New and…Improved? & Andrew in Excess (8 page)

“Please.”

And it was even better than before.

 

B
ECCA FELT TINGLY
, relaxed and so full of joy she couldn't stand it. She could hear Kent in the kitchen, getting himself a glass of water. Nearly dancing, she bent for his shirt, which lay crumpled on the floor. It smelled heavenly, and she inhaled deeply because she couldn't get enough of him.

She felt absurdly happy, and silly too, standing completely naked with his shirt pressed to her nose. She slipped it on over her head. Because she was still hopelessly giddy, she grinned at herself in the mirror over her dresser.

Then frowned.

She was a sight, and not a good one. Her makeup was all over her face, her hair such a wild mess it should be considered a national disaster. Embarrassed, yet unable to tear her gaze away, she went completely still.

She looked like the wicked witch of the east.

No, like Bozo the Clown.

She had lipstick smeared across one cheek, eye shadow on her forehead. She had black rims of mascara under her eyes.

And yet Kent had looked into these eyes and called her beautiful. But that had been before he'd finished. Now that he was done, he was in the kitchen.

Come to think of it, he hadn't been able to escape fast enough.

He was already sorry, she figured, already wondering how to leave. In fact, he was probably staring at the front door in panic. Well, what had she expected? She had no one to blame for this heart-ache but herself.

Feeling numb, she went into the bathroom and turned on the faucet to wash her face. Not waiting for the water to warm, she started scrubbing. As she did, only one thought raced through her mind, and she couldn't get away from it.

They'd just made love; bone-dissolving, earth-shattering love. They'd moved as one, their hearts and souls had beat in rhythm.

Somewhere along the way, no doubt far before
today, she had tumbled hopelessly in love with him. And it was a permanent kind of love.

Unfortunately, she'd let herself forget, Kent didn't do “permanent.”

G
OING BACK INTO
Becca's bedroom was the hardest thing Kent had ever done. Especially since he could no longer fool himself. What they'd just shared hadn't been merely fun.

It hadn't even been just great sex.

Whatever he'd experienced, it was going to be difficult to recover. Hell, who was he kidding? Recovery was going to be nearly impossible.

And what would happen now? They certainly couldn't go back to their previous relationship.

For the first time in a long time, indecision and fear gripped him. All his life he'd made a habit of avoiding all ties, of keeping things simple and commitment-free.

Well he'd just had the best, most loving, most joyous moments of his life. Not to mention he'd seen the earth move. Nothing simple or commitment-free about that.

Dammit. Panic swirled in his belly as he filled up yet another glass of water from the kitchen
sink, stalling. He looked longingly at the back door. His first instinct was to tear it open, run out and never look back.

Come to think of it, that was his second instinct, too, but there was one little problem.

He was buck naked.

He needed his clothes, his car, his own space, and not necessarily in that order. Resolutely, he walked through the living room—and stopped short at the sight of a brand-spanking-new mountain bike. Oh God, there was an accident waiting to happen, he thought. Becca on a mountain bike.

On the other hand, she'd look great in her little shorts, wind in her hair, the world at her feet as she rode. He could go with her, just to keep her safe—

Oh yeah, he was definitely out of control.

By the time he walked back into Becca's bedroom, she was fully dressed, wearing his shirt and hugging herself.

He was utterly unable to help his body's response to the way his shirt fit over her body. It looked as if she'd attempted to tame her hair, and while she seemed to have delicate rings of exhaustion beneath her eyes, her gaze was flashing with temper, not fatigue.

She turned away and something deep inside him
hurt at that, even though just a second ago he'd wanted to turn away, too. “Regrets already,” he murmured.

“You're…naked.”

“Yeah. I thought maybe you would be, too.”

“Maybe you should go,” she said weakly, studiously avoiding his nude body.

Yeah, that's what he'd thought, too. Actually, up until about one second ago, he'd wanted that with every fiber of his being. So why was he still standing there staring at her? Reaching out to touch her?

She stepped back, away from him, tightening his shirt around her body. The modesty of that gesture was both touching and mysterious, considering all they'd just shared. And the look in her eyes, that hurt, bewildered look, did something painful to his chest, when he didn't want to feel anything at all. “Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly.

A blush rose up her cheeks. “No.”

“Then why the distance between us when we could be in that bed, wrapped around each other, skin to skin—”

“Kent.”
She closed her eyes. “You're going to make me melt again.”

“Okay with me.”

“I don't think that's necessarily the truth.”

