

“These are for you.” He held out a bunch of wild-flowers.

“They're lovely.” Tess looked around her, smiling crookedly. “But your kitchen isn't. I appear to have used every dish and glass in the house. Cooking hasn't ever been my strong point, you understand. “

TJ. pulled down a crystal flute from a high shelf. “Problem solved.” He avoided looking at her eyes. “Mae will be dropping by later. She wants to discuss plans for the Founders Day celebration.” He cleared his throat and studied the table. “Looks like you went to a lot of trouble.”

“This is my best effort; I warn you, cowboy.”

T.J. pointed to her hand. “Unless I'm mistaken, you've got mashed potatoes on your wrist.”

“I had a tangle with your pressure cooker, and I lost. Give me a minute to wash off.”

T.J. had a sudden urge to pull her down to his lap and stroke her skin clean with his tongue. After that there were a couple of hundred other spots he'd enjoy stroking … and tasting.

He frowned at the realization that keeping his distance was going to be a whole lot harder than he'd thought.

Instead of kissing her senseless, he focused on the food she'd made.

“I had a problem or two with the meat loaf.”

T.J. kept a straight face as he eyed the full plate, valiantly ignoring the lumps in the potatoes. “It looks
just fine.” He managed to keep his expression from changing as he bit into the potatoes. “Great texture,” he murmured between careful bites.

Next was the meat loaf. His first swallow created an explosive wave of five-alarm heat in his mouth. Fortunately, he was used to the heat, but Tess wouldn't be so lucky. “You might want to hold off on the meat. It's going to be a mite too hot for you. Which bottle did you use for the sauce?”

She gnawed at her lip. “The one in the back of your refrigerator. The one with no label.”

“The little red one?”

“I think so.”

Wild chiles, a gift from Miguel
Enough heat to send a grown man to his knees, weeping. Even Maria steered clear of its punch.

T.J. had to struggle to maintain a bland expression. “In that case, you'll definitely want to pass on the meat loaf. Try some potatoes instead.”

Tess locked her fingers together anxiously. “Potatoes. Now, that's a subject. Did you know there are over two hundred varieties in existence?”

All that caffeine was definitely making her edgy, but there was something else. Was she having regrets? Second thoughts?

“Actually, the first potatoes originated in South America,” she said, talking fast. “They go back eleven thousand years.” She gave an uncertain laugh. “Even the cultivated varieties go back ten thousand years in the Andes. Potatoes are one of the few edible plants that can thrive above eleven thousand feet. The Incas actually froze them for their armies to use as rations on the march.”

She was definitely on edge,
but that
didn't explain why she wouldn't meet his gaze.

She took a breath and charged on. “Of course, there were problems.”

“Aren't there always?” he said dryly.

“History says that either Sir Francis Drake or Sir Walter Raleigh presented potatoes to the court cook of Queen Elizabeth I. Unfortunately, the whole plants were boiled, including the stems and leaves. Since that's where most of the toxic alkaloids are contained, everyone became terribly sick after the meal. Potatoes got a bad rap for years. No one realized they were supposed to peel off the skin either.” She looked down, toying with the silver chain around her wrist.

“Tess.”

She went on nervously. “And then there's vodka. Did you know it was made from mashed potatoes? Schnapps, too. And some Scandinavian aquavit comes from fermented potatoes. Amazing diversity.” She studied her hands, scrubbing at a streak of potatoes she had missed. “One of my clients had a chain of fish and chips stores. That's how I got to know so much. I had to write press releases and radio spots. …” She paused to take a sharp breath. “Oh hell, I'm no cook. Who am I trying to kid?”

TJ. felt his control begin to crumble. Maybe he could work on instituting some distance between them tomorrow. Right now all he wanted to do was kiss her.

“I realize that a few ruined potatoes aren't going to wreck the world. That's not the point,” she said jerkily.

“Then, what is the point?”

“There's a reason it's called comfort food. I know you have things on your mind, so I thought a nice, comfortable meal might help. Meat loaf and mashed potatoes
are a snap, right? But look around you. I streak your walls and leave your kitchen looking like the aftermath of an air strike. I tried to do something for you and failed miserably.”

“Forget about the food,” T.J. muttered, feeling the first vicious stab of desire.

To hell with distance.

He pulled a wildflower from the vase and held it out. “About this fellow with the fish and chips—is he another client I'll have to track down and torture?”

She didn't smile. “Henry was eighty-five years old. He had twelve grandchildren.”

“You have to watch out for these old guys,” T.J. whispered, bending closer. “They figure they don't have much time so they work fast.” He gently tucked another wildflower behind her ear, then pulled her to her feet. “Would you care to …” He closed in for a long, hot kiss.

“To talk?” she whispered once she could breathe again.

“Try again, Duchess.”

Her head tilted. “To clean up those mashed potatoes streaking your walls? I tried, but I'm not much better at housecleaning than I am at cooking.”

