Love Songs (35 page)

“Would you–would you like some breakfast?” she finally stammered when she could stand the silence no longer.

His brow arched. “You’d really cook me breakfast?”

“Of course.” She frowned, pausing. “You seem … surprised. I
do
know how to cook.”

A snort of amusement preceded his explanation. “That’s not the point, Serena. You weren’t exactly thrilled to see me yesterday. And I’m sure you never planned on having me spend the night in your apartment. I am, after all,” he drawled facetiously, “the enemy. Am I not?”

Intentionally or otherwise, he had summarized her quandary. “I suppose so.…” But she was unable to hide her puzzlement.

Tom noted it and went on. “So it’s natural for me to be surprised that you’re offering me breakfast.”

“Perhaps I feel that I owe it to you. For the pills and the care, and all,” she rationalized off the top of her head.

“And all.” He smiled sadly. “I really didn’t do very much.”

“You were here,” she blurted out unthinkingly, then swallowed the revealing words that might have followed.

Their eyes met as they recalled the same moments. A hand on her back. Fingers stroking her hair. Arms supporting her. The solace of a human presence. Serena was overwhelmed by confusion, trying desperately to remember who he was, all the while feeling herself drawn to him.

“Look—” she began, only to be interrupted.

“Tom. The name’s Tom.”

“Tom.” It fell softly, for the first time, from her tongue. “What would you like?”

Straightening, he took several steps toward her, then stopped. His gaze grew more sensual, falling to her lips in a visual caress that shimmered through her newly awakening body. Suspended in time and unreality, she couldn’t move.

Tom opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and clamped his lips together, only to take a breath and begin again seconds later. “I’d like to clean up a little, if you don’t mind. Then some eggs, toast, whatever, will do.”

“Sunny-side up?”

“Over easy.”

“Butter on the toast?”

“Jam, please.”

“Orange juice?”

“Tomato will be fine.”

“Wow! You really
did
go through my refrigerator last night. It’s not everyone who keeps a full stock of tomato juice.” She looked at him askance. “What kind of jam?”

Though he feigned timidity there was no hesitation in his response. “Wild plum?…”

She mocked disgust. “Hmph. You’d even ask for my prize possession.”

“There’s plenty in the jar—”

“You’ve already looked
inside?
”

“Well”—he threw his head back—“I
was
here all evening. I was hungry.” He smiled.

Serena flew to the refrigerator, extracted the decorative jam jar, and analyzed its contents. “You didn’t make a meal of wild plum jam, did you?”

“Actually,” he drawled on his way toward the bathroom, “it was dessert—atop a couple of crackers.”

“And the main course?” she called after him.

“That jar of herring in wine sauce did the trick.”

“My herring in wine sauce?” she cried, aghast. She’d been saving it for a special occasion, some night when she felt the need for a treat. Now Tom had devoured it whole. “You didn’t!” She followed him to the hall, only to find herself face to face with the bathroom door.

Slowly it opened. “I did.” Smiling pleasantly, Tom stood before her, leisurely unbuttoning his shirt, then pulling it out of his pants. Serena momentarily forgot the point of her chase. The sight of him standing there, tall and straight, at her bathroom door, his face shadowed in sensuality, his chest firm and manly, drove prudence from her mind. He was the enemy, yet from the start he had embodied a fire that captivated her. In the restaurant yesterday it had been a fire from the past; here and now it held no memory. It was new and unsullied, a spark of wonder that flared from him with breathtaking intensity. Its heat consumed her antagonism even as it inspired cravings Serena would have refused to believe had she not felt the warmth that suddenly flowed through her veins.

Enthralled by his nearness and the effect of his virility, she felt a tug from deep within, willing her forward, urging her fingers to touch what he had so knowingly laid bare. Unsure of everything but the force of the attraction she tore her gaze from the matted richness sprawled beneath his shirt and sought his eyes.

In an instant he closed the short distance between them and stood no more than a breath away. Serena’s breath caught in her throat. The push she had felt moments before from within was now a summons from Tom, a call from his manliness to her womanhood, a primal note she had never in her wildest dreams expected and against which she had no defense.

Tom lifted his hand to her face, gently threading his fingers through the damp tendrils of her auburn hair, softly caressing the creamy smoothness of her cheek, planting new images and fresh sensations with every stroke. On instinct she tipped her head to his palm, all the while unable to take her eyes from his. He seemed as mesmerized as she by the moment; all was irrelevant save the two of them. He searched the depths of her gaze as she explored his. And then, slowly and inevitably, he lowered his head by fractions of inches until his lips very lightly touched hers.

Serena was entranced, having lost all touch with reality under the onslaught of this man’s sensuality. She felt his mouth as it sampled the soft curve of her lips, whispering a kiss at each corner. The musky scent of his skin drugged her further, sending her reeling into a world of sensation. Had his free arm not surrounded her and drawn her close against him she would have fallen. Her limbs trembled beneath the unexpected attack, and a sweet attack it was.

From the start her defenses had been down. She was a woman with a core of passion that had long lain dormant. Tom Reynolds had struck the match and now warmed her with it. His lips were firm, yet gentle, coaxing hers to open to his repeated forays. As for Serena, she was beyond rational decision. When her lips finally parted in longing there was nothing rational about it. She was driven by desire, strong and pure.

Tom welcomed her kiss with a joy transmitted by the tremor of his body when he clutched her more closely. He held her head to explore her lips, running the tip of his tongue along her teeth before plunging further. Serena could only quiver at the heady invasion and respond in kind, opening her mouth further in invitation, freeing her own tongue to exact passionate retribution.