He raised his brow and looked down at himself, where the “truth” was there for both to see.

She reddened even more. “You know what I mean. Look, you're dying to run. I'd appreciate it if you'd just do it now before I make a bigger fool out of myself here.”

“Hey, it was a just a teeny-weeny moment of panic,” he said, feeling another one right now at the determined, resigned look in her eyes. “It's gone.”

“Well mine isn't. I'm sorry, please excuse me.” She left the room and, stunned, he followed. In the living room she strapped on a helmet, mounted her bike and coasted toward the front door.

“Your helmet is on backward.”

“Oh.” Looking sheepish, she kept going. “I'll fix it outside.” Somehow she managed to pick up speed in the small space and his worry about her helmet faded to be replaced by a new one.

“Becca, slow—”

Too late. She let out a squeak at the sight of the looming front door, started to frantically pedal backward, but didn't slow down.

“The brakes are on the handles,” he shouted. “Watch—”

She crashed into the door.

“—out,” he grunted to himself and rushed over. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Her face was red as she straightened away from the door and opened it. “I knew about the brakes, I just forgot.” She pulled away from him, still straddling the bike, then promptly got caught between the door and the screen.

Muttering beneath her breath, not looking at him, she finally freed herself and awkwardly maneuvered down the stairs.

“Becca—”

“Goodbye, Kent.” She rode off without a backward glance.

“At least let me fix your damn helmet!” he yelled, terrified for her. “Come back here.” But before he could blink, she was gone, and he was alone in her condo.

The realization galvanized him into action. He went after her, skidding to a halt at the top step. “Becca! Wait!”

The cool Sierra breeze hit him full on the chest, and in regions south that made him yelp.

Still naked as a jaybird.

A jogger moved past, giving him an alarmed look before she picked up her pace.

Terrific. He raced back to the bedroom to shove his legs into his pants. No shirt, it was still on
Becca, which slowed him down some. She was long gone, and clearly wanted to be alone. She was confused, and the truth was, so was he.

He was a man who liked to fix everything himself, but this time he didn't have the tools.

Or did he?

 

I
T TOOK LITTLE EFFORT
for Kent to find what he was looking for in her bathroom.

Less effort to haul the trash can from beneath the sink and start loading it full of everything he considered to be at the root of the problem: lipstick, mascara, hair-styling gel…whatever beauty element he found, he trashed.

Grabbing the can, he stalked outside, grumbling about the danger of mountain bikes, even though he'd ridden one for years. He intended to fill the dumpster, only to be halted on the front step by a bony finger to his chest.

An old woman, imposing for all her barely five-feet, stood glaring at him, her blue-silver hair glittering in the light of the porch, her finger still drilling a hole in his middle.

“Hold it right there,”
she commanded, her voice a curious mix of squeak and rage. “Mrs. Fritzle, landlord, and I'm making a citizen's arrest!”

“What?”

“I've called the police, young man. You aren't going anywhere until they get here. Now get your hands up. Up where I can see them!” She emphasized this command with another hard poke of her finger.

“You've got to be kidding me.” But the digit she had against his now aching chest told him she wasn't.

“What have you stolen from that sweet, little Becca, you…you
hoodlum?
”

Baffled, Kent stared down at this little roadblock. “I haven't stolen anything, I'm a friend of hers.”

“Uh-huh.” She peered into the trash can that he still held in his hands. “Makeup?” A frown creased her already very creased face. “You're stealing makeup? Oh my God, you're not one of those…what do they call 'em? Those men that want to be women, wearing panties and stockings and high heels and the like?”

Kent blinked, opened his mouth, but before he could answer, a sheriff's jeep whipped around the corner.

“Officer!” the woman screeched, jumping up and down with an agility that defied her age, because she had to be at least eighty. “Here he is!
Here he is! The burglar!” Settling down, she turned her sharp gaze back to Kent. “No hurry though, he's not dangerous, he wears women's panties and makeup!”

Kent sighed and promised himself he would not, absolutely would not, hold his inevitable arrest against Becca.

 

I
N A SMALL TOWN
where the local population is small, everyone knows everyone.

Everyone talks about everyone.

And everyone embellishes everything.

Incline Village was no different.

It was no surprise then, that the news of Kent's questioning at the police station was the big talk at the lab the next morning.

It was also no surprise that when Becca walked in, the sudden silence was loaded with barely repressed curiosity.

Sighing, she hung up her coat and turned to face the inevitable. “Where is he?”

