Knowing You (8 page)

“Anna,” he said, smiling, “how could any living, breathing male forget you?”

“Hmm … if that's true, why is it you're up there working while I'm in Hollywood pining away for you?”

“Pining?” Oh, he doubted that. A tall, sleek redhead with a body built for sin and a mind that could think circles around most people, Anna wasn't a woman to be ignored.

There was a long pause. “Not going to buy that, are you?”

“Not quite. I caught the latest issue of
People
,” he said. “You look good.”

“Thank you, sir, and on that lovely compliment, I have a favor to ask you.”

“Ask away.”

“Are you busy tomorrow night? I could use an escort to this tedious party in the hills and…”

She kept talking, but Paul had stopped listening. He liked Anna. Really did. If they were still together, life would be a hell of a lot more peaceful than it was at the moment. But when she left for Hollywood three months ago, they'd ended what they had, and there was just no point going backward. Especially now.

“I can't,” he said softly, interrupting the flow of musical speech. “Work.”

“Darlin',” she said on a sigh of disappointment, “you work way too hard.”

“It's a curse.”

“Uh-huh. But if you get tired of ‘work,' you give me a call, okay?”

“You'll be the first,” Paul said, leaning back in his chair. “Now why don't you tell me all about what a splash you're making in Hollywood?”

Behind him, the door opened and a soft hush of noise slipped into his office. Fingers danced on keyboards, filtered music sighed from speakers, and the smell of coffee burning on a hot plate stained the air.

“Paul?”

“Hold on,” he said into the phone, then spoke to the woman standing in the doorway. “Max, I told you I don't want to be disturbed.”

“Well, pardon the hell out of me, Your Majesty.”

Paul sighed, dropped his chin to his chest briefly, then looked up again at his secretary. Maxine Devlin. Iron gray hair, narrowed blue eyes, bright red business suit, a ramrod up her spine, and a defiant tilt to both of her chins. Happily married to a Marine for the last thirty-five years, Max took no crap from her colonel husband
or
the Corps, so she sure wasn't intimidated by a man she considered young enough to be her son.

If she wasn't so damn good at running his world, he'd have fired her. With her permission, of course.

“What is it?”

She glanced at the notepad in her hand, though Paul knew it was just for show. The woman had a memory like a steel trap. Nothing escaped her. Nothing went unnoticed. Nothing was ever forgotten.

“General Halliwell called this morning to set up a phone conference for two this afternoon. He needs
more information on the program you're working on for the DOD.”

The satellite-tracking program. When it was finished, it would be the best thing he'd ever done. And doing something for his country made him proud. But he was in no mood to talk to the general about it today. He shook his head. “Cancel it.”

“I will not.”

There she stood, in the office doorway, a pillar of bright color in an otherwise drab room. She faced him down with a steely gaze he imagined could have sent entire Marine battalions running for cover.

“Who's the boss here?” he asked, tightening his grip on the phone receiver.

She gave him a brief smile. “You're the boss. But I'm in charge.”

He'd argue with her, but what was the point? She was right. His office—hell, the company—would crumble into dust without Maxine and they both knew it.

“Fine,” he said, surrendering to the inevitable. “Tell me when it's time.”

She glanced at her watch, then back up at him again. “Time.”

“Shit.” Then, uncovering the mouthpiece of the receiver, he said, “Anna, I've got to go.” He hardly heard her say good-bye as he hung up and scraped one hand through his hair. He didn't even notice when it fell back across his forehead an instant later. “Max, why didn't you tell me?”

One gray eyebrow lifted and the toe of her right shoe tapped against the battleship gray carpet.

“Right,” he said. “I told you no interruptions.” Then
it dawned on him. “Why'd you let Anna's call through?”

The older woman shrugged. “You looked like you needed a distraction or two.”

She had no idea.

The phone on his desk rang.

Max checked her watch again. “That'll be the general.”

