Belonging to Taylor (10 page)

His work kept him busy, occupied. His attache case loaded with briefs and notes, he worked long into the night at home. In the office he buried himself in legal tomes and made short, curt work of telephone calls. In court, one beaten prosecutor congratulated him on his coldly brilliant defense of his client, and another asked ruefully if he'd mind very much changing sides because the prosecutor's office could use some wins.

It wasn't until the end of the week that Trevor realized his secretary was creeping warily around him and speaking with unusual softness. Aware at last, he also saw that the entire staff was casting nervous looks his way.

He spent Friday afternoon with his hands folded atop his desk and his gaze focused on nothing. Thinking. For an even-tempered man to unsettle his entire office with his moodiness, his personal problems spilling over into his professional responsibilities, was unthinkable. But Trevor was not, as Jason had observed, a man who could long avoid facing up to problems.

D'you think you've forgotten her, fool? You know damned well you 're being cowardly in not facing her. Cowardly in not telling her what's wrong. She got under your skin that first day, she and her ridiculous family. Got under your skin with those nakedly honest eyes. You don't want to hurt her. Even if you know you can't live with her. Because, for the two of you, it's going to take more than ... love.

Trevor heard a ragged sigh escape into the silent room. He loved her. Another ... simple ... unquestionable ... unbearable fact. He loved her, but he wasn't the man for her. The man for Taylor wouldn't feel this need to hide a part of himself from her.

The man for Taylor could laugh with her.

He wouldn't hide from her, Trevor silently answered to the silent voice in his mind.

He 'd have to love that ridiculous family of hers.
   
.

Any man would love them.

She has honest eyes,
the voice reminded stingingly.

Trevor sighed again. Honest eyes. An honest heart—and God only knew if she loved him; believing they'd marry "one day" was hardly a declaration of love. And if she did love him, what then?

He could hurt her so badly.

And hurt himself. He was already hurting, wasn't he? Wasn't that why he'd been biting the heads off his staff, why he'd been cold and decisive with everyone he'd spoken to? Why he'd brusquely shunned his brother's ready sympathy, turned a deaf ear to that willing one?

It occurred to him then that he, in his pain, had shut out everyone. Just as Taylor shut herself in with the pain her gift brought to her. Was that the real reason he'd ached for her pain? Because it reminded him of his own inability to share his pain with another?

The breakup with Kara—Jason had known, but they'd not discussed it then, and there had been no one else to talk to. Before that, the deaths of their parents in a plane crash, the tearing grief and shock. The struggle to raise a much-loved brother and take the place of two parents. The struggle of college and law school.

Except for the deaths of his parents, he regretted none of it. But it hadn't been easy.

Automatically, Trevor opened his attache case and piled papers into it. Still thinking.

He was a lawyer, accustomed to looking for whatever would benefit his client. Bits and pieces, legal loopholes, careful maneuvering, an obscure precedent in a dusty book. Digging for the best out of a witness.

Now he was his own client. And dig though he had, he kept coming up against the wall in himself. He could willingly share a great deal with Taylor, but not the last dark corner of his mind. Not that place where old hurts were deeply buried alongside old fears and inevitable guilts. Not that place every sane mind needs apart from the rest where gremlins lurked in the dark.

He couldn't share that with her.

Trevor went home to a silent apartment. He took a shower, pulled on jeans and a light sweater. Twilight faded into night outside his windows, and he automatically turned on the lights. He turned on his stereo, putting in tapes he didn't listen to. When the doorbell rang, he went to answer it, still moving by rote. Until he opened the door.

"The mountain wouldn't come to Mohammed," she murmured.

She was leaning against the doorjamb gracefully, her slender figure set off by a clinging black dress; it boasted a deep V neckline, a slit almost to her hip revealing one shapely leg, and had long, flowing sleeves. Her glorious hair was piled loosely atop her head. Diamond studs sparkled in her lobes, and a small diamond pendant lay alluringly in the valley between her breasts.

"I came to take you to dinner."

Before he could respond, she gestured slightly, and Trevor fell back in surprise as three white-jacketed waiters filed past him. Turning slightly, he watched as they set the table by the window with white cloth and candles, silverware, stemware— everything. They produced it all from the baskets they carried, finally unpacking several covered dishes and a bottle of chilled wine. Then, just as silently and efficiently, they filed back out of the apartment.

"Thanks, Eric," Taylor murmured.

The last waiter to leave sent her a quick smile and an "Anytime" in response, then they were gone.

Belatedly remembering his manners, Trevor stepped back and gestured for her to come in. As she moved past him, he caught the elusive scent of a truly devastating perfume. He shut the door and followed her into the living room, clearing his throat determinedly.

'Taylor, you—"

"French food," she interrupted blandly, turning to face him. "It fit my mood."

He stared at her. "Which is?"

She looked wounded. "Can't you tell?"

"Seductive?" he guessed.

"I'm glad you noticed "

Trevor cleared his throat a second time. It was impossible for him to be brusque with her, equally impossible to attempt a serious conversation while she regarded him with that wickedly humorous look in her eyes. So he found himself falling back on the teasing, companionable mood he'd missed these last days.

"You could," he told her definitely, "seduce Mount Rushmore—all four of them—in that dress."

"What works on granite doesn't work on man?"

"This man is putty in your hands," he assured her in a rueful voice. "You came loaded for bear and found a puppy instead."

She giggled. 'Then I won't have to strip down to the teddy to get your attention?" she added innocently.

