Aphrodite's Kiss (19 page)

Too bad he was no poet. And his singing voice sucked.

Her smile faded as his silence continued. She leaned forward, squinting down at him. “Taylor? Are you okay?”

“Fine.” He forced the word out, needing to move, to get past this stew of awe and first-not-really-a-date jitters. He reached out, pricking his finger on a thorn as his hand curled around a rose. He held it up. “My lady.”

She took it, but didn’t sniff it. Instead she let it hang at her side as she kept her fingers closed around the stem.
Okay.
Maybe his all-American Zoë wasn’t the flower type.

With a grunt he climbed to his feet, then brushed dust off his rump. “Do me a favor,” he said.

She tilted her head. “What?”

“Pretend I’ve just made an entrance worthy of James Bond—not Jerry Lewis.”

Her mouth quirked. “Well, of course.” Her blue eye twinkled behind those librarian glasses. “I just assumed you were trying to give any thugs who might be watching a false sense of security.”

“Pretty clever of me, don’t you think?”

“Brilliant,” she said, then batted her eyelashes and pressed a limp hand to her forehead, Southern-belle style. “And I feel so much safer knowing you’re here to protect me from the big, bad thuggies.”

“Just doin‘ my job, little lady.” It was a lousy John Wayne impersonation, but her smile grew broader, so he figured it had done the job.

He glanced around the entrance hall, bending down to check under a little table littered with her mail. “Seen any thugs around these parts?”

“Not a one,” she said, closing the door. She leaned against the wall and smiled at him. She was sweet and innocent and perfectly polite—and all he could think about was tasting that mouth and getting her naked.
So much for chivalry
.

She licked her lips, and their eyes met. He took a step closer, wondering if that was a spark of interest he saw in her eyes. Hoping it was.

Her cheeks flushed and she looked away, clearing her throat. “Uh, no thugs at all.” She grinned. “Unless you count Deena.”

He blinked. “Deena?”

“My beauty consultant,” she said. “It’s a girl thing.”

“Ah,” he said, letting his gaze roam over her. Unlike the other times he’d seen Zoë, this time she was wearing makeup, and the deep red tint of her lips just about did him in. Every fiber of his body wanted to close his mouth over hers and kiss her—hard—until those glossy red lips were smeared under the onslaught. Until she melted in his arms and begged for more.

With a low groan, he forced his gaze away from her face. The red dress was like nothing he’d ever seen before, but on her it looked stunning. He didn’t really care for the odd gold mesh belt—it looked like a reject from an Austin Powers movie—but on Zoë it looked perfect.

“Well, pay whatever she’s charging. You look fantastic.”

“Thank you.” She held up the roses. “And thank you for the flowers.”

“I thought you didn’t like them.”

She frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“You haven’t even smelled that one.”

“Oh,” she said, glancing down at the single rose in her hand. “Right. I can’t... I’m not... I’m—”

“Allergies,” said Deena, stepping into the hallway.

Zoë exhaled, her shoulders dropping as if in relief. “Exactly!” she said. “I’m allergic. Talk about your rotten luck,” she said, with more enthusiasm than he would’ve expected from one who was highly allergic. She pressed the rose into Deena’s hands, scooting another one away with the toe of her shoe.

Deena stuck her nose down against the flower, then looked back up at Taylor. “They’re lovely. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, feeling a tad bewildered. “Good to see you again.”

“Oh, she’s just leaving,” Zoë said. She tilted her head toward the door. “Aren’t you?”

Deena tossed a knowing grin Taylor’s way.

“Practically out the door,” she said, and then she was, the door clicking shut firmly behind her.

“Well,” said Zoë. “I guess we’re alone.”

“Guess so.”

Something clickity-clacked on the floor behind him, and he turned around. An oversize rat grinned at him, and he forced himself not to think it was bizarre. He turned back to Zoë, aiming his thumb behind him. “Who’s the rodent?”

“Elmer.” She glared at the little guy. “He’s a ferret, and he’s just leaving, too.”

The ferret stood up on his hind legs, whiskers twitching. If Taylor didn’t know better, he’d say that was an insolent look on Elmer’s furry little face.