Dutifully Paul swiveled around in his chair, without sparing a glance at the dozen or more framed awards and certificates hanging on the wall behind the desk. Pushing thoughts of Stevie to one side, at least temporarily, he reached for the phone.

*   *   *

By the time Stevie got back from the homeless shelter, it was late and she was thankful she'd told Sarah to close up the place for her. She was beat. Tired enough that she had actual hope of really sleeping that night. Minus the dreams that had been flitting through her mind the last few days.

At least until she pulled into her parking space behind the shop and saw Paul standing beside his car, waiting for her.

All of her good intentions flew out the window. That stern lecture she'd given herself earlier was forgotten in the flash of pure, undiluted 100 proof desire that swept through her with just a glimpse of him.

What
was happening here? Just a week ago, she'd have grinned at her “pal” and been glad to see him, but she certainly wouldn't have been quivering in her boots.

Tonight it was a different story. The tux was gone,
but that didn't seem to make a difference. The antique street lamps glowed with a dim yellow fog light and cast a golden haze around him that looked damn near magical. It winked off the lenses in his glasses and made his eyes seem to sparkle. He leaned against the front fender of his gigantic,
it's all about size
car with his arms folded across his chest. One foot was crossed over the other, and to anyone else he would have appeared casual. Relaxed.

But to Stevie's hormone-driven vision he looked just as tightly strung as she felt.

Uh-oh.

She threw the car into
PARK
, cut the engine, and took a minute to absorb the silence, hoping it would fill her with some sort of inner peace. Hell, she'd have chanted if she'd thought it would do any good.

Eventually, though, she had to open the door and step out. He obviously wasn't going anywhere and she wasn't about to hide out in her car.

“What're you doing here?” Well, that was a warm welcome, she thought as she closed the door again and set the alarm.

“Freezing my ass off.”

The night air was cold and damp, coming in off the ocean with icy fingers. Stevie should have been cold, too. But suddenly her blood was red-hot and she felt a flush of heat that rushed from her head to her toes and back again—with a pit stop in one particularly sensitive spot.

Oh, she was in serious trouble here.

She glanced around furtively, half-expecting one of the Terrible Three, the town gossips, to be lurking
behind a bush or tree, just waiting for something juicy to happen. No one was there, of course. But facts didn't get in the way of her feeling as if she were doing something subversive by meeting with Paul in a dimly lit alley. God, it was James Bond–like, but without the cars and guns and babes. Still, the tension in the air felt thick enough to chew.

She slung her purse over her left shoulder and took a few steps until she was just out of arm's reach of him. Not that she didn't trust herself or anything, but why take unnecessary chances?

“I meant,” she said, “what are you doing
here?
”

“Waiting for you. Shelter day, right?”

Stevie bristled a little. “Yeah, so?”

He straightened up slowly, almost lazily, and every move seemed calculated to raise her blood pressure. In the pale light his hair looked the same shade as his sweater and his worn jeans looked soft and too darn good. “Why so defensive?”

She inhaled sharply and told herself it was the scent of sea air she smelled, not his spicy aftershave. Paul. It's just Paul. Nope. Didn't work. Because Paul was no longer just Paul. And now she was babbling even in her own head, and that couldn't be a good sign.

“Because,” she said, moving for the door, “everyone's always telling me that I'm nuts to give away so many baked goods to the shelter. And I'm not in the mood for a lecture.”

She unlocked the door and pushed it open. Quickly she ran a practiced eye across the kitchen. As always, Sarah Boyd had done an excellent job. Everything was neat and tidy. Counters clean and awaiting the next
day's work, the scent of blueberry muffins still hung in the still air.

When Stevie stepped inside, Paul followed her and closed the door after him. She almost gulped.

“I've never given you that speech, have I?” he asked.

No, he hadn't. In fact, he'd never said anything about her tendencies to give away food or coffee or take in strays. But that didn't mean he wasn't thinking it, just like everyone else, up to and including her mother. “No, but—”

“That's just who you are, Stevie.”