To his throat-clearing, Trevor added swallowing. She'd caught him at a perfect time, while he was hovering between what he wanted and what he knew he couldn't have. He could have strangled her. Except that he wanted her in his arms worse than he'd ever wanted anything in his life.

"You ought to be spanked," he said finally.

She appeared interested. "I've never been spanked."

He caught her elbow firmly and steered her toward the table. "Let's eat."

Chapter Six

As Trevor politely pulled her chair out for her, he said, "Is
this dinner part of your—uh—"

"Courtship?" She smiled up at him over one shoulder, vivid eyes gleaming with amusement. "Of course it is. Fine food, candlelight, the sexiest dress I could find in my closet." Her blue eyes became merrily critical as he moved toward his own chair. "You aren't dressed for the part, though—one disadvantage of surprises."

"My dinner jacket is at the cleaners," he apologized gravely.

"I'll forgive you."

"Thank you. What would you have done if I'd been... entertaining someone else?" he asked mildly, unfolding his napkin.

"You weren't." She watched him pouring the wine.

"But if I had been?"

"What do you think?"

He handed her a glass. "I think you would have innocently confided the date of our wedding to my guest."

Taylor lifted her glass in a little toast. "I probably would have. Or cried," she added reflectively.

"You're dangerous," he told her with some feeling.

She giggled. "Not really."

"Yes, you are. Any woman with a habit of innocently bringing home strange men is dangerous. Add to that a siren's eyes, a voice that could charm lions, a body that could move Mount Rushmore, a deadly ability to defend yourself, and— and—ESP. Dangerous."

Taylor lifted her fork and smiled very sweetly at him.

"And stop smiling at me!" he ordered, harassed. "I don't even know what I'm eating. What am I eating?"

"You know," she observed, ignoring his question, "for a man who claims to be fighting my—um—snare, you say the nicest things."

Trevor very pointedly ignored this, paying strict attention to his food. But finally his curiosity got the better of him. Half-glaring at her serene face across the table, he muttered, "D'you really have a teddy on under that dress?"

"Black lace," she confirmed gently. "And garters."

He blinked, forgetting to glare. "Garters? Do women still wear those things?"

"They do when they're out to seduce."

"Dammit, Taylor!"

"Just a friendly warning," she explained blandly.

Trevor drained his wineglass and filled it up again. Methodically.

She giggled again. "Well, I did—um—give notice of intent, Trevor. I warned you that I'd chase you."

"Wanton," he managed.

"Thank you," she replied cordially.

He fought manfully against his baser instincts. "Taylor, your father should have locked you in a tower when you were twelve."

"Like Rapunzel?"

"Yes. But your father should have kept your hair short."

"But my prince couldn't have reached me," she objected.

"My point exactly."

"You don't think I deserve a prince?"

"Let's say rather that it would take an extremely
unusual
prince to deserve you."

She thought about that. "I think I've been insulted."

"On the contrary."

Taylor smiled her sweet, mischievous smile and held out her empty glass to him. "Well, I think my prince is unusual enough to cope."

He hesitated before filling her glass. "First tell me how you hold your wine."

"By my thumbs," she confessed sunnily.

Trevor sighed and poured three fingers into the glass. "If I take you home drunk, your father'll kill me."

"I'm of age, darling," she reminded him.

The endearment caught him off guard, and when he met the blue eyes smiling at him across the table, he saw warmth behind the amusement. A steady, inviting, unsettling warmth. A very large part of him wanted nothing more than to cast aside the very real doubts he felt and allow instinct to take over. But he loved her too much to deliberately risk hurting her.

He broke free of her eyes, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet, glass in hand. He stepped down from the raised dining area into the living room and went over to the fireplace, a luxury feature few apartments in the building boasted. Setting the glass on the mantel, he reached for a box of matches. "Late in the year for a fire," he murmured. "But—"

'There's a chill in the air," she said softly.

Trevor made no response to that, bending to kindle the fire, but he was very much aware that she'd left the table. When he straightened from his task and turned, he saw that she had borrowed a couple of pillows from the couch and now sat on the thickly carpeted floor with her back to the love seat flanking the fireplace. One of the pillows was placed invitingly for him.

Retrieving his glass, he joined her with a reluctance born of the knowledge that his determination not to hurt her was no match for both his building desire—and her guileless "seduction." He found himself sitting beside her, one elbow resting on the love seat's cushion as he half turned toward her; her own position matched his, and she lifted her glass in a tiny salute, smiling, before sipping the ruby liquid.

'Taylor... we have to talk," he said, trying for firmness and hearing, without surprise, the rough unevenness of his voice.

"You want to talk about all your noble scruples," she murmured.

"Stop reading my mind!"

She looked surprised. "I didn't. I read your face."

Trevor got hold of himself. "Whatever. Look, we haven't known each other very long."

"No," she admitted, then spoiled the logic of this by adding simply, "but I feel as if I've known you forever."

He fought against being disarmed. "Still, the fact remains that we're virtual strangers."

"No," she objected, "we aren't strangers. And we have a great deal in common. We both like mysteries and baseball, old movies and animals, chess and jigsaw puzzles. We have the same tastes in music and politics. We both hate snails and peanut butter." She reflected for a moment, frowning. "The only things left to establish, I think, are if you mind taking out the garbage and if you sleep with the window open or closed."

Trevor now had a dual battle on his hands. He was fighting the baser instincts set alight by a combination of love, desire, and her intoxicating perfume, and he was fighting the laughter that her solemn, ridiculous conversation inevitably roused.