How Cat Got a Life (5 page)

Casually, without hurry, Brock leaned over and brushed a soft kiss on her lips. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” he murmured before drawing back.

Without another comment, he straightened in the seat and started the engine. As they drove away, the rebellion that had simmered inside Cat since the morning fizzled out. In the office, she’d nurtured the heady sensation that they were playing a cat and mouse game, and for once she got to be the cat. With that long scorching look and the heady impact of the kiss, she’d shriveled back into a mouse.

****

Brock pulled up outside the Victorian villa that housed the public library and an adjoining coffee shop staffed by volunteers. They’d driven through the town in silence. She hadn’t asked him where they were going. He liked that. Not as a token of trust but as a sign of confidence. Cat gave the impression that she could handle herself in any social situation. Her linen skirt and pale blue silk blouse and medium heels were smart without being overdressed, a perfect match for his slacks, sports jacket, and open-necked shirt.

“They have a concert in the garden on Thursday evenings,” he told her as he unclipped his seat belt. “It’s chamber music today.”

She waited for him to circle the car and open the door for her. That was another thing he liked. She was strong enough to give in gracefully. He was fully aware of her mistaken belief that she was chasing him by setting up the date. He had every intention of making her realize that since he became single again, he conducted his life as he chose and could be as unmovable as a rock.

“Sheriff Leonetti. So nice you could make it.” Phyllis Bright cooed a greeting as they entered trough the arbor gate. The woman threw an acid look in Cat’s direction. Behind her, several more unmarried females had daggers in their eyes. Brock couldn’t resist sliding his arm around Cat’s waist in a possessive gesture.

He might as well use the night to shake off the pack of bloodhounds that ran after him for a wedding ring. His life would be easier if people assumed he had a long distance relationship that put him out of bounds.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked as he settled Cat at a table for two. “The usual choice is wine, beer, sodas, and some kind of fruit punch.”

“White wine, please.” She glanced around. “I thought they’d have rows of seats for the concert.”

“The garden is used as a coffee shop during the day and the tables are anchored down.”

He stopped to exchange a few words here and there and returned ten minutes later with her wine and a club soda for himself. Cat met him with a sunny smile. Not an anxious frown because strangers made her uneasy, or words of complaint because he’d kept her waiting.

“It’s chardonnay,” he said. “I hope it’s all right.”

“I don’t know much about wine. You could serve me the cheapest rotgut and convince me it’s vintage.” Cat took a sip and nodded her approval. Glancing at his tall glass, she asked, “You don’t drink?”

“I have an occasional beer, but I don’t like the brand they serve.”

She lowered her glass to the table, then leaned her head back and inhaled deep breaths, closing her eyes. “It’s lovely in here. I can smell the flowers, but I don’t know what they’re called. I’ve never had a garden. Those birds must be robins. I wish I had some breadcrumbs to scatter. They seem quite tame.”

Watching her made Brock feel lightheaded, as if the evening air carried a narcotic or someone had spiked his drink.

“The music will start at eight,” he told her, and picked up the box of matches to light the lantern on the table. “The lights will go off, except the ones by the canopy for the players.”

She glanced at him, her green eyes veiled and mysterious. He moved his chair closer, on the pretext on repositioning it for a better view of the musicians who had arrived and sat down to tune their instruments. When the darkness fell, candlelight flickered in her hair. The tension that had centered in his groin all week spread to his chest. He reached out and draped his arm over the back of her chair, idly stroking her shoulders, sliding his fingers into the nape of her neck. With a sigh, she leaned back and made the contact firmer.

The comment that had troubled him since he picked her up at the hotel rattled inside his head. When she had first spoken, the idea had caused him mild annoyance, but now the feeling hardened into anger.

Cat had implied she’d only agreed to the date to please her stepson.

Before the night was out, he wanted to make her admit that she’d lied.

****

“Do you go every Thursday?” Cat asked and almost groaned out loud as she heard her words. Couldn’t she achieve anything more original…more…
daring
?

Brock steered the car down the street through the evening darkness. The only light came from the controls on the dashboard. Shadows swept across the hard planes of his face. His hands gripped the wheel, strong and sure. A shiver raced down her skin at the memory of how those hands had explored the nape of her neck while they were listening to the music.

“I check the program before deciding. If it’s classical, I try to make the time.”

Cat curled her fingers over the lapels of his jacket as she tried to think of something else to say. He’d noticed her crossing her arms for warmth when the evening breeze cooled. Without asking, he’d shrugged out of the light wool blazer he wore and draped it over her shoulders. His body heat clung to the fabric, surrounding her like an embrace. The need to get closer to that heat, to feel those hard muscles against her naked body had soared inside her with every plaintive note of the cello and the clarinet that had floated in the fragrant air.

“I…I could offer you a cup of coffee.” A fierce blush stung her cheeks. He might think that she had invited him into her hotel room. She closed her eyes, pictured the desk with the single chair. Although the room was spacious, the only place for both of them to sit down would be the edge of the bed. “They have a little pantry with coffee and tea in the lobby,” she added. “It’s quite pleasant.”

“We’ll go to my place.”

A fireball of heat exploded in her belly.
We’ll go to my place.
Just like that. No questions, no hesitation. She swallowed, awkward and uncertain. Was she really broadcasting her willingness so loud and clear?

Brock didn’t look at her as they covered the short journey. A sense of purpose clung to him like an aura. Cat’s heart pounded, as if trying to break out of her chest. They swung into a narrow drive outside an old house with a wraparound porch. She waited. Brock pulled her door open and offered his hand to help her out. She stared at him, trembling with a mix of anticipation and panic.