Zoë turned toward the ferret, almost prodding him with her eyes. “I said, he’s just leaving, too.”

The rodent squeaked, his fur bristled, and then he turned around and clickety-clacked back toward the rest of the apartment.

Taylor crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. “Well, well. If it isn’t Zoë Dolittle. How long have you been talking to animals?”

“Oh, I can’t—” She stopped, then scowled. “I mean, that’s very clever.”

“Right,” he said, wondering what she wasn’t saying. “That’s me. Mr. Clever.”

“No, you’re Mr. Midnight,” she said; then her eyes went wide and she slapped her hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe I just said that,” she said.

“Mr. Midnight?” He grinned, taking a step closer. “I kind of like the sound of that.”

“It didn’t mean anything. I’m just a little”—she waved her hand in a circle—“I don’t know. Nervous, maybe.”

As if to prove her point, she leaned back against the wall again and ran her tongue over her lips. It was definitely a nervous habit, but as habits went, this one was damned erotic.

He took a step toward her. “So tell me, sweetheart, just what do you have to be nervous about?”

The look she gave him just about ripped him in half. “Isn’t it obvious? You.”

“Me?” He tapped himself on the chest. “George Bailey Taylor me?”

She nodded. “George Bailey Taylor you.”

He sucked in air, afraid this was some cruel joke fate was playing to teach him not to lust after beautiful women. “I’m probably going to regret asking, but why?”

She tilted her head until her glasses slid down her nose, then peered at him over the rim, her odd-colored gaze giving him the once-over. His body warmed as her eyes roamed over him—
all
over him—and he watched, knowing she was thoroughly checking him out.

One corner of her mouth curled up into a sensuous little smile that had his body tightening, and he couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit smug.

“Because I need a date after all, Mr. Taylor.” She exhaled—it was more of a sigh really—then lifted her head back up to look him in the eye. Her cheeks flushed, and, with a businesslike shove, she pushed her glasses back into place. “A
real
date. So tell me. Are you still game?”

Zoë pushed her glasses up her nose one more time for good measure.
Oh, mother of Zeus.
She’d actually sneaked a peek at his underwear. Talk about lacking self-control. If there was a hell, a Hades, a whatever, Zoë was certain she was zipping that way faster than a speeding bullet.

Trying to ignore the wave of mortification that swept over her, she flashed him a weak smile, positive her cheeks were flaming red.

At least she’d managed to get a grip on herself before she’d peeked through that last little bit of material. She sighed, savoring the memory. Plain white cotton briefs. Simple. Sensible. And oh, so sexy.

She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.
Oh, me, oh, my
.

Heck, she’d even throw in an
ooh-la-la
.

“Uh ... Zoë?”

With a jerk she yanked her head up, suddenly realizing where her gaze was still aimed.

Oops.

Her cheeks burned hotter, and she pushed back from the wall, standing up straight and trying to pull herself together. “Right. Yes. Well...”

His gaze locked onto her, his brown eyes warm and inviting. When he took a step forward, she inhaled, her body humming with anticipation.

Nervous
didn’t even begin to describe the way she felt.
Terrified
was more like it. Still, it was just a date. She repeated the phrase like a mantra.
This is just a date. Just a guy and a girl going out
.

“What happened to Mr. Wonderful?”

She frowned. “Who?”

“You’re taken. Remember?”

“Oh. Right. Well.
Taken
is such a vague term, really. Don’t you think?”

“Vague? As in, Mr. Wonderful won’t care? Or as in, there is no Mr. Wonderful?”

“He, uh, died.” She met Taylor’s eyes, saw pure passion burning there, then looked away again.
Oh, my
. “Very suddenly. Very tragic.”

Taylor stepped closer, the heat from his body warming her to her toes, pooling in secret, intimate places. Teasing and taunting her.

She drew an unsteady breath. This dating thing was moving along a bit more quickly than she’d expected. “We’ll miss him, of course, but life must go on.”

“Of course,” Taylor murmured. “So tell me, Zoë ...”

She looked up. “Yes?”

“Why?”

“Why?” she repeated.

“Why did you tell me about Mr. Wonderful in the first place?”

“Oh, that.” She licked her lips. “Well, he hadn’t keeled over yet.”