He shook his head, pulling her closer, even though his conscience screamed that he was a fool and worse for pursuing a relationship that could never be more than temporary.

She tilted her head. “To discuss Y2K hazards and the potential vulnerabilities of cybermoney in the private sector?”

He slid his hands into her hair. “Not a chance.”

“I guess that shoots all the possibilities.”

“We haven't even
started
on the possibilities.” His
voice was gravelly. “I want to feel you again, Tess. Right now.”

Even if they both regretted it later.

“This is never going to work.” But her fingers were already sliding over his chest.

“Tell me about it”

She freed his top button. “We don't read the same books. We don't like the same music. We don't even talk the same.”

“Probably not.” He tugged blindly at the zipper on her dress. “You don't know anything about vigas and I don't know beans about rollovers.”

“Rollouts,” she said breathlessly. “And about those potatoes.” She worked at the buckle of his belt. “In some cultures they were believed to bring fertility.”

“Sounds intriguing.” His shirt fell.

Her dress landed right on top of it.

“Sweet God, you're beautiful,” he whispered in awe, drinking in the sight of her.

“No, it's you. This …” She ran her palm over the hard, muscled lines of his chest. “You make me forget everything, including the fact that we have nothing in common.”

“We have this,” he said.

“Whatever
this
is.”

Whatever. That's what he wanted: whatever she'd give him. Whatever he could take. He speared his fingers deeper into her hair, desire a drumbeat in his blood. “Now, Tess.”

“What are you—” Sunlight streamed through the window, glinting in her hair.

“Here. I can't wait. Not when it feels as if I've been waiting for you forever.” T.J. caught her in his arms and lowered her to the floor, working her last lacy garments
free. Then he simply looked at her while his heart pounded painfully. The rug was thick and soft beneath them as he pulled her onto his thighs.

Tess gave a broken sound of pleasure at his intimate touch. “We aren't being reasonable,” she said, closing her eyes at the nip of his teeth on her breast.

“To hell with being reasonable,” he said harshly, caressing her with rhythmic strokes that left her trembling.

Tess caught a racing breath. This
wasn 't
like her. She never yearned, never sighed. And yet here she was— pulse surging, skin fevered.

If it was madness, she didn't care. If there were regrets, she'd deal with them later.

He reached to the floor, protecting her even then, taking care of her with hands that weren't quite steady. And Tess felt her heart turn over, loved him for that care.

He entered her with a deep, hot friction.

Too slow, it intensified.

Enflamed.

He knew her too well already—where to skim, where to linger. He brought her hand to his mouth, biting her palm lightly as their bodies reached, joined. It was a dark sweetness to hear his harsh groan as she moved against him. It was sweeter still to know that the man beside her was just as confused and blinded as she was. By need. By desire.

Tess refused to call it love.

Love was untrustworthy, a changeable emotion suited to poets with short memories and a fickle sense of fidelity. No, she wanted stability and the kind of deep, wordless connection that stretched over good times and bad, through boredom and strife.

Not love.

She told herself so as waves of pleasure slammed home, pulling her inside out and shaking her very world.
Not love
, she swore again whispering his name as he found his own shuddering release, locked in her arms.

Lifetimes later, the sound of a car roused them from their breathless satiation. Gravel crunched, and then footsteps tapped to the courtyard.

“Someone's coming,” Tess said drowsily.

“So I. hear. They can just go away again.” TJ. smoothed the angle of her jaw.

“They might not want to.” Tess sighed as his hand moved over her breast.

“Nothing is as important as this,” he said darkly, palming her hip.

The doorbell chimed.

Once and then again.

T.J. scowled and turned Tess against his chest.

“Aren't you going to—”

“No.
”

Gravel crunched again. “McCall, are you in there?”

TJ. went still.

The bell chimed again. “It's Drake,” a deep voice called out. “I have to talk to you right now.”

W
ith a sigh, Tess rolled away, rose to her feet, and gathered her clothing. “Who is it?”

“An old friend who happens to be the sheriff over in Brinkley.” T.J. drew a ragged breath. “He said he was coming in tomorrow. I guess I'll have to see him.” He turned, searching for his shirt through the clothes scattered around them.

“Tobias, are you in there?”

Tess mouthed the name, trying to hide a smile. “Is that what the
T
stands for?”

“One word and you're history, little lady.” He scowled at the mound of clothes. “Where are my—”

Tess dangled a piece of white cotton. “Are you looking for these?”

He snatched the item from her fingers, cutting off an oath. “Now, where are my—”

Tess tossed him his socks.

“No, my jeans.”

Those followed a second later. T.J. yanked them on and jammed his arms into his shirt. “It might be personal, Tess.”

“I know. Scram.” She smoothed an unruly strand of his hair. “Love me and leave me.”

He pulled her to his chest, his gaze searing. “Don't joke.”