Ain’t Misbehaving (5 page)

Sleep was the last thing on her mind.

He’d gone to a lot of trouble to find her—only to leave without even mentioning that he wanted to see her again.

He stole kisses in very odd places. Like hospital parking lots in the rain. Like fire towers. She had no question in her mind that he’d been as turned on as she’d been each time they touched. Only he’d left without the least attempt to press for more.

She’d told him practically her entire life story, and he hadn’t even told her his last name. Or what he did for a living. Or where he lived. Or why those wonderful smiles of his were so few and far between…

There was so darned much experience in his eyes—life experience, and not the easy kind. Every time she was around him, she had an urge to cuddle him. Hold him tight, coax out more of those smiles of his, make him laugh, razzle-dazzle him with…what? Brown hair and brown eyes and an average figure?

She thumped the pillow with her fist. Just what is going on here, Kay Sanders? she scolded herself roundly. Mitch had the look of a man who’d known plenty of women. Undoubtedly more attractive, sexier, smarter, more creative types, she added glumly. Maybe he was between women just now. Maybe he’d simply happened to have a free afternoon and evening today.

She told herself firmly that she had more sense than to make too much of it. Yet her dreams were haunted by a pair of dark eyes and a lazy, disarming smile.

***

“Mitch?”

“Back here, Dad,” Mitch called out. Removing the magnifying loupe from his eye, he strode briskly across the small octagonal room to greet his father—but Aaron Cochran was already in the doorway.

Aaron clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder affectionately. “I thought you must be back from Spokane by now. You know, I could have picked you up, if I’d known what time your plane was coming in.”

“I left my car at the airport. No problem.”

“So how’d it go?”

Mitch gave his father an amused glance. Amazing, how he’d misjudged his dad once upon a time. The Cochrans came from a long line of rough-and-ready lumberjacks. If these days Aaron spent most of his time overseeing his timber empire from an office, Mitch still suspected that his father valued physical rather than mental prowess in a man. Way back, when Mitch had been forced into a sedentary lifestyle, the transition had been that much tougher because he couldn’t help feeling that he was failing his father along with everything else.

But it was Aaron who’d nudged Mitch into minerals, gruffly challenging his son out of his depression, filling the library with books, bringing in tutors so Mitch would have the education he certainly never thought he wanted at fifteen.

And at the moment, his father was impatiently surveying the octagonal room, with its sheets draped as curtains and its bare floors and spectroscopes and balancing scales, with Mitch’s own feeling of possessiveness. “Are you going to keep me in suspense for the next year?” his father demanded. “Was the meeting worth it or not?”

“Well worth it. He jumped for the tourmalines, but more important—” Mitch handed his father the loupe. Silently, Aaron fitted it to his eye and bent over the table. The single stone, on white velvet, had the dazzling brilliance of an emerald. Its fire caught every ray of light as Aaron slowly shifted it in his fingertips.

“Tsavorite,” Aaron identified it. “Dammit, I’ve never seen one this large before.”

“Flawless,” Mitch affirmed. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, enjoying his father’s pleasure. Neither said anything for a minute.

“How much did you have to pay?” Aaron demanded finally, but his eyes were still on the stone. Perching on the stool, he adjusted the lamp and then bent over the tsavorite again.

Mitch answered his question.

“You know, with a little more training, you could have been a thief,” Aaron complimented him wryly.

“Hell, he tried to pawn a tray of smoked opals off on me first.” Mitch took the stone and wrapped it carefully before locking it in the trunk chest against the far wall. “You want a cup of coffee?”

“No time. Was that the only stone you bought?”

Mitch shook his head. “A few others,” he said as they wandered back toward the front of the house. “He didn’t really have the quality I wanted. Frankly, I don’t know how he got his hands on that one.”

A barren hall with a swinging lightbulb led to the living room, where Aaron paused, giving his son a wry smile. It wasn’t exactly a living room yet. Ladders and drop cloths and paint cans caught the early afternoon light. “You know,” Aaron drawled, “you’re socking away plenty of money these days. Going to get around to buying a few sticks of furniture for this old barn eventually?”

“In time. It’s taking me a long time to fix the place up.”

“All of which you could afford to hire others to do.”

Mitch shook his head, and his father chuckled. “When do you sleep?”

“I haven’t time.”