“Uh-huh.”

“No?”

He shook his head. “Want to try again?”

She inhaled, then glanced down, breaking eye contact. “Maybe gorgeous men make me nervous.”

He chuckled. “Oh.”

She cleared her throat. “So this is okay with you?”

With a devious grin, he leaned forward, his face only inches from hers. She held her breath as he turned his head.

“This?” he asked, his mouth so close to her ear that his breath teased her.

She swallowed, searching for her voice. “A real date, I mean.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. He leaned back to look at her, then reached out and touched her skin, his finger trailing down her cheek. “That’s perfectly okay.”

Oh, Apollo’s apples, his touch
. A firestorm of shocks ricocheted through her. Her chest constricted, her body warmed, and she felt faint. And then her body finally remembered that little detail about breathing ... and she exhaled in a whoosh. Mildly mortified, she opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again when she realized her mouth wasn’t too keen on sounding out vowels or consonants.

With a wink that suggested he knew exactly the effect he was having on her, he presented his arm for her to take. “Should we get going?”

“Mm-hmm,” she managed, pleased to be able to form sounds. That, at least, was progress.

Sucking in more air, she slipped her arm through his, trying not to jump from the electricity that zinged through her when her skin brushed against his. Sooner or later she’d get used to his touch. Sooner, hopefully, because if she waited for later, all her nerve endings would likely be fried.

Somehow she managed to walk outside, down the stairs, and into the parking lot—all without her body dissolving into cinders and ash from the heat they were generating. That was convenient, really, since she didn’t think a pile of charred flesh would make much of a hit at the party. And if she didn’t go to the party, she had no legitimate reason to be with Taylor.

And she really, really wanted to be with him.

She frowned, realizing just how much that was true. He made her laugh; he made her insides flutter. He made her want to take risks.

Huge risks, actually. She nibbled on her lower lip, then stopped when she remembered Deena’s words. Did she really want to lose herself to this man? Could she? Or was it more likely she’d lose her mind, since just the slightest brush of his skin against hers sent every atom in her body zooming into supercharged mode?

Insanity seemed like a small price to pay for everything she’d been denying herself for the past twenty-five years. This was Taylor, after all. The man she’d been fantasizing about for days during that soft time between waking and dreams. For this man she’d risk a psychotic episode.

She sneaked a peek at him out of the corner of her eye as they walked to the far end of the apartment complex’s parking lot. He was about six inches taller than she was, had untamed hair that begged for her fingers to run through it, and a strong profile that made it clear this was a man who’d never let a woman down. He was Harrison Ford with a dash of Pierce Brosnan and an attitude.

At any rate, control didn’t really seem to be a possibility here. Which meant that if they ended up in bed, she’d probably end up plastered to the ceiling or shooting for the stars or melting the box springs.

“You okay?” He’d maneuvered them in front of his Mustang, and now he was looking down at her from his six-inch advantage. His brow creased, and his brown eyes reflected so much concern that she almost melted.

How sweet
. He was worried about her—and she was fantasizing about what he’d be like naked.

“I’m fine,” she said, giving herself a mental shake. “Really.”

He nodded, but didn’t look too convinced, and she sighed. So much for that whole aloof tactic all the women’s magazines promoted. Aloof she wasn’t. Desperate, maybe.

Better to try to wrangle a little finesse into the situation, or at least try to carry on normal conversation. As best she could tell, in the dating world, desperate didn’t equal desirable.

“Meet Francis Capra,” he said, unlinking their arms so he could open the passenger door.

“Francis?”

“I wanted to name her Frank Capra after I finished her, but cars are female, and I didn’t want to give her a complex.”

“You rebuilt this car?”

“Yup.”

“That must have been a lot of work.”

“It was. But I loved every minute of it. Automobiles are different from other females. Women are enigmatic. But my car... I can take it apart, then put it back together until I know it backward and forward.”

He ran his fingertip over the hood as he circled to the driver’s side.

“And you can’t know a woman that well?”

With a sidelong glance, he slid behind the steering wheel. “I didn’t say that, sweetheart. I’d certainly be up for the challenge.” He twisted in his seat to face her, one arm draped over her seat, completely casual and utterly intense.