She laughed shortly. “Crazy?”

“Kind,” he corrected.

Her heart hiccuped. She looked at him. “It's not kindness,” she said. “It's just—”

“What's the matter?” One corner of his mouth lifted into a half-smile that tugged at something deep inside her. “Compliments make you uneasy?”

No, she thought,
Paul
made her uneasy. Which was crazy. He was her friend. Had been her friend for years. And that was something she didn't want to lose any more than she wanted to lose her closeness with his family. Still, the way things were going, she was bound to lose one or the other.

Setting her purse down onto the closest counter, Stevie sighed. “Paul, why did you come here tonight?”

“I had to.”

“Why?”

“To tell you that us … seeing each other is a bad idea.”

“I figured that out already. You remember? The last
time we talked about this?” In fact, she'd spent the last couple of days thinking about little else. But somehow hearing Paul say it again really fried her. “Look. We can't change what happened, but we can stop it from happening again.”

“Right.” His voice was a caress that dripped along her spine and rolled along her nerve endings, igniting sparks of pleasure that dazzled and spun her head.

Her breath caught in her throat and darn near strangled her. The light from outside speared through the kitchen windows in wide golden wedges. The only sound in the room was the pounding of her own heart. He took a step closer in the darkness and Stevie could have sworn she actually
felt
waves of heat rippling off his body.

Nope. Things were way too cozy in here. All of the darkness and pretty, romantic lighting. If they weren't careful, they might—Stevie walked around him, drew the blinds to shut out the soft lamps, and hit the light switch, flooding the room with safe, bright, unflattering fluorescent light.

Of course, that only meant that she could see him more clearly. And what she saw in the depths of his brown eyes was enough to make her shiver in raw expectation.

Paul took his glasses off and hooked them at the neck of his sweater. He probably shouldn't have come here. He could have done this over the phone.

But he'd had to see her.

His gaze moved over her slowly, thoroughly, not missing a thing. Her blond hair was wind-ruffled, but then, he knew she liked to drive with the windows down
so she could feel the air rushing past her. Her eyes looked dark and stormy and … haunted somehow. That hit him hard. He'd never meant to push her into a place that created those kinds of shadows in her eyes.

He hadn't meant for any of this to happen. Now that it had, though, they had to deal with it.

“Stevie,” he said her name softly, and it whispered into the room with a hidden plea he hadn't known would be there. Reaching out, he smoothed her hair back from her face and felt her tremble at his touch. Something inside him turned over.

She sighed. “You shouldn't have come tonight.”

“I know.”

She sucked in a gulp of air and blew it out again in a rush. Turning her face into his palm, she closed her eyes. “I'm glad you came.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

“You should go now.” Her eyes opened and her gaze pinned him with a direct hit.

“I know that, too.”

“Don't go.”

“Not a chance.”

Threading his fingers through her hair, he cupped the back of her head in his palm and pulled her close. She came willingly, eagerly, and his mouth came down on hers like a starving man turned loose on a banquet.

His left arm wrapped around her waist and held her to him, slamming her body tight against his, until her heartbeat pounded in time with his and shook them both to their bones.

He parted her lips with his tongue, demanding, taking, offering. He tasted her, sweeping into the warmth
he needed so desperately. At the first taste of her, alarm bells went off inside his mind, and his body went on red alert. Blood pumped, heart raced, and every nerve, every cell, came stunningly, shockingly alive with want. Need.

She moaned, a small whisper of sound that slipped from the back of her throat straight into his soul. She reached up, wrapped her arms around his neck, and clung to him as if he were the one thing in the world that would hold her upright in the suddenly tilting universe.

Leaning one hip against the stainless-steel counter beside him for balance, Paul poured himself into the kiss. Tongues darted together, twisting, twining, in a dance of heat that promised even more to come. His body tightened until he was pretty sure he'd spring free of his jeans—and he almost hoped he would. It'd save time.