Aaron sobered abruptly. They were alike physically, both tall and broad-shouldered and lean. Mitch had his father’s dark hair, the same quietness in the way he moved, the same enigmatic expression in his dark eyes. They were both stubborn. Both fiercely independent. And they understood each other, at times, far too well. “You’re pushing it, you know,” Aaron said quietly. “Trying to do everything all at once. It’s not like that anymore. You’ve got time. And you know I’ll help you—”

“Good. You can let me know what my last round of medical adventures cost you.”

Aaron sighed. It was an old argument. Even before that final operation, Mitch had been pulling his financial weight in the family, with a drive that his father respected and a stubbornness no one could control. Lately, yes, Mitch had pursued a most determined course in fortune-building…and he’d fiercely resented his father’s paying the last hospital bill.

Aaron understood. Mitch had never been able to tolerate feeling dependent on others, and had a man’s need to pay his own way. But for Aaron there was no forgetting the long hours in the waiting room, with the knowledge that this last operation could swing either way. It wasn’t the gift of money but the gift of life he’d been so desperate to give his son. The decision to go under the knife one final time had been Mitch’s. It was Aaron who’d barely survived it.

“If you want to help me out, you can accept your mother’s invitation to dinner tonight,” Aaron said abruptly.

Mitch dug his hands in his pockets as his father pulled on his coat. “Dad—”

“She told me to tell you there’d be prime rib, a good Burgundy, glazed carrots, blueberry pie…”

“And who’s she lined up as a surprise across the table this time?” Mitch smiled dryly.

“Laura Kingsley.”

Mitch chuckled. “Let no one suggest that Mom leaves any stone unturned.”

“Your mother—” Aaron cleared his throat “—occasionally lacks subtlety. On the other hand, she says we haven’t had the Kingsleys over in some time.”

“And their daughter, by some miracle, just happened to be in town.”

“A miracle, yes.” Aaron looked at his son and burst out laughing. “Do you want a word of fatherly advice?”

“No offense, Dad, but not particularly.”

“Thank God.” Aaron glanced at his watch, then negotiated a path around a pile of cardboard boxes near the door. “You know, if you should want to sell that garnet—”

Mitch shook his head. “If I can find a match, I’ll work up a set of earrings for Mom for Christmas.”

“Dinner?” Aaron asked abruptly, giving his son a wry look. He knew damn well Mitch was going to find some way to pay back the debt.

Mitch hesitated. “Not tonight, Dad. I’ve got an afternoon of painting here, plus I want to get a run in, maybe a game of racquetball. Beyond that, I honestly have work to do. Tell Mom thanks—and I’ll stop by to see her tomorrow.”

“That’ll mollify her.” There was a moment more, as both men stood in the doorway, a quick flash of eye contact that simply conveyed the very real affection they had for each other. “Not that I appreciate being left alone to entertain those two vacant-headed Kingsley women over dinner this evening. You just keep in mind that you owe me one.”

Mitch closed the door a moment later. With his father gone, the house seemed pregnant with a peculiar, lonely silence. He tugged off his tie, taking the steps upstairs two at a time. His bedroom was the only room in the entire house that was more or less furnished. There’d been ample space in the huge room for a couch and armchair on one side, for his double bed on the other. The rest of the furniture included some handsome teak bookcases and an old chest lacquered in navy blue, Chinese style, that had belonged to his grandparents. He’d collected Chinese prints from the time he was a kid, so the walls didn’t look too bare. Chinese had been the first language he’d started to learn during those years when he’d been forced to pursue sedentary activities.

Sheets hung in the windows. He’d gone to a store to buy curtains once, but couldn’t make head or tail of the measurements, nor did he have the least idea what a valance was. Of course, he could have asked for help—but he wasn’t much inclined to take help from anyone these days. All his life, he’d had to ask for far too much from other people.

Within ten minutes, he was out of the business suit he’d worn to lunch and into painting jeans and an ancient crewneck sweater.

He switched on the overhead light and opened a paint can, smiling to himself as he thought about his mother’s less than subtle machinations.

She wanted him married. She also wanted an even dozen grandchildren. Preferably yesterday.

The paint roller scudded over the wails, turning an odd shade of rose to an antique cream. The house was around fifty years old. When he’d finally recovered from the last operation, he’d looked at newer houses. And to speed the recovery process, he’d generally tried to fill most evenings with a woman across a restaurant table from him. That’s what he thought he
should
want: to buy a brand-new bachelor’s pad, and to hurry back into circulation and make up for lost time. Neither houses nor women had been hard to find.

Neither gave him what he wanted.