Somewhere along the line her arms found their way beneath his shirt to his back. En route her fingers savored the firmness of his flesh, its rough man-texture so much in contrast to her own silken skin. She was delirious at the difference, gasping into his mouth at the feel of his body as he pressed her to him. He was warm, strong and hard, his friction kindling tiny fires at every touch point. And they were both still dressed.…

As though reading her thoughts and sensing their direction Tom drew back to frame her face with his hands. Slowly she opened her eyes.

“You’d only hate me more.” He spoke thickly, his breath coming in uneven gasps that matched hers. It took Serena longer to recover from the trance of arousal he’d inspired. At her puzzled frown he explained, laboring as he struggled to contain his own primitive heat.

“You hate me for the past, Serena.” His eyes circled her face, pausing to appreciate each feature. “But there’s a flame between us that isn’t just destructive. I only know I want you. I’ve wanted you since I first saw you yesterday afternoon, when I had no idea who you were, only sensed that you felt very strongly about me.” His thumbs caressed the back of her neck, his fingers crept across her cheeks toward her mouth in helpless wandering. “You’re very lovely,” he rasped, dipping his head to touch her lips a final time. Serena was all too eager to return, if only for the instant, to that mindless state of sensual excitement. But it was too brief. And Tom was determined to remind her of who she was, of who
he
was.

He was more strongly in control when he spoke again. “I couldn’t sleep last night, having held you in my arms like that. Do you know what it does to a man to find the woman he wants in bed, naked?”

For the first time it dawned on Serena that her action might easily have been interpreted as a lure. “I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “I didn’t realize. I always sleep like that and I was sure you would leave.”

“I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

She had no answer for him. What could she say? There was so much to be considered, so much to be worked out in her mind, before she could try to explain her emotions. To make matters worse, with each passing moment the enormity of what she’d craved just now crowded in on her. Tom tuned in to her dilemma.

“You see?” He set her back just out of reach, dropping his arms limply to his sides. “We could have made love.…” As his words trailed off he stared once more, long and hard, at her expression of slow-growing horror, then turned and shut himself in the bathroom again.

As though rooted to the hardwood floor Serena stood, stunned, appalled, confused. It was only the gentle reminder at her temple, the soft throbbing echo of yesterday’s headache, that finally freed her from the spot and turned her toward the kitchen. When Tom emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later she had regained a semblance of composure. Nothing had been resolved; the situation hadn’t changed. But for the moment she was unable to do anything about it, and making breakfast seemed the only plausible course of action.

“You showered and shaved?” She looked up in surprise at his well-groomed visage as he entered.

Tom grinned. “I hope you don’t mind, I helped myself to your things. There’s nothing worse than feeling grubby.”

“You had enough hot water?” She thought of the indecently long shower she’d taken not terribly long ago.

“
Hot
water wasn’t what I wanted. Except for the shave. And the last of the shower.
After
the cold water had done its thing.” The mischief in his eye did its thing, stirring Serena afresh. “But, yes, I had enough hot water for my needs. Thank you.”

Serena shrugged, then turned silently to put the eggs and toast on a plate, which she handed to him. Then she reached for the coffee. She kept her eyes averted, refusing to let his physical appeal blow her mind again. It was only after she’d slid onto the chair opposite his that she dared to look at him again.

“Mmmm, these eggs are just right,” he said, ignoring the tension between them.

“You really didn’t remember me, did you?” Serena refused to evade the issue.

“Any salt?”

“Tom…”

“The salt?”

She sighed in defeat and reached for the shaker. She watched him sprinkle the salt on his eggs, then start eating again. After several mouthfuls he looked up in surprise.

“You’re not eating?” he asked innocently.

“I have toast,” she said with a glance to her plate, “and coffee. That’s all I ever have.”

“Not healthy.”

“Neither is salt.”

“Touché.” He returned to the serious business of eating, undaunted by her claim.

“I didn’t even call your bluff.” She took a different tack, shaking her head in self-disgust. “You were just fishing for information and I gave it to you.”

“You were upset. I’m sure that you’re usually much sharper.”

“Oh? Now why would you be so sure?” she prodded.

“I looked at you. Your shop. Your apartment. Your life. You must be a very efficient—and sharp—lady to manage everything on your own.”

“A person does certain things because she has no other choice.”

“You didn’t have to open a shop of your own. You could have chosen to go through life without that responsibility.”

She held his gaze more confidently. “
Sweet Serenity
means a lot to me. I need it.”

“And you’ve made a success of it, which makes my point. If you had nothing on the ball”—he tapped his head—“the shop would have folded long ago.”

Serena nibbled absently on her toast. “Tom, why
did
you come to the store yesterday? If you honestly didn’t make the connection between the past and me, why did you come?”

“I told you that yesterday. You intrigued me. I wanted to find out who you were.”

“And now that you know,” she said uneasily, “what do you intend to … to do with that information?”

“With what information?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.

“The Strickland connection.”

He looked at her as though she were warped. “Absolutely nothing! Is there something I
should
be doing with it?” When Serena didn’t reply but merely looked away, he put down his fork. “Serena, that’s ancient history. It’s a closed book. You seem to be the only one aware of any ‘Strickland connection.’”

Her gaze shot back to his. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she spoke quietly, tempering the hurt that still lingered, “that some information has a way of finding itself in the wrong people’s hands. It’s happened before and it could happen again.”