He didn’t smile. Something hard and dark had settled over his features. He released her elbow and led her up to the front door. A soft whoosh in the air skimmed by her cheek. Cat cried out, grabbing his arm.

“Bats,” Brock explained as he unlocked the door. He made no attempt to use her clinging as an excuse to pull her into his arms. He pried her fingers loose and strode on ahead. She followed, glimpsing into a living room and dining room as she hurried past. Dark oak armoires and heavy stuffed sofas created a formal feel, like echoes of a genteel past.

“Do you mind instant coffee?” he asked. “That’s all I have.”

“I thought cops lived on coffee.”

“They do. I get mine out in town.” He poured water into a kettle and set it to boil. Then he turned to face her. He propped his hips against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms over his chest. As he surveyed her, the hard and closed look returned to haunt his face.

“What do you want from me, Cat?” he asked. His voice was silky soft.

“I…I don’t want anything from you.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I…” Cat swallowed and closed her eyes. She should be blushing, but instead she felt the blood draining from her face.

“Whatever it is, I can’t give it to you,” Brock said.

She blinked her eyes open. “I just want to…feel alive again. For so long, I’ve been surrounded by death. First I nursed my mother, then my husband. I want to do something totally and utterly selfish. Hedonistic, if you will. I want the experience the sort of mindless abandon I’ve read about in books.”

Surprise flickered across his face. Slowly, in complete control of every move, he closed the two steps that separated them and stood in front of her.

“Mindless abandon?” he murmured. Raising one hand, he dragged a fingertip over the hollow of her collarbones.

Her head tipped back. Her eyes drifted shut. She felt his hands curling around her upper arms and his mouth coming down against the side of her neck. Hot. Burning. He kissed her with a savage hunger, all the more startling since no hint of his intention had passed between them. He nipped her skin with his teeth, his lips roaming and feasting on the sensitive curve of her throat.

He paused, as if waiting for her to protest. When she remained silent, he resumed the contact. His tongued traced the shell of her ear, dipped inside, eliciting a low moan of pleasure from her. His arms slid around her and crushed her into him, molding her body to his. She could sense how the hard muscles that pressed against her quivered with need.

His lips found hers, drank deep. She reached up to tangle her fingers into his hair, anchoring him close. His tongue probed inside her mouth, delivering a bold hint of a more intimate penetration.

Too much.
Sensations bombarded her. A wild pleasure streaked along her nerves. Low in her belly, desire twisted in a knot that pulled at her, reached down between her legs and made her breasts tingle and tighten.

Brock lifted his head, and she could see his eyes glittering with arousal. The heavy bulge in his groin pressed into her abdomen. Lips ajar, breath ragged, Cat stared up at him. Not thinking, acting on instinct, she rose on tiptoe to better fit his erection in the notch of her thighs. Her hips rocked in the ancient invitation between a man and a woman.

A growl tore from his chest. His hands traveled down, bunched her skirt around her waist and lifted her in the air. With a curse ground out between gritted teeth, he surveyed the kitchen, then carried her out and lowered her to sit on the edge of the glossy mahogany table in the dining room.

The moon had risen, and a faint glow fell in through the uncovered window. Oblivious to the prospect that someone might see them, Brock nudged her legs apart and settled to stand between them. His head bent to her mouth for another fevered kiss. One of his large hands cupped the back of her head to lock her in place, while his other hand dealt with the buttons on her silk blouse.

As soon as the front fell open, his hand slid up her skin. With an impatient sound, he broke off the kiss and pushed her bra over her breasts to free them, one side first, then the other. The elastic scraped over her puckered nipples.

Excitement rippled over her, like liquid fire.

Not hesitating, never pausing to ask for permission, he curled his hand over her left breast, caught the nipple between his thumb and forefinger and rolled the tight bud. Cat arched her back and cried out. He repeated the action on the other side, his mouth returning to savor the sensitive spot on her neck.

His head sank lower before her, and the wet heat of his lips dragged down past her tangled bra to her breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth and suckled hard, his teeth closing around the peak. Pleasure arrowed down her spine and fed the heat that throbbed between her legs. She leaned back, planting her hands on the tabletop behind her for support.

A whimper rose in her throat and the sound floated in the air, constant and uncontrollable as he wrought a barrage of reactions from her. Finally he eased away from her breasts. Dark and unfathomable, his eyes skimmed over her features, lingered on her exposed breasts before drifting past the skirt that bunched around her waist.

Curling his hands over her knees, he urged her to open wider. One hand rose to play with her breasts, gently now, cupping and kneading, the rough pad of his thumb stroking the peaks. The other hand found the centre of her panties, feeling her intimate folds through the fabric. Up and down, the teasing finger stroked. Moisture pooled between her legs, and the heat grew into a mindless pulsing fire. Her whole world shrunk. All she could focus on was that single finger, chasing the elusive release from the tension that made her so frantic she wanted to scream.

He never said anything. No soft whispers, no roughly murmured words of encouragement. With a stony mask of control on his face, he continued to torment her, stroking, circling. His touch was so maddeningly light through the thin fabric that a sob of frustration caught in her throat.

She wanted to beg. The words hovered on her tongue.
Inside. Touch me
. Instinct warned her that he might ignore her plea, and she couldn’t face the humiliation if he refused. She kept silent and braced her arms against the dining table, hair streaming down her back, legs wantonly wide, clothes in disarray.

Soon, the rhythm of that searching finger altered. Instead of the slow glide up and down, other fingers joined it and closed around her swollen bud. Harder, bolder, they rubbed and kneaded, feeding the storm that gathered inside her. His other hand descended from her breasts and resumed the slow stroking, lower now, circling her opening, then pressing inside as far as the flimsy barrier allowed.