He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t play it like a kid just starting out. He was a man, not a kid. He had a man’s need for a home and privacy, but the home had to express
him,
and none of the newer places he looked at fit the bill. He also had a man’s need for a woman at his side, the kind of woman he’d like to wake up to in the morning. He wanted more than just the quick encounters that were readily available.

Oh, he’d considered going to bed with them. An easy lay would have solved any number of problems—not the least of which was sheer overwhelming physical frustration. And with a stranger—well, if she guessed about his inexperience, it would hardly matter.

Mitch stepped back, viewing the half-finished wall with a critical eye. The plaster sucked in the paint, and minutes later the original color showed through. The cathedral ceiling had taken him an entire week to paint, and then another week to repaint.

Strangers hadn’t been an answer. Twice, he’d been close. But the scenes had reeked of two people taking advantage of each other so cold-bloodedly that he’d backed off, feeling like a bastard. The women might not care that they were being used, but he did. He’d had to fight for life too damn hard not to separate the gold from the dross. Nobody had time to waste on experiences with no value.

An image of Kay flickered in his mind. He blocked it, irritated. In the past two weeks, ever since he’d left her that Friday night after the poker game, he’d been carrying a mental picture of her around with him everywhere. Gold framed. Twenty-four-karat gold, because she was far softer than fourteen-karat.

He told himself he was completely over that first rush of overwhelming attraction for her. She had droves of men in her life already, lovers he couldn’t begin to compete with. And he wasn’t going to try. But he just couldn’t dismiss that resistant mental picture of the woman.

“So when are you going to tell me who the man is?” Susan asked. Plopping down three bulky parcels, she slid into the booth across from Kay. Hurriedly, she finger-combed a disordered set of bouncing blond curls in a characteristic gesture.

“What are you talking about?” Kay returned, as she nodded a thank-you to the waitress for delivering two steaming mugs of coffee. Unbuttoning her jacket, she wrapped her freezing hands around the warm mug.

“For openers, we’ve been shopping for two hours and you haven’t bought a single thing. On top of that, you’ve been crabby for two weeks. On top of
that,
you made a date for lunch with me last week, called an hour later to make the same date again and then forgot to show at all. I haven’t seen you in such bad shape since high school. So what’s his name?” Susan’s eyes danced over the rim of her mug.

“My car’s name is Bertha. And if I’ve been distracted, it’s only because she needs a new transmission,” Kay said wryly.

“That would explain the crabbiness,” Susan agreed, and added demurely, “Stix says that the man could be a lethal weapon in the wrong hands. He seems to have the terrible feeling you could get burned. Why do you have all the luck?”

“Is there nothing
sacred
in this town?” Kay wondered aloud, and took a small sip of the steaming brew. The coffee felt scalding on her tongue, but she welcomed it. After two hours of shopping on a frigid Saturday afternoon, she wasn’t absolutely certain her toes still existed. They were certainly numb.

“We’re waiting to hear a name,” Susan probed.

“So was Rumpelstiltskin,” Kay returned cheerfully. “How’s the new job going, anyway?”

“Kay.”

“If I
really
decide to redecorate my living room, do you think I should have the couch reupholstered?”

Susan, bless her, was diverted. Kay leaned back against the booth, savoring her hot drink. After a moment, she let her coat slide behind her. Her white angora sweater was tucked into maroon cords; both were new. Her hair had a center part, a style equally simple but otherwise different from the one she usually wore.

The white hat and white mittens were also new, and she’d sprayed a mist of expensive perfume between her breasts and in other places where no one would notice it on a Saturday spent shopping in a heavy coat.

Occasionally, a woman had to work herself out of a little depression. Change helped. Usually. But then, Kay wasn’t usually depressed.

“Well…” Susan set down her mug and reached for her coat. “I’m broke—I guess I’ll have to go home. Unless you want to do some more shopping?”

Kay shook her head. “I’ll probably hit the bookstore, but that’s it.”

Susan grimaced. “You’re going to buy more books for the kids at the hospital, aren’t you?”

“It’s almost Christmas,” Kay said defensively as she counted out change for the waitress.

“It’s only a week after Thanksgiving, and you spend half your salary on stuff for those kids. If you’d
save
a little, I could really do that living room up right for you.”

“Next year,” Kay promised.

“Bull.”

They both chuckled, and at the entrance to the little café parted ways. Kay started walking toward the bookstore, tugging the collar of her coat around her chin, jamming her mittened hands into her pockets. Shoppers milled around her, laden with packages. Moscow had put up its Christmas lights, and everyone seemed infected with the holiday spirit. As the small town’s main street had been closed to cars, people were free to wander to and fro, crisscrossing streets, hats bobbing, coats pulled tight against the whip of cold wind. Laughter and red cheeks seemed to surround her. She loved it. As much as she’d loved anything these past few weeks.