Dennis grinned. “The women's panty-wearer?”

Everyone laughed except Becca, who crossed her arms and glared at Dennis.

He gave in. “He's holed up in his office pouting.”

“Pouting?”

“Well, sulking at least. He wasn't happy with me for spreading the news.”

Becca sighed again. “I'm not even going to ask how you found out.”

Dennis lifted his eyebrows suggestively. “Dating the receptionist at the sheriff's station. Comes in handy.”

“I don't suppose it occurred to you to keep it to yourself?”

“What, and miss the laughs when I told everyone that our straight-laced boss wears your panties?”

“He does not wear—”

The door to Kent's office on the other side of the lab opened. At the sound, even Dennis had the good sense to scatter with the rest of the gang.

“Traitors,” Becca muttered, but managed to hold Kent's even gaze as it landed unerringly on her.

“Nice of you to show up for work today. Glad you're all in one piece,” he said politely. He leaned his rangy frame against the counter of a work station and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

A casual pose, not such a casual man.

He wore jeans beneath his lab coat and there was something about the authority that the white
jacket implied, combined with the casual sexiness of his jeans and T-shirt. Especially since she now knew exactly what lay beneath those jeans.

The memory of his hard, warm, muscled body, and what it had done to hers, made thinking difficult. And then she got a good look at his rugged, unrelenting…and indeed sulking face.

For some insane reason, she had the urge to wrap her arms around him and melt away that dangerous expression. But she couldn't. Too much had happened. “I was just going to—”

“Come here.” His tone was quiet, low. Turning his back on her, he headed into his office, clearly expecting her to follow.

“Yeah, that's just what I was going to say.” With yet another heartfelt sigh, Becca walked into his neat, roomy office.

She found him silent and distant, staring out the windows at the bright spring sunshine. “How are you?” she asked.

“Gee, great, thanks. Nice day, isn't it?”

Rolling her eyes, she moved closer. “I suppose that's guy talk for ‘I'm mad as hell'.” He remained silent and she let out a regretful breath. “Kent…I'm sorry.”

His broad shoulders and taut back still faced
her. “Sorry you ditched me, or sorry you forgot to mention you have the neighbor-from-hell?”

“Both.”

“At least they didn't arrest me. I might have had a hard time with my cell mates, being known as the panty thief.”

She bit her lip. “You certainly would have been popular.”

“Everyone in town is assuming I'm a kinky pervert disguised as a chemist.”

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered.

He didn't move, didn't look at her, didn't do anything but stare blindly out the window. Regret brought her forward, until she stood directly behind him, between his tall body and his desk. She set a hand on his taut back. Beneath her fingers, his muscles tensed, and it became impossible not to slide her fingers over him, wondering if the touch soothed him as much as it did her.

“I was throwing away your makeup,” he muttered. “In case you were wondering.”

That was a surprise; her makeup had been in its usual place this morning. She had no idea what the exact details had been, other than Mrs. Fritzle had decided he had been trying to steal from her, but had returned whatever it was to Becca's apartment. “Why were you throwing away my—” She
remembered what she'd said about the makeover being the only reason he'd noticed her.
“Oh.”

“Yeah.
Oh.
”

“No one really thinks you're a…”

“Panty-loving pervert?” He shook his head. “I was trying to make a point. And I never even touched your panties other than to take them off you before we—”

“Yes,” she said quickly, suddenly breathless. “I remember.”

“So I have no idea how that whole thing started.”

“Mrs. Fritzle gets ideas.”

“Mrs. Fritzle is insane.”

“Yes, well. I'm sorry I left you that way.”

He turned his head and looked at her then. His eyes were deep, dark and full of things that unnerved her. “I'm sorry, too. But you were right. For one second there, right after we made love, I did want to leave. You scare me, Becca. Right to the bone.”

Well that made two of them. It was shockingly easy to slide her hands around his waist and hug him, her cheek against his back. He was tall and lanky, but muscled, too, and she loved touching him. Desire fluttered in her stomach. “And anyway, I understand,” she murmured. “Really.”

He turned then, slid his hands to her hips, trapping her between his hard desk and even harder body. “What do you understand exactly?”

His voice was a rough whisper. He'd used that same thrilling tone with her before, just last night as a matter of fact, as he'd urged, coaxed and helped her to the most explosive orgasm of her life.

“I understand we got carried away during…sex.” She bit her lip. “We're really connected that way, but I know you don't want me to get the wrong idea about it being anything more then it is.”