Ducking her head against a sudden burst of wind, Kay surged forward. There was no real reason for her to be depressed. She was
never
depressed. So he hadn’t called. So he’d grabbed a few kisses and split. She’d handed out a few kisses of her own and split more than once.

She’d thought they had something, that was all. Something she’d never had before, something she couldn’t quite define. Something that left her feeling ridiculously breathless when he was around, like a schoolgirl with a crush. Silly.

She pushed open the door to Bookpeople and felt an instant rush of warm air caress her freezing cheeks. She pulled off her mittens and sat cross-legged in the children’s section.
The Little Engine That Could
was a must. So was
The Giving Tree.
And she’d need a book for Robert, the new boy she’d met at the hospital that morning; she could tell at a glance he wasn’t the best of readers. Tugging
The Rainbow Goblins
off the shelf, she checked it for easy words. The pile of books next to her kept growing.

There were plenty of other fish in the sea. She didn’t need a mystery man with sad eyes who was stingy with his last name, who had to be coaxed into laughter, who played poker like a Las Vegas dealer and climbed fire towers.

Her book pile kept growing.

If he called tonight, she’d turn him down. She didn’t like games and never had. There were enough men who did call that she didn’t have to sit around waiting for Mitch whatever-his-name-is to be in touch.

“Kay, you have to be joking. Even for you,” said the cashier.

Kay raised her eyes above the pile of books, smiling faintly. “Um. You won’t cash my check before Monday, will you?”

“Monday night,” the cashier answered wryly.

“That’ll do.” Enough time to transfer some savings into checking, although the Lord knew what she was going to buy groceries with. She swung her purse strap to her shoulder and picked up the overstuffed plastic bag and held it in both arms. It was too heavy to carry in one hand.

“Hey. Want some help?” the cashier asked.

“Believe me, I’ve managed worse,” she called after him, tucking her chin on top of the pile to balance it. Her arms ached instantly from the weight of the books. Somehow a few choice children’s stories had multiplied into a couple dozen. Well, not
somehow.
Rampant enthusiasm was definitely the weak point in her character, and in the meantime there was a full mile to walk home.

A stranger held open the door for her; she tried to nod a thank-you and failed, offering him a smile instead. Snowflakes pelted her cheeks as she maneuvered carefully outside; the air had turned colder, the sky darker. People were hurrying suddenly, bustling all around her, as if shopping no longer took precedence over getting home to hot cocoa and a crackling fire.

She bumped into someone, apologized. The top book shifted; she righted it with her chin. She’d forgotten to button her coat, and the wind stole around and in like a bandit, sneaking a chill under her sweater.

Someone else brushed her arm and she nearly stumbled. She had to stop and readjust the entire bundle. A mile? She was going to make it a mile this way?
Kay, this is really it. as of this instant you are going to turn into a rational, sensible person,
she informed herself.

***

Mitch saw her from across the street and three stores down. First a glimpse of swinging soft hair, almost lost in the bustle of people. Then he saw that her arms were full. Her lips, so red, were parted in embarrassed apology to someone she’d collided with, and then she was lost in the crowd again.

He frowned. Swinging his bulky package under his arm, he gave in to a full-blown scowl and kept on walking.

For another very long minute.

Waiting at a crosswalk, flanked by a group of kids and harried mothers, Kay closed her eyes as she waited for traffic to pass, mentally counting to ten.
You will hold up, arms. If you go another quarter-mile, I’ll give you a rest. That really doesn’t sound so far, now does it?

The cars passed; the kids surged forward and around her, bumping her left elbow, then her right thigh. Her aching arms had been just looking for an excuse. Almost in slow motion, the books shifted in a long, undulating wave; she knew in one glum moment that it was all over. The flimsy plastic bag had already split; now a book surged out through the hole, flying for the street.

She grabbed for it, which freed the rest of the books to tumble in a skittering mess all across the street. If she hadn’t been so exasperated, she would have cried.

Frantically, she glanced back for approaching cars, and found a lazy, disarming grin bearing down on her instead. “You never do anything halfway, do you?” Mitch shoved his odd-shaped package at her and bent to retrieve the scattered books. “Button your coat,” he ordered.

She buttoned, silently eyeing him with all the bristling awareness of a porcupine. If he thought he was going to just show up in her life again…

“Where’s your car?” he asked.

There were a lot of problems with answering that question. The first of which was admitting that she hadn’t driven. The second of which was implying that she needed his help.

“Was that too hard a question?” he asked mildly. “We could start out with easier ones. Have you ever considered buying stock in a bookstore? And in the meantime, I take it we’re walking this library home? Or do you just want to stand there and glower at me?”

She did want to stand there and glower at him. He was carrying the books as if they were cotton balls. There was nothing more annoying than a
male
male.

And that was the disgusting problem about Mitch. The way his collar stood up against his cheeks, for instance; the way his skin was windburned, his dark hair careless… Primitive instincts announced themselves in her bloodstream. She felt swamped by his virility. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t even touched her.

“I can carry them myself,” she informed him.

“I have no doubt you can do anything you want to. And if you’re in an independent sort of mood, I’ll give you back your books and just trail behind you, separate but equal.”

Now
when
did he sneak in that boyish grin? Separate but equal, indeed! She had no desire whatsoever to smile at him, and to hide the twist of her lips she glanced down, finding herself suddenly staring at the odd-shaped package he’d shoved into her arms. “What is this, anyway?”

“A football. For Robert.”

When she peered up, only for a second, Mitch’s dark eyes were sliding over her features as if claiming private property. Most irritating. “For Robert? You weren’t even at the hospital this morning.”

“Yes, I was. Before seven. I left early, so that later in the morning I could pay a visit to Peter at his house.” He started walking while she was trying to figure out why she wasn’t still furious with him for not calling.

Furthermore, he was walking fast. When you were going uphill against the crowd, you either walked slow or died from hyperventilation. Apparently, no one had ever mentioned that to him. “Was Peter okay?”

“Terrific. He said to give you a hug. He doesn’t really miss us, though. With his mom getting around again and all his friends calling, he’s doing fine.”

“Mitch.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you some kind of physical fitness maniac?”

He stopped instantly, his thick eyebrows shooting up in alarm. “I was going too fast?”

“I don’t know. Are you training for the Olympics?”

Actually, he was only trying to make sure she didn’t take back her books and disappear. He didn’t blame her for being a bit touchy, after the vanishing act he’d pulled two weeks ago.

Every instinct told him he was risking acting like a fool. Every instinct but one, and that one told his heart not to let her out of his sight, that to let her go again would be like losing part of himself.

Nothing could go wrong if he simply pursued a friendship. A platonic relationship.

“Are you?” she repeated.

“Am I what?”

“Obsessive about physical fitness.”

He hesitated, looking down at her. A wisp of hair had escaped her hat and curled sensually around her throat, inviting the touch of his hand. Platonic, his head echoed morosely. “No,” he replied absently, trying to remember her question. “I run a little, play a little racquetball. Not for any fitness medal, but for the sheer pleasure of it. You see, there was a time when I—” He clammed up abruptly.

Kay slid him an exasperated glance when he stopped talking. She halted in the middle of the sidewalk. “Don’t
do
that,” she ordered him.

“Do what?”

“Start to say something about yourself and then back off. Heck, I’ve seen you in action prying out
other
people’s secrets. Now
talk to me,
” she demanded.

Startled, he felt a slow grin forming on his lips. “Of course I’ll talk to you,” he said dryly. “What do you want to know?”

“Your last name.”

“Cochran.”

“What do you do for a living?”

He hesitated. “Collect stones. Kay?” He shook his head ruefully. “You have the most beautiful eyes.”

She dropped his football.

***

Since the man had come into her sphere again, Kay had every intention of teaching him a few things about relationships. Lesson one: A man didn’t kiss a woman with the impact of Vesuvius, disappear from her life and expect to show up again without retribution.

Retribution began when she opened her front door and watched Mitch’s jaw sag slightly. If he expected privacy, he certainly wasn’t going to get it.

Stix was sprawled on the sofa, the two teenagers from across the street were flat on the floor and Mrs. O’Brien from next door, in her favorite polka-dot apron, was curled up in the Morris chair.
The African Queen
was playing on the DVD player, and the group was munching on doughnuts. Hepburn was removing the leeches from Bogart’s back, and no one gave Kay more than a cursory look.

“You’re late,” Stix mentioned, unnecessarily.

“I knew you’d start without me.” Most efficiently, she introduced Mitch, stole his coat, piled the books in the dining room and headed for the kitchen.

A few moments later, Mitch leaned in the doorway, a look of wry amusement on his face. “You often have people just…occupy your